The conscience, a structural theory 0470508566, 0706514629

Citation preview

The

Conscience

The

Conscience A Structural Theory M. Kroy Department of Philosophy, Tel Aviv University

A HALSTED

JOHN

WILEY

ISRAEL

PRESS

BOOK

& SONS, New York - Toronto

UNIVERSITIES

PRESS,

Jerusalem

Theology Library

THEOLOGY SCHOO! OF EM ONT AT CLAR

California

A 022553 Copyright

© 1974 by Keter Publishing House Jerusalem Ltd.

All rights reserved ISRAEL UNIVERSITIES

PRESS

is a publishing division of KETER PUBLISHING HOUSE JERUSALEM P.O.Box 7145, Jerusalem, Israel

LTD.

Published in the Western Hemisphere by HALSTED JOHN

PRESS, a division of

WILEY

& SONS,

INC., NEW

YORK

Library of Congress Cataloging inPublication Data Kroy, M. The conscience, a structural theory. “A Halsted Press book.” Bibliography: p. 1. Conscience.

I. Title.

BJ1471 K93c} BF311.K74 1974 ISBN 0—470-50856-6

[DNLM:

170

1. Morals.

74-10912

Distributors for the U.K., Europe, Africa and the Middle East JOHN

WILEY

& SONS,

LTD., CHICHESTER

Distributors for Japan, Southeast Asia and India TOPPAN

COMPANY,

LTD.,

TOKYO

AND

SINGAPORE

Distributed in the rest of the world by KETER

PUBLISHING

HOUSE

JERUSALEM

LTD.

IUP Cat. No. 25056 ISBN 0 7065 1462 9

Set, printed and bound by Keterpress Enterprises, Jerusalem PRINTED

IN ISRAEL

CONTENTS

PREFACE

ix

xi

INTRODUCTION

Part One. FRAMEWORK: A SKETCH STRUCTURE OF THE MIND

OF THE —

Chapter

1. WHY IS MENTALISM NECESSARY? 1.1. Abstract Entities in Human Behavior 1.2. Rules in Human Behavior 1.3. Interactionism 1.4. The Mental and the Abstract 1.5. Is Mentalistic Psychology Possible as a Science? Summary of Chapter 1

Chapter 2. MENTAL

FACULTIES

2.1. Chomsky’s Notion of Competence vs. Performance 2.2. Illustration: Arithmetic Structure and Arithmetic Faculty 2.3. The Psychological Relevance of Undecidability

Summary of Chapter 2

NY N oo

13 15 16 18 YB) bee 31

3.3. The Map of the Mind

33 33 42 45

Summary of Chapter 3

46

Chapter 3. THE STRUCTURE OF THE MIND 3.1. Classical Common-Sense Faculties 3.2. Freudian Faculties

Chapter 4. MENTAL 4.1. 4.2. 4.3. 4.4.

REPRESENTATIONS

Desiderata for the Representation System (RS) A Program for the Representation System (RS) A Partial Specification of the Representation System (RS) The Linguistic Representation System

47 48 53 55 58

Vi

CONTENTS 4.5. Affective Representations Summary of Chapter 4

60 64

Chapter 5. THE IMAGINATION 5.1. A Partial Structure Theory of the Imagination 5.2. A Partial Faculty Theory of the Imagination 5.3. Undecidability Summary of Chapter 5

65 67 70 73 tk

Chapter 6. 6.1. The 6.2. The Summary

80 80 85 87

WILL AND INTEREST Will Interest of Chapter 6

Part Two. THE THEORY OF THE CONSCIENCE

91

Chapter 7. THE CONSCIENCE 7.1. The Structure Theory of the Conscience 7.2. Faculty Theories of the Conscience Summary of Chapter 7

92 93 99 108

Part Three. EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

109

Chapter 8. MORAL ARGUMENTS 8.1. The Adequacy of the Structure Theory of the Conscience 8.2. The Adequacy of Our Faculty Theory of the Conscience 8.3. Degrees of Obligatoriness Summary of Chapter 8

110 112 119 141 142

Chapter 9. CONSCIENCE AND SOCIETY

144 145 148 151 153

9.1. Conscience and Society

9.2. Conscience and the Open Society 9.3. Conscience, Social Mobility, and the Person—Role Distinction

Summary of Chapter 9 Chapter 10. MORAL EMOTIONS 10.1. Guilt 10.2. 10.3. 10.4. 10.5.

Remorse Moral Self-Contentment Moral Contempt Moral Respect

10.6. Pity 10.7. Envy

154 154 156 159 161 161 162 164

CONTENTS

10.8. Empathy, Compassion 10.9. Some General Remarks on Emotion

Summary of Chapter 10 Chapter

11.

MORAL DEVELOPMENT

11.1. Different Factors in Moral Development

11.2. Piaget’s Findings 11.3. Freud’s Conception of Moral Development

Summary of Chapter 11 Chapter 12. MORAL

PATHOLOGY

12.1. Perversions 12.2. Guilt Neurosis 12.3. Psychopathy Summary of Chapter 12

165 165 166 167 168 170 184 185 187 187 189 192 198 199

Appendix 1. PROOFS : Appendix 2. OPTIMAL

Vil

VALUE

SYSTEMS

1. A Formal Characterization of Optimal Value Systems

. Altruism and Egoism . The Growth of Value Systems . Psychopathy

. The Individual and Society

aA PWN

6. Objective Ethics

_ REFERENCES

208 208 210 211 213 213 214 216 225

INDEX

LIST OF DIAGRAMS DIAGRAM DIAGRAM DIAGRAM DIAGRAM DIAGRAM

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

The Map of the Mind The Will The Interest

F, F,-F3

44 88 89 101 102

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author and publisher wish to express their sincere gratitude to the Free Press, New York, and Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, for their permission to quote the extracts on pp. 173-184 taken from The Moral

Judgment of the Child by Jean Piaget; and to The MIT Press for their permission to reproduce the material on pp. 14 and 18-20 taken from Aspects of the Theory of Syntax by N. Chomsky.

Viii

4

PREFACE

This book is a study of the structural aspects of moral judgment and of their relations to other mental phenomena. My research in the field has gone through two prior stages. The first stage is represented by my paper,

“Ethics and Conscience” [110], an outline of the program I have adopted for myself, which is, basically, to interpret ethical theories as theories of moral competence, in analogy with the Chomskyan interpretation of grammars

as theories of linguistic competence. The second stage of this research is _represented by my doctoral dissertation, Kantian Ethics as a Competence

Theory of the Conscience, which gives a formalized version of Kant’s categorical imperative as a theory of universal ethics. The present book constitutes a third stage of this research. It follows the second in general outline, but differs from it in many points. It provides _ substantially novel programmatic sketches both of the theory of planning,

that is to say deliberation, and of the process of evaluating one’s plans from

. one’s own point of view, that is, with one’s own interests in mind. Further-

more, it replaces the unstructured set of basic wishes with an ordered set of values. Lastly, it utilizes the order of values so as to order moral obligations

from more compelling to less compelling. Appendix 2 at the end of the book contains also, in outline, the program for the fourth stage of this research.

This stage concerns the application of the formal tools developed in the main text of the book to the study of the comparative structure of different value systems. This study may be extremely illuminating with respect to

many issues discussed in the book: mental conflict, psychopathy, moral development as well as the relations between individual and society. I have been inspired by many sources: by Chomsky’s understanding of

the aims of linguistics and psychology;

by Popper’s understanding

of

methodology and rationality; by Hintikka’s modal logic, which has provided me with my basic formal tools; by Piaget’s pilot studies of the de-

velopment

of moral judgment,

constitute the beginnings

which, together with his other studies,

of structural psychology;

and by the work

of ix

X

PREFACE

generative semanticists (Lakoff, McCawley, Ross, Postal) on the relations between logic and language. Kant’s conception of the categorical imperative is a main component of my theory, though his view of the relations between duty and inclination, including the idea that true morality depends on a conflict between the two, has no place in my thinking. The main indebtedness I want to acknowledge is to Prof. Y. Bar-Hillel.

He was my intellectual mentor for many years, and it is only thanks to him that I acquired both my main interests and the intellectual weapons to pursue them. He was one of the readers of my doctoral dissertation and has also read a draft of the present book. His advice, remarks, and criticisms have

been invaluable. He is, of course, not responsible for my mistakes; and a number of disagreements on substantive issues divide us.

I am also deeply indebted to Profs. R. B. Lees and B.-A. Scharfstein, both of Tel-Aviv University, who were my thesis advisers. Although their criticism was meant for my dissertation, it has retained much of its helpfulness for the present book. I am indebted, as well, to Prof. Minkowich, of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who discussed my ideas with me. His sharp and subtle criticism has helped me eliminate inadequate solutions and search for better ones. Dr. S. Strauss, who heads the Program for Formal Operations in Cognitive Development, and Prof. D. Karpi, Dean of the Faculty of Humanities, both

of Tel-Aviv University, have kindly helped me to finance this research. I am very grateful to them. It is my pleasant duty to thank Mrs. Cilla Barsuk, whose transformation _

of my unreadable manuscript into beautifully typed pages is the most competent typing performance I have ever witnessed. I dedicate my book to my wife, Geulla, without whose love and emotional support it would have been impossible.

_

INTRODUCTION

All of us feel guilty sometimes. At other times, we feel morally elated: we have done what we should have done. At still other times, we feel remorse: we have done something which turns out, when reconsidered, to have been wrong to do. Laymen, like off-duty academic psychologists, describe such reactions in

terms of “conscience.” It is conscience, they say, that determines the moral significance of intended actions, that classifies the actions into those that

ought, that ought not, and that might permissibly be carried out. It is conscience that is said to punish the man who has disobeyed its decrees, by

making him feel guilty at not carrying out his obligations. But the same conscience that punishes is also said to reward those who obey it, the

reward consisting of feelings of moral satisfaction. Conscience is an inner deputy of morality: it applies moral criteria to practical deliberations, and it provides moral rewards and moral punishments, as distinguished from

other, external rewards and punishments which are, sadly, so often missing in our world. Conscience, however, extends beyond the realm of our private moral life. We use our conscience in the moral evaluation of others’ acts, and in the

decision to praise or condemn them. We do not assume that all human beings always have a conscience. We

often exempt little children from responsibility for their misdeeds on the grounds that they lack proper insight into the moral significance of their actions. Their conscience has not developed. The main aim of education, as opposed to mere teaching, is considered to be the development of conscience. Some persons are more troubled by their conscience than others and suffer from excessive guilt feelings. Others, whom we publicly condemn and secretly envy, never seem to feel guilt, no matter what they do. These individuals, labeled “psychopaths” in psychiatric jargon, seem incapable of adjusting to society and require strict control to prevent them from doing Xi

Xii_

INTRODUCTION

too much harm. They are the “criminals.” But some criminals have astonish-

ing careers. Hitler is an outstanding recent case of a successful psychopath. Moral education and the guilt neurosis that exacerbates and the psycho- — pathy that resists it are quite difficult to understand on simplistic assump-

tions. Why should a man feel “morally prohibited” from stealing? After all, men are animals, and we assume that animals are constructed so as to be able to act in their own interests. A successful theft seems to be quite consistent with one’s interests. It may solve an urgent problem of hunger, for instance, in a simple and efficient manner. Moreover, on many occasions the chances of being caught by the police are negligible. Then, why not steal?

The question shows that the set of phenomena mentioned above, all of which are connected by common sense with conscience, is not consistent with a simplistic account of human nature. These phenomena seem to refute any theory which attempts to present man as an animal that dedicates all

his efforts to personal survival. They deserve some deeper explanation,

perhaps in terms of the fact that immoral actions are usually considered antisocial, and that human beings are not simply animals, but social animals. However, academic psychology has not so far provided any explanation for the system of phenomena in question, or made any serious attempt to set up a theory of human nature able to explain how morality affects behavior. When on duty, academic psychologists generally deny the term “conscien ce” and the system of common-sense assumptions that involves it any legitimate place in their theories. .They attempt to deal with guilt as a kind of con-

y ih

ditioned response (cf. [167] as an illustration). They therefore separate

guilt completely from moral considerations, which they apparentl y assume to be matters, not for a theory of emotions, but for a theory of cognition. In any Case, no serious attempt is made to characterize the nature of moral considerations. Such questions as, “What kind of activities will one consider to be immoral?” can at present be answered by no more than a vague, non-

specific allusion to the social “norms” that have been “intern alized.” The

fact that different societies have different norms is taken as evidence for the

claim that no systematic and precise answer can be given to this question in the general case, by which I mean the case with no specific social context. In short, the assumption of universal principles of morality is considered

to be refuted by the apparent cultural relativity of “good” and “bad.”

Hence, conscience, which seems to presuppose such principles, must also

go by the board.

I do not want to exaggerate. Moral developmen t is of direct interest to developmental psychologists and has been empiri cally investigated by them

at least since the pioneering study of Piaget [130]. But, for academic psycho-

>

INTRODUCTION _ Xili

logists, moral development remains an isolated phenomenon, unrelated to general studies of the nature of moral emotions and moral considerations. Philosophers have chosen to study modes of expression of moral evaluation;

but they have attempted to deal with the structure of “moral discourse” without relating it to moral emotions, moral cognitions, moral development,

or moral pathology. Moral pathology, either guilt neurosis (the “excess of guilt” mentioned above) or psychopathy, has become the descriptive concern of psychiatrists. They have, for instance, listed° character traits correlated with psychopathy, but they have made no attempt to relate psychopathic symptoms to any other phenomena connected with morality. We have thus discovered a considerable gap between common-sense knowledge, which conceives a certain field of phenomena to be systematized by reference to a system of unifying principles, and academic psychology, which divides the field among its various disciplines, in this way making an implicit denial that the field can be integrated. How can this gap be explained? _

Gaps between common sense and science are, indeed, commonplace in the

history of science [19]. But these gaps are usually considered to reflect the shortcomings of common sense, which, being imprecise, unsystematic, dogmatic, etc., is assumed to lag behind science.

I suggest, however, that what applies to the relation between common sense and science does not apply to that between common sense and psychology in general or the field of moral phenomena in particular. The rejection of common sense by science is direct and the reasons for it have often been spelled out, but the rejection of common sense by psychology is made as a matter of course. To choose the example of most interest to us, the psychological literature makes no direct attempt to justify the rejection of the concept of conscience as an explanatory concept. Instead, psychologists reject it implicitly, and their reason is no doubt that they take it to presuppose an outmoded metaphysics of man, the so-called “faculty psychology” [177]. By any adequate characterization of its common-sense conception, conscience is a “faculty” or “mental institution,” and faculties

have long since been “out.” They are out because it is believed that when “in” they contributed nothing but verbalism. This may be the case, historically. However, an idea once rejected can be revived. Chomsky [29, 30] has rehabilitated the concept of the “faculty of language,” which he terms “linguistic competence.” By providing this faculty with a formalized description or grammar [28, 29], and by showing its empirical power in explanation and prediction of linguistic structures, Chomsky has paved | the way for a revival of faculty psychology, at least insofar as language use

is concerned [30].

Xiv

INTRODUCTION

Chomsky’s accomplishment raises the possibility that the concept of conscience, though a faculty concept, may be rehabilitated. Is it not possible | to construct a formalized theory of the structure and functioning of conscience, a theory which will take account of the variety of moral phenomena

and explain them systematically? And is it not possible for such a theory to predict new phenomena,

not recorded by common

sense, and so, by its

predictions, to provide for its falsifiability [134]? Obviously, such a question, when asked in the introduction to a book on

a formalized theory of conscience, is no more than rhetorical. This book attempts to justify a positive answer to the question. More specifically, the attempt will be made to create a programmatic

framework that revives the notion of “faculty” (and notion of mind) in which the concept of conscience construction of this framework is based on certain ments of Chomsky and his followers. This framework

the correlated dualistic makes good sense. The aspects of the achievewill be elaborated so as

to specify a precise location for the concept of conscience. Its location in the “map of the mind” will be determined by its position relative to other mental faculties: will, imagination, consciousness, memory, the Freudian Id, etc. The occurrence of the Id in this list is not an accident of eclecticism. Freudian theory is distinguished from any other academically recognized system of psychological ideas in its conception of the mind in terms of mental institutions which correspond closely to faculties. Moreover, the Superego

is usually described [149] as corresponding to the common-sense conscience.

Because of its irrefutability, I do not assign scientific status to psychoanalysis

([135], cf. [1, Ch. 11]). But this does not commit me to a wholesale rejection of the ideas of psychoanalysis, some of which I have found inspiring. More-

over, it seems that the programmatic framework mentioned above can be

used to display most of what is scientifically valuable in the Freudian myth.

Hence the inclusion of the term, “Id.” Having “localized” the conscience, I

shall provide a formalized theory of both its structure and its functioning. The formal framework used will be Hintikka’s deontic logic [87], the choice of which is not arbitrary. The choice will be theoretically justified by reference

to the program for the structure of mind

mentioned

above.

The main moral principle which conscience will be assumed to apply . can be identified with Kant’s categorical imperative [90] (or with the Hare principle of universalizability [67]). The main point of the formalized theory will be, therefore, to show how this principle, in either of the two

formulations, can be formalized, and how a mental

mechanism

can be

described by this formalization. Having thus constructed a “grammar” for our “moral compet ence,” i.e.,

INTRODUCTION

xv

conscience, I shall show its empirical force: a variety of moral phenomena— moral emotions, moral considerations, moral arguments, moral pathology (psychopathy and guilt neurosis), moral development (a la Piaget and a la Freud)—will be systematically explained by reference to a theory of conscience and, of course, to the programmatic structure of mind in which this theory is embedded. Some predictions will also be made. The attempt to present a comprehensive theory of conscience together

with a large variety of its applications, all within the confines of a single medium-sized book, will make it impossible to review all the literature relevant to these applications. The treatment of the possible genesis of a mental factor—conscience— which disturbs one’s adjustment, will have to be equally sketchy. A specific situation structure, known as the prisoner’s dilemma, will be presented, and

_ it will be argued that this situation structure shows that certain pervasive features of life in so-called open societies make conscience into a mental instrument for their members,

an instrument

indispensable for the very

survival of these societies. Certain features of open societies distinguishing them from closed societies (in which conscience is not required) will be pointed out, and these features will be linked with the theory of conscience expounded here. The argument of this book has, therefore, at least the

following three components: (a). A sketch of the programmatic framework within which a theory of

conscience is formulable. (b). A formalized presentation of the theory of conscience. (c). Empirical applications of the theory. No book of this composition can be subsumed under a single discipline.

This book, in particular, relates to the philosophy of psychology, to the psychology of emotions, motivation, and cognition, to developmental and

clinical psychology, to social psychology, to game theory, to ethics, to theoretical linguistics, to sociology, to philosophical logic, and to cybernetics. It relates to them in different ways, of course, and with different

degrees of closeness. If one believes that disciplinary boundaries represent deep ontological divisions that prevent any important connection between the “autonomous” disciplines, then this list of disciplines can be taken as an argument against the possible relevance of my book. On the other hand, if one believes that boundaries between disciplines have no inherent validity and that what matters is ideas, this book may be acceptable. To accept it is to find it profitable to criticize my conjectures and to attempt to suggest a better theory.

C1

PUR

cea PilatChieeesHee,Bae

2

prof

Satan aia ‘

Lore

i

;

us

Part One

FRAMEWORK: A SKETCH OF THE STRUCTURE OF THE MIND

Conscience, as far as common sense goes, is a mental faculty. A theory of

conscience cannot be developed unless a mentalistic programmatic background is either presupposed or explicitly presented. This background should provide the old-fashioned, scientifically outmoded terms “faculty” and “mind” with a rigorous meaning, sufficient to show how theoretical assumptions formulated with the help of such notions can be empirically

tested. Part 1 of the book is an attempt to do just this. In the general Intro-

duction, I have pointed out that Chomsky has rehabilitated mentalism and the concept of “mental faculty,” in so far as linguistic research is concerned.

Thus, his ideas have significance not only as technical, scientific achieve-

ments but as part of a philosophical argument for a “new” image of Man.

This image has never been portrayed by Chomsky himself in great detail. Even in [30] he does no more than point out that the concept of Mind should be re-employed. Hence, any attempt, like the present one, to use the new image of Man, emerging from Chomsky’s writings, outside the field of linguistics requires

a more explicit analysis of the relevance of Chomsky’s ideas to the “philo-

sophical image of man” than that provided by Chomsky himself. Such an and analysis may even force us to give up certain of Chomsky’s suggestions at out carried be will to replace them by others. This preliminary analysis

the beginning of this part.

of the However, the framework we need for an explicit representation tation of the theory of conscience cannot be exhausted by a mere rehabili We need to needed. is more Far faculty. notions of Mind and of mental sketch, at to ce, conscien with specify other mental faculties which interact kind of the specify and least programmatically, their mode of functioning,

to con“cognitive units” to which they apply. Carrying out this task amounts of this part. structing a sketch of the Structure of the M ind. Hence the name

;

Chapter 1 WHY

IS MENTALISM NECESSARY?

Chomsky has revolutionized linguistics. But his scientific revolution could not have taken place without a corresponding metaphysical revolution

(cf. [1]). This deeper revolution, which concerns the basic assumptions we have to make concerning the nature of man, assumptions preliminary to any specific scientific research in the human sciences, should affect more than linguistics. It is of primary relevance for psychologists. The present chapter is intended to point out those aspects of Chomsky’s ideas which are of such “metaphysical” relevance. That is, it will attempt to point out those insights of Chomsky and of his followers that are relevant to psychologists, sociologists, and the like.

1.1. ABSTRACT

ENTITIES

IN HUMAN

BEHAVIOR

Language use involves, essentially, the employment of sentences. At first glance, this assertion seems anything but exciting. What else could language

consist of? Deeper thought shows, however, that this seemingly obvious assertion

has some surprising consequences. This is so, because sentences are abstract individuals. That is, sentences are not localized in space and time. It is quite easy to prove this last assertion. It is quite easy to prove this

last assertion.

The repetition of the sentence “It is quite easy to prove this last assertion” was not a printing error. The two inscriptions of the same sentence have just provided the proof by showing that the same sentence can be realized in two different spatial locations, and hence, has no physical location as such. Moreover, the fact that sentences can be both realized graphically as inscriptions and acoustically as utterances constitutes a further argument against the attempt to conceive of sentences as physical entities. Thus, the

same sentence can be said to occur and vanish at 4 o’clock p.m., when acoustically realized, but to subsist for quite long periods of time when 2

WHY

IS MENTALISM

NECESSARY?

3

graphically realized. Obviously, these seeming contradictions—those involved, for instance, in saying that the same sentence both endures for a long time and occurs and vanishes very quickly—are superficial. They disappear when we conceive of sentences as abstract entities, which cannot be localized in space-time, though their specific realizations can, of course, be so localized. We are thus led to the conclusion that at least one human activity, or rather, family of activities—writing, reading, talking, thinking aloud, etc——cannot be exclusively described by reference to physical individuals. We are forced to refer to abstract individuals when we describe them, and still more so when we theorize about them.

This conclusion is fatal to both “Naturalism” (cf. [147]) and its more oldfashioned metaphysical version, Materialism. Hence, before we proceed to certain of its consequences for the image of Man, let us first consider, and rebut, certain possible objections. The first objection seems rather obvious. Admittedly, sentences are abstract. But why say that they are abstract individuals? Why not consider

them to be properties, which physical individuals possess? If this conception of sentences is accepted, there is no need to give up Physicalism. All properties are abstract: you cannot localize redness in space and time; but this does

not rule out the assumption that all individuals are concrete. Rather, our proof above that sentences are abstract only serves to show, continues, that they are properties of physical individuals, sentences, perhaps, rather than individuals. Utterances (in events in which sentences are realized: saying sentences

this objection utterances of this sense) are aloud, writing

them down, whispering them, perhaps even thinking them in one’s heart

([55], cf. [17]). Why do we have to assume that in addition to utterances

we need to refer to an additional type of individuals, such as sentences, which are abstract? After all, any speech behavior consists exclusively of a sequence of utterances. Physicalism can be preserved. This objection sounds serious. But it relies on a confusion concerning the concepts of individual and property. It is quite easy, without a criterion

for ontic commitment [143, Ch. 1], that is, a criterion which establishes the

existence of the kinds of individuals to which we are commited, to make anything which is commonsensically considered an individual into a

property. Thus, even tables, which are solid individuals, having a definite

be just location in space-time, as we all tend to believe, can be taken to

of properties or “modifications” of the empty space they fill. This mode claim the as defended easily as be speech is admittedly bizarre. But it can sentences are that only utterances, but not sentences, are individuals, while

nothing but properties. The example of the tables clearly is not an argument

d.

4

A SKETCH

OF THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

MIND

against the objection to our commitment to abstract entities involved in human behavior. It is only an argument that any such objection could be established only by appeal to a relevant and convincing criterion for ontic

commitment. Happily, we can suggest such a criterion—following Quine, the foremost contemporary champion of naturalism [143, Ch. 1]. We are ontologically committed, so this criterion tells us, to the existence of all values of our bound variables. We accept as an existing individual anything which belongs

to a domain over which we quantify. Hence, if we are in need of saying that

“All P’s” or “There is a P,” we are committed to the existence of these entities to which P can be applied as a predicate.

But we cannot dispense with assertions beginning with “All sentences. . .” Thus, if we say “Everything John utters has a subject-predicate structur e,” we characterize the linguistic behavior of this queer friend of ours in terms

of the structure of the sentences he employs. This characterization can be

naturally paraphrased as “All sentences John utters have a subjectpredicate

structure,” but not as “All utterances John makes have a subjectpredicate

structure.” Subjects and predicates can be discerned in sentence s, not in utterances. But perhaps this last claim is confused? Can we not say that

any utterance of “John” in “John is a fool” is the utteranc e of the subject of

the utterance in question of that sentence? (The reader should not confuse the sense of “utterance” as an act—as the term is applied in the last formulation

to the word “John”—with the sense of “utterance” as a product, hence as an entity, as the term is applied there to the sentence “John is a fool.”) Thus, even if we are seemingly committed to the existence of sentences by Quine’s criterion, since we need to quantify over sentences in formulating certain generalizations concerning linguistic structu re, is this commitment

not spurious? Can we not get rid of sentences altoge ther, and formulate all

generalizations

relating to linguistic structure, either when

reference

is

made to particular speakers, or when abstraction from any such speaker is made, by talking about the corresponding struct ure of utterances? This suggestion to defend the property-status of sentences by transferring the

linguistic properties they have to the utterances which realize them can be countered by pointing out another Chomskyan insight. This insight, in contradistinction to the assertion with which we started our discussion in this section, is less trivial, and it has not only metaphysical relevance, but considerable linguistic interest as well. In order to grasp this insight, consider the sentence “They are shooting

hunters.” What is the status of “hunters” in the sentence? Obviously, this question should be answerable in a uniqu e fashion if the structure of the

ei

WHY

IS MENTALISM

NECESSARY?

5

sentence in question is to be transferred to all of its utterances. If linguistic

structure, I repeat, is to be assigned to utterances, it should be definable only in terms which relate to the sequential properties of sentences. Utterances, qua physical entities, have a linear structure. If they are spoken out, this

structure is temporal and assigns a unique order to their elements. If they are written utterances, inscriptions, then the ordering is spatial (right to

left or left to right or top to bottom, etc.). However this may be, if utterances are the bearers of linguistic structure, this structure should be uniquely

characterized in terms of the order of the words realized in the utterance in question. The basis for any linguistic structure should be sequential order.

But let us reconsider the question concerning “hunters” in “They are shooting hunters.” This question has no unique answer, as any native speaker of English can convince himself at a glance. “Hunters” can be taken

as the direct object of the sentence in question, as in “They shoot hunters.” But it can also be taken as a predicate of the subject “They” as in “They are hunters that shoot.” In short, the question concerning the status of “hunters”

in “They are shooting hunters,” serves to point out that sentences can have a structure which is not entirely determined by the words occurring in them and by the order of the words. The same words, in the same order, may involve two or more linguistic structures. That is, a sequence of words may be structurally ambiguous as distinguished from lexically ambiguous sentences, in which ambiguity is traceable to the ambiguity of one of the words occurring in the sentence. But utterances cannot be structurally ambiguous. The structure of an utterance is necessarily determinable by relevant aspects of its physical structure, and these relevant aspects of physical structure are linguistically determined by the words realized in the utterance, and by their order. It is not possible to read off from the physical properties of an

utterance of a structurally ambiguous sentence which interpretation of this sentence was intended by the speaker, that is, which structural description ([29, Ch. 1], [94]) fits this sentence, that is, whether “hunters” in “They are shooting hunters” should be described as a direct object or as a predicate. Thus, assertions expressed by “All the sentences uttered by John are structurally ambiguous” cannot be translated into any equivalent

formulation which contains only quantification over utterances, not over sentences. Obviously, we could regard grammatical properties of sentences as

second level properties, applying to the first level property, sentence. But nt. such an approach would cost us Quine’s criterion of ontic commitme of properties as tables of construal the to s, It brings us back, defenseles better much lly conceptua seems it certain portions of empty space. Hence,

6

A SKETCH

OF

THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

MIND

to renounce all attempts to construe sentences as properties and to construe

them as abstract individuals in their own right. There is, however, a second objection to our claim that the characterization of human behavior involves essential reference to abstract individuals. Why not conceive of sentences as the corresponding sets of the utterances which realize them? We cannot consider properties to be at the same time arguments to higher level properties without giving up Quine’s criterion.

But we can speak, without suffering such punishment, about sentences as

sets, having properties of their own. Thus, we can accept the assumption that sentences are abstract entities (even “individuals”—in an extended sense of this word) and even explain it by saying that since the sentences are sets, they cannot be anything but abstract entities, Moreover, we will quite happily assign these abstract entities properties which cannot be assigned to utterances. After all, sets may possess many properties which their members do not. Moreover, Physicalists have admitted sets to their universe long ago. But this objection, too, can be rebutted. F irst, consider the question: how do you assign utterances to their corresponding sentence s? It cannot

be easily answered, especially if one considers the famous Churchian objec-

tion that the same sequence of “words” (considered as acoustic or graphic units) can express two homographic sentences which belong to two different

languages [34]. But there is another counter-argument, which relies on

another Chomskyan insight: in order to describe the linguisti c behavior of a person, it is essential to point out which natural languag e he has mastered as a native speaker. Now, mastery of a language involves the ability to understand, given enough time, any sentence of that language , however long. Moreover, the number of sentences in any natural language in infinite. We shall prove this for English:

Associate 1 with the sentence: I am hungry.

If you associate n with the sentence S, associate n + 1 with the sentence “John believes that S.”

Since the insertion of any grammatical English sentence into the frame “John believes that ...” yields a new gramm atical English sentence, the procedure of number assignment above defines a mapping

from the natural numbers into English, consid ered to be a set of all

of its sentences [28, 2.1]. Hence, English contai ns a denumerably

infinite subset of sentences, hence it contai ns an infinity of sentences. However, the number of utterances uttered from the day Adam and Eve

were created to Doomsday is finite: the numbe r of utterances any human

WHY

IS MENTALISM

NECESSARY?

7

being can utter in his life time is finite, and the number of human beings

living between these two mythical dates is also finite. Hence, the number of utterances ever made in any natural language is finite. There are sentences which are longer than any sentence ever uttered. But these sentences could be understood, or at least identified as belonging to the language, by any

native speaker. Thus, the sentence “John believes that!” I am hungry,” which was never uttered and, in all likelihood, never will be, is perfectly gram-

matical and is understood by any English speaker who knows that I have used the following convention in order to refer to it: “John believes that!” abbreviates “John believes that” “John believes that”*!” abbreviates “John believes that” John believes that.”

The sentence referred to above can also serve to show how we can talk meaningfully about unutterable sentences and even refer to them. These sentences are unutterable for reasons which are strictly irrelevant to the theoretical description of the linguistic capacities of human beings—such as human mortality, for instance. Since the number of all subsets of a finite set is finite, sentences cannot be taken to be subsets of the set of all utterances, since they are infinite in number. It should be stressed that this argument only shows that sentences

cannot be reduced to sets of utterances. It does not rule out certain more complicated, and more fanciful, reductions of sentences to sets of physical

entities. But such reductions are irrelevant to our argument. It makes sense to defend the claim that human beings are purely physical machines, whose

behavior can be exhaustively theorized about in physicalistic terms alone,

only if one accepts the program of explaining the relevance of sets of physical entities in such descriptions by saying, for instance, that one reacts to the two realizations of the sentence above, “It is easy to prove this last asertion,”

in essentially similar ways, since these two realizations are similar (hopefully, in physically specifiable ways). That is, it makes sense to claim that naturalism is preserved when one refers to sets of entities, on one condition: that

one has a similarity concept which makes it meaningful to claim that the

unitary reaction to members of the set is explicable by some concept of

response generalization, which applies in the context of assumedly similar fails for senstimuli (cf. [27]). But this program of preserving naturalism

tences, since the reduction of them to sets of utterances clearly fails. Because the utterances are the natural units for description of linguistic behavior, irrelevant. is success of other reductions of sentences to sets of physical entities

more the Our last argument against the reduction program employs once

8

A SKETCH

OF

THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

MIND

idea of structural ambiguity of sentences. How can one react to the utterance of a structurally ambiguous

sentence without knowing which structural

description applies to it? Can this knowledge be gathered from the physical properties of the utterance? But the elaboration of this last argument is best kept for another context, since this argument serves a purpose additional to that of refuting naturalism. Naturalism, in this section, amounts to the requirement that anything said about human behavior should be expressed by referring only to the physical properties (which may be abstract) of

physical individuals and sets constructed out of them.

1.2. RULES

IN HUMAN

BEHAVIOR

The classical paradigm of a scientitic product is the description of regulari-

ties in terms of laws of nature [19]. The precise logical structure of such regularities is of no importance to our purposes. But these laws of nature,

however formulated, should be distinguished from the abstract rules needed to describe certain aspects of human behavior, especially the aspects that involve the manipulation of abstract entities. To clarify and defend this claim, consider the linguistic rule which allows us to claim that “John believes that I am hungry” is grammatical on the basis of the knowledge that “I am hungry” is grammatical and the result of substitution of a grammatical sentence for S in the frame “John believes ‘ that S” is a grammatical sentence. Obviously, we need a rule in order to justify this claim; otherwise we need to have recourse to a list of sentences of the structure “John believes that” I am hungry” for any n, in order to justify our acceptance of all of these sentences as grammatical. But such lists cannot be learned, being infinite. Hence, we need the recursive rule described above to account for it, or even a stronger rule, of which the rule

cited is a special case.

The rule in question is not, however, a description of any behavioral regularity of human beings. It does not predict, for instance, that whenever any of us, who knows English, will confront a sentence of the form “John believes that” I am hungry” he will do something which can be specified

beforehand. It does not even predict that any sentence of this form will always be understood when met.

In short, the rule in question provides us with certain information con-

cerning human beings which cannot be directly translated into a statement of

a regularity governing the behavior of humans. Rules are distinct from laws. On the other hand, if human beings are assumed to be capable of manipulating infinite sets of abstract entities, as we have shown them to be in

WHY IS MENTALISM NECESSARY?

9

Sec. 1.1, we are obliged to assume that certain aspects of their “psychology” should be describable in terms of rules, not of laws.

Chomsky’s specifically linguistic insight which substantiates this last claim is that human mastery of language should be described by means of systems of linguistic rules, which he calls grammars. Grammars define recursively the set of sentences of the language for which they are grammars [28, 2.1] satisfying certain constraints which will not be discussed here. However, the relevance of grammars to the description of human linguistic behavior provides a new mode of describing “general facts” about

human psychology: not in terms of systems of laws, but in terms of systems of rules, which human beings are assumed to master and to apply (though,

of course, they are not assumed to be capable of formulating these rules explicitly, a quite distinct ability,

a matter of know that, not know how

(158) Ch: 2).

1.3. INTERACTIONISM In the preceding sections, we have argued that Chomsky’s ideas make Physicalism untenable. It is impossible to provide an adequate theory even of human linguistic behavior without representing this behavior as connected with the mastery of infinite sets of abstract entities, and as involving the application of systems of rules. If one accepts the quite obvious assumptions on which our argumentation has been predicated, the rejection of Materialism, the metaphysics which

underlies Naturalism, is inescapable. Abstract entities of the type we have discussed cannot be “reduced”—whatever plausible sense “reduction” has in this context—to any physically characterizable feature of any system of — physical objects. Moreover, the temptation to relate sentences with mental representations (or ideas) in the classical sense seems irresistible. After all, human beings use sentences not only in speech, but also in thought. If sentences are irreducibly non-physical, then so are thought processes. The mind, in its classical, antimaterialistic conception, seems ready to arise

from the grave in which Ryle has prematurely buried it [156, Ch. 1]. Despite these results, however, there is another, last escape for Naturalism as a methodological position. The arguments which pave the way to this escape can be presented as follows: “Let us grant,” says our Naturalistic opponent, “that Materialism cannot be maintained, and insofar as Metaphysics is concerned, that Dualism makes good sense. This, however, does not rule out the tenability of Naturalism as a methodological position, on a different metaphysical ground, to

10

A SKETCH

OF THE STRUCTURE

OF THE MIND

be sure. Thus, if you assume that mental processes, which I grant may involve abstract entities, are physically (rather, biochemically) realized, say

in the brain and the CNS, you can limit your science just to the physical substrata of these mental processes. There is no need to take explicit account of the mental processes themselves, since they are, after all, parallel to those physical processes which realize them. The question how mental processes are realized in physical processes is metaphysical and had better be neg-

lected in scientific studies. Mind and body are parallel, and one had rather study the physical (for obvious methodological reasons) than the mental.

In other terms [10, 25], the describing of behavior in a physical language is obviously preferrable to describing it in a mentalistic language, since a physicalistic language is much better off than a mentalistic language, for reasons I need not repeat. Whatever can be said in the mentalistic language can be translated, without residuum, into the physicalistic language. So why use the mentalistic language?” This argument is venerably old, though tracing its history would be tedious and beside our purposes. In any case, this argument can be rebutted quite easily.

The main point of the argument is that “Mind” and “Body” can be assumed, metaphysically, to be “parallel,” hence that the descriptions of

their modes of functioning are intertranslatable. But this implies that all generalizations which can be made about human behavior in mentalistic terms are translatable into physicalistic terms. This assumption can be simply refuted by pointing out the possibility of the existence of generalizations concerning human behavior which cannot be translated from a

mentalistic framework to a physicalistic framework. Thus,

consider

structurally

ambiguous

sentences

such

as “They

are

hunting hunters.” Suppose a utters this sentence in the context of a discussion

with b. Now, any adequate generalization which represents b’s behavior in response to this utterance would take into account the structural ambiguity of the sentence in question. Thus, b may either understand this sentence as meaning the same as “They are hunters that hunt,” or as meaning the same as

“They are hunting (some) (all)... hunters,” or he may become aware of the

ambiguity, trying to guess from the context which interpretation was meant

by the speaker; or he may ask the speaker what he meant, etc. Obviously,

it is very hard to attempt to provide an exhaustive list of possibiliti es of

reaction of hearers to the utterance of ambiguous sentences. But it is impor-

tant to see that all these possibilities are relevant whenever an ambiguous sentence is uttered. Thus, if b hears a uttering S, and S is ambiguous , b may understand S as meaning the same as S 1, OF aS meaning the same as S, (or

WHY

IS MENTALISM

NECESSARY?

11

the same as S3, etc.), or he may attempt to disambiguate the sentence consciously by utilizing contextual information, or he may ask the hearer what he meant, etc.

Thus, our list of alternatives represents, however incompletely, a generalization concerning human behavior (overt or covert—thinking to oneself is ‘ recognized by Behaviorists also as some kind of behavior, perhaps as a subvocal talk [174]). This generalization contains the term “structurally ambiguous” essentially. It is impossible to get rid of the concept of structural ambiguity in favor of any physicalistic concept, because structural ambiguity

is a property of sentences which does not correspond to any physical property of utterances. Thus, the irreducibility of sentences, and their properties, to utterances refutes not only metaphysical Materialism but also metaphysical parallelism, since it shows that there are possible generaliza-_ tions about human behavior which cannot be formulated without employing concepts which cannot be reduced to physicalistic concepts. Thus, we are left with an Interactionistic Dualism as last resort, precisely as Popper [138, 139, 137] who has inspired this argument, has already pointed out. Popper’s argument is different in detail. It consists of pointing out the irreducibility of the logical function of language to its descriptive function, and of the commitment of all physicalistic attempts at theorizing about language to reducing all functions of language to its descriptive function (or to even lower functions). Popper’s argument can be elaborated and made even more convincing

than in Popper himself, by pointing out that the validity of arguments is another of the abstract properties of irreducibly abstract entities (arguments) which cannot be dispensed with if the human use of language is to be adequately represented. After all, there are no physically relevant differences between valid and invalid arguments, and there is not much physical similarity between utterances of different valid arguments. All the same, human beings react to valid arguments, which they recognize as valid,

differently from their reaction to invalid arguments. They attempt, for instance, to motivate their rejection of some of the premises of a valid argument, if they reject its conclusion, while when confronted with an invalid argument, their mode of dissent can be expected, rather, to be the production of a counter example to the argument. Obviously, these are not exhaustive descriptions of what they will do in either case, but they point out that whatever exhaustive description will be attempted, the concept of validity will be indispensable to it.

12.

A SKETCH

1.4. THE

OF THE STRUCTURE

MENTAL

AND

OF THE MIND

THE ABSTRACT

We have argued that human behavior and human cognitive processes cannot be represented adequately within a physicalistic framework because they involve essential reference to abstract individuals, such as sentences, arguments, etc. This concern with abstract individuals seems to be the distinguishing mark of mental processes. It may seem, therefore, that we are suggesting the identification of mental entities, such as thoughts with abstract entities (such as sentences). This identification would expose our approach to the heavy attack against the psychologization of logic, arithmetics, etc.

[93]. But we do not intend to make the identification or expose ourselves to the attack. The mind-body dualism we preach has to be taken in the context of a pluralistic metaphysics, of the sort advocated by Karl Popper

[137]. Following Popper, we are ready to distinguish World 1, the world of — physical processes, World 2, the world of mental processes, and World 3, the world of the products of mental processes. Sentences are inhabitants of World 3, together with numbers, arguments, propositions, etc. As such, they do not exist in space-time. Mental processes, as Popper explains in detail, are operations on World 3 objects, which produce new World 3 objects. The mind, Popper contends, and we agree whole-heartedly, is a “mediator” between World 1 and World 3. As such, it does not belong to either. Following Kant, we can assume that its operations, being sequential, take place in time. Sometimes, however, mental operations on World 3 objects produce effects in World 1, in space-time. Hence, in a sense, we have used arguments drawn from the work of Chomsky to support a conception of man which is implicit in the recent work of Popper. The reader is referred to Popper ([137], Ch. 3, 4, 6 especially) for the detailed presentation of the three-worlds doctrine. Here, we will quote only one paragraph of Popper’s discussion concerning the relevance of his

pluralistic metaphysics to psychology [137, p. 156]:

“I suggest that one day we will have to revolutionize psychol ogy by

looking at the human mind as an organ for interaction with the objects

of the third world; for understanding

them, contributing to them,

participating in them ;and for bringing them to bear on the first world.” This paragraph could be taken as a motto for this book. The theory of _

conscience to be constructed here is, precisely, the sort of theory which attempts to take into account the interaction between human beings and

third-world objects (in this case, moral obligations). However, the arguments

:

WHY IS MENTALISM NECESSARY?

13

brought forward in this chapter, and throughout the book, can be criticized independently of Popper’s pluralistic metaphysics. Metaphysics will therefore not occupy our attention for long, despite its great relevance and importance.

1.5. IS MENTALISTIC AS A SCIENCE?

PSYCHOLOGY

POSSIBLE

We have argued that since human behavior presupposes mastery of systems of rules, which determine infinite sets of abstract entities, Dualism

is inescapable. We have also argued that this dualism must be interactionistic, since otherwise adequate generalizations concerning human reactions to ambiguous sentences, qua ambiguous, or to valid arguments, qua valid,

would become informulable. We have, finally, argued that it is possible to represent mental processes as manipulations of World 3 objects realized

within a physical system, and taking place in time. But are not mental processes “private”, i.e. inaccessible to intersubjective

observation [11, Ch. 5]? If so, how can we gain information about them which is intersubjective? If no such information can be gained then it becomes impossible to refute generalizations formulated in the mentalistic

framework. Hence, no such generalizations can be scientific, on Popper’s Criterion of Demarcation [135, Ch. 11]. All the results we can achieve in this framework are, therefore, nonscientific; perhaps they can be described as metaphysical. If this is the case, all the arguments given here have no interest for psychologists, despite the declared pretensions of this book. This argument cannot be sound, however, as the obviously scientific nature of theoretical linguistics, founded by Chomsky, shows. The great rate of progress, and the frequent revolutions in the field (such as the Generative Semantics revolution [113, 114, 121, 140, 154]) should be a first rate legiti-

mization, on Popperian grounds at least. Hence, it remains for us to show how it is possible for theoretical linguistics to be a science, despite its men-

talistic commitments.

i

The answer can be easily gathered from the fact that the kind of evidence

linguistics uses, linguistic intuitions, are quite intersubjective, however

“unphysical” they may be. Thus, consider the claim above that the sentence “They are shooting hunters” is ambiguous. Any reader of this book, who is,

no doubt, an English speaker, can convince himself easily of the truth of

” this claim almost without argument. I say “almost without argument, since it can be objected that one sees that this sentence is ambiguous when he realizes that it is synonymous with both “They are hunters which shoot”

14.

A SKETCH OF THE STRUCTURE OF THE MIND

and with “They shoot at hunters”, while these two sentences are not synonymous. That is, we label a sentence S ambiguous whenever there are some sentences S,,S,,... So that S is synonymous with any of S,,S,..., while S,,S,,... are not synonymous with one another. But then one is assumed to be capable of realizing the synonymy of two sentences without argument. So, one can ascribe linguistic characteristics to sentences without argument, in an intersubjective manner (that is, in a manner common to the whole speech community) and without making any observation of any physical property of any physical entity. And we have already argued that sentences are irreducibly abstract individuals and that their properties are irreducible to physical properties. The preceding argument shows that the identification of the “physical” with the “intersubjective” and that of the “mental” with the “subjective” is false. One can have “mentalistic” evidence (such as linguistic intuitions)

without violating the demand that all scientific data be intersubjective. Hence, mentalistic science is possible.

It should be noted in passing that according to this analysis, the methodology of theoretical linguistics is not committed to a rejection of the requirement of intersubjectivity of scientific evidence, as against what is implied by the following paragraph by Chomsky [29, p. 20]: “One may ask whether _ the necessity for present day linguistics to give such priority to introspective evidence and to the linguistic intuition of the native speaker excludes it from the domain of science. The answer to this essentially terminological question seems to have no bearing at al! on any serious issue. At most, it determines how we shall denote the kind of research that can effectively be carried out in the present state of our technique and understanding. However, this terminological question actually does relate to a different

issue of some interest, namely the question whether the important feature of the successful sciences has been their search for insight or their concern for objectivity. The social and behavioral sciences provide ample evidence that objectivity can be pursued with little consequent gain in insight and understanding. On the other hand, a good case can be made for the view

that the natural sciences have, by and large, sought objectivity primarily insofar as it is a tool for gaining insight (for providing phenomena that can suggest or test deeper explanatory hypotheses).” This paragraph contains many valuable ideas and suggests the futility of certain types of research in the social and behavioral sciences, which depend

on irrelevant methodological standards. But it gives the impression, not necessarily intended by Chomsky, that intersubjectivity (if it can be identified

with his “objectivity”) can go by the board. His practice shows a better

WHY

JS MENTALISM

NECESSARY?

15

example; he never uses “private” linguistic intuitions, which are valid just for his own English, but not for anybody else’s. Thus, another consequence of the Chomskyan revolution is that one can make good science using mentalistic, introspective, non-physicalistic evidence without sacrificing inter-

subjectivity as a criterial requirement. Mentalistic linguistics is possible as a science, because it can be made refutable by intersubjective data.

SUMMARY

OF CHAPTER

1

In this chapter, I have attempted to provide a sound metaphysical foun-

dation for faculty psychology and for my theory of the conscience which will be embedded in it. The claims argued for were the following: I. Human behavior cannot be described without essential reference to certain (infinite) sets of abstract entities (such as sentences, numbers, etc.) which human beings master and which are determined by systems of formally formulable rules. These abstract entities and systems of rules are also an

indispensable component of any adequate theoretical psychology. II. Interactionistic, as opposed to parallelistic dualism is to be assumed, in order to provide for the representability of certain regularities governing human behavior. These regularities involve, essentially, reactions to certain physically irreducible abstract properties belonging to irreducibly abstract entities.

III. The relationship between the mind and abstract entities is best thought of in the context of Popper’s pluralistic metaphysics. The mind interacts both with World 1 and World 3 objects.

IV. Mentalistic sciences are possible, since the example of linguistic intuitions

shows that mentalistic, introspective evidence need not violate the require-

ment that all scientific evidence be intersubjectively ascertainable.

Chapter 2 MENTAL

FACULTIES

Conscience is a mental faculty, at least so it is conceived by common sense. Hence, a theory of conscience attempting to provide a legitimate place

in science for those common sense ideas which involve conscience must be mentalistic. ; The case for a new brand, a Chomskyan—Popperian brand of (interactionistic) dualism was presented in Chapter 1. The argument involved reference to human mastery of infinite sets of abstract entities (sentences, ‘numbers) which are realized in human behavior. The possibility of mastery of infinite sets was explained by reference to finite (recursive) systems of

rules which determine these sets. However,

the concept

of faculty did not occur

in the discussion in

Chapter 1: the essential question of the relationships between the behavior which we account for by postulating a faculty, the abstract entities realized

in this behavior, and the (mental) processes which take place “within” the faculty in order to “produce” the relevant realizations of these abstract

entities, was not touched on even indirectly. This question arose, historically, together with the Chomskyan revolution, because it is essentially connected with the type of mentalism reintroduced by Chomsky. He attempted a solution, in terms of a distinction between “competence”—a term which roughly refers to the formal system of rules which determines the infinite set of abstract entities, in his case, sentences, realized in behavior, and “performance”, which refers, again roughly, to the

relevant behavior which can be observed. Now,

d

this distinction was recently criticized by linguists on grounds

which are irrelevant for us [95] : Chomsky has applied his distinction in order to exclude from the field of linguistic interest all phenomena which

cannot be simply described by reference to the grammatical structure of sentences. Thus, the behavior of interjections (oh, uh, etc.) was regarded by

him as belonging not to the theory of competence but to the theory of performance. Qua linguist, he concluded from this assignment that he was 16

— —

MENTAL

FACULTIES’

17

not responsible for treating the phenomena involved in the employment of interjections in speech. A linguist is interested only in the theory of competence. This approach to interjections, say, is not acceptable to more recent

researchers (e.g. [75]). However, this sort of criticism, even if justified, is irrelevant to our concerns, as I have said. Suppose we were to include interjections in the infinite set of abstract entities realized in linguistic behavior (which would no longer be exclusively sentences). We should then conceive

of linguistic competence as accounting for the complete set of linguistic forms, including both sentences and interjections. Obviously, the problem of clarifying the notion of competence and its relevance to the description of performance would still exist.

_

Chomsky’s old distinction is therefore still of great interest for us. We will discuss it critically, showing that Chomsky was neither entirely clear,

nor completely consistent, in introducing it. Hence, despite our commitment to Chomskyan mentalism, we will have to provide an alternative to his particular distinction. This alternative requires us to distinguish between mental faculty, mental structure, and mental processes of two sorts, pure

and mixed. I will apply it, analogically, to computers, to make the distinction more concrete. However, despite the analogy, we will not identify “faculties” with “computer programs.” We will argue against complete identification by pointing

to the concept of undecidability. This metalogical concept, associated with Church’s proof that quantification theory is undecidable [32], will be shown to have non-trivial empirical implications when our mentalistic framework is applied to logic (as it is applied, by Chomsky, to grammar).

These implications themselves will also show that our approach is not merely metaphysical, but empirically fruitful, producing refutable predictions. At the same time, the psychological interpretation we will give for undecidability will also be relevant, later on, to the theory of conscience

itself. Hence, its discussion in this context is relevant not only for general

reasons, pertaining to our explication of the concept of mental faculty, but

also for specific reasons, pertaining to our theory of conscience.

Thus, if the task of Chapter 1 was to prove mentalism tenable, the task of the present chapter is to show that the concept of faculty is tenable as

well. The background will be constituted by a criticism of Chomsky’s related concept of ‘‘competence.” Relevant analogies and disanalogies to

computer programs will be drawn on.

18

A SKETCH

OF

THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

2.1. CHOMSKY’S NOTION PERFORMANCE

MIND

OF COMPETENCE

VS.

The distinction between competence and performance was introduced by Chomsky in the first chapter of his Aspects [22]. The distinction is explicitly discussed in two slightly differing contexts. I will quote these contexts, in order to argue that Chomsky has in mind not one distinction but two distinct, though related, distinctions. When these two distinctions are amalgamated into a unified conceptual framework, the concept of faculty

emerges naturally, with a definite and clear sense. Chomsky writes [29, pp. 3-4]: “Linguistic

theory is concerned

primarily

with

an

ideal speaker—

listener, in a completely homogeneous speech community, who knows its language perfectly and is unaffected by such grammatically irrelevant conditions as memory limitations, distractions, shifts of attention and interest, and errors (random or characteristic) in applying his knowledge of the language in actual performance. This seems to me to have been the position of the founders of modern general linguistics, and no cogent reason for modifying it has been offered. To study performance, we must consider the interaction of a variety of factors, of which the underlying competence of the speaker—hearer is only one. In this respect, study of language is no different from empirical in-

vestigation of other complex phenomena. “We thus make a fundamental distinction between competence (the speaker—hearer’s knowledge of this language) and performance (the actual use of language in concrete situations). Only under the idealization set forth in the preceding paragraph is performance a direct _ reflection of competence. In actual fact, it obviously could not directly

reflect competence. A record of natural speech will show numerous

false starts, deviations from rules, changes of plan in mid-course, and so on. The problem for the linguist, as well as for the child learning the

language, is to determine from the data of performance the underlying

system of rules that has been mastered by the speaker—hearer and that he puts to use in actual performance. Hence, in the technical sense, lin- | guistic theory is mentalistic, since it is concerned with discovering a : mental reality underlying actual behavior. Observed use of language or hypothesized dispositions to respond, habits, and so on, may provide

evidence as to the nature of this mental reality, but surely cannot constitute the actual subject matter of linguistics, if this is to be a

MENTAL

FACULTIES

19

serious discipline. The distinction I am noting here is related to the langue parole distinction of Saussure; but it is necessary to reject his concept of langue as merely a systematic inventory of items and to return rather to the Humboldtian conception of underlying competence as a system of generative processes”. Now, this exposition of the competence—-performance distinction represents competence as that “mental reality” which is responsible for all

those aspects of language use which can be. characterized “linguistic.” An “ideal” speaker—hearer’s use of language is totally determined by his competence. It “reflects directly” his competence. However, non-ideal ‘speakers, like human beings, use language in a manner which partly depends on non-linguistic factors, such as memory, attention, interest, etc. In short, the processes of using language by human beings are not “pure,” in the

sense that they are determined by just one mental factor. They are reflections of interaction between a variety of mental factors. However, this image of linguistic competence is slightly changed in the following paragraphs. There, as we will immediately see, linguistic competence is construed only as the system of rules which determines the set of sentences that constitute a language. This determination involves, to be sure, not only the enumeration of these sentences but also their provision with a structural description. But it has nothing to do with explaining how a speaker “creates” the sentence he will use, whatever sense we ascribe to “create” [29, pp. 4-5] : “A grammar of a language purports to be a description of the ideal speaker-hearer’s intrinsic competence. If the grammar is, furthermore, perfectly explicit—in other words, it does not rely on the intelligence of the understanding reader but rather provides an explicit analysis of his contribution—we may (somewhat redundantly) call it a generative grammar. A fully adequate grammar must assign to each of an infinite range of sentences a structural description indicating how this sentence is understood by the ideal speaker—hearer.”

Now, the phrase “how this sentence is understood by the ideal speaker— hearer” seems to suggest that generative grammars describe some mental processes. To be sure, these mental processes, those of creating, or interpreting, a sentence are too “pure” to be identifiable “within” ordinary humans. They can be “found within” ideal speakers, which are not affected,

in using language, by the irrelevant finitude of their short term memory, etc. Thus, the modification of the concept of “competence” (and of the whole sense of the competence—performance distinction) is disguised by the quoted

20

A SKETCH

OF THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

MIND

phrase. However, the modification is clearly represented in the following . paragraph [29, p. 9]: “To avoid what has been a continuing misunderstanding, it is perhaps worthwhile to reiterate that a generative grammar is not a model

for a speaker or a hearer. It attempts to characterize in the most neutral terms possible the knowledge of the language that provides the basis for actual use of language by a speaker—hearer. When we speak of a

grammar as generating a sentence with a certain structural description, we mean simply that the grammar assigns this structural description

|

to the sentence. When we say that a sentence has a certain derivation with respect to a particular generative grammar, we say nothing about how the speaker or the hearer might proceed, in some practical or — efficient way, to construct such a derivation. These questions belong to the theory of language use—the theory of performance. No doubt, a reasonable model of language use will incorporate, as a basic component, the generative grammar that expresses the speaker—hearer’s knowledge of the language; but this generative grammar does not, in itself, prescribe the character of functioning of a perceptual model or a

model of speech production.” Now, this paragraph implies that a generative grammar is in no way committed to the description of any mental processes, not even the “pure” ones which take place in ideal speaker—hearer’s minds. The “derivation” which the grammar assigns to a sentence has no specified connection to the | process of producing the sentence. Obviously, the expectation that the grammar should describe this process in no way commits us to the identification of a grammar of a language with a theory of the speech-producing mechanism, which is, in any case, a partly physiological mechanism. But the description of competence, hence of grammar, as the theoretical description of competence, as, that is, the mental factor which determines speech in ideal speakers, would surely lead us to expect that grammars ~ have a similar responsibility for the explanation of the process of producing and understanding sentences even within actual, non-ideal speakers, how-

ever limited this responsibility may be (cf. also [62] for similar arguments). _ Thus, it seems that Chomsky here uses two distinctions. One is the dis-

tinction between linguistic competence as that system of formal rules which human speakers incorporate, and which underlies those aspects of their language use which are “linguistic.” This system of formal rules, which are

applied in time, can be rightly called “the faculty of language.” Actual language use reflects the interaction of this faculty with others. We have

MENTAL

FACULTIES

21

here the distinction between “pure” (or ideal) mental processes and “mixed” mental processes. That is to say, we must distinguish between mental processes for which just one faculty is responsible, and mental processes which are the product of the interaction of a variety of mental faculties. On the other hand, we can consider just the set of sentences which such a

linguistic faculty can produce, and the corresponding set of their grammatical structures, and look for a system of formal rules which generates just the infinite set of ordered pairs of sentences and their “structural description.” “Generation” in this context means “recursive enumeration.” If a grammar

is construed as the system of formal rules which does just that, without any commitment to the mental process of producing sentences in time being thus described, we have another sense of “competence”: a theory of © competence is just a formal description of the set of abstract entities we

have to assume that human beings master if we are to represent correctly their linguistic skills. Nothing about the mode of mastery of this set is

thereby implied. The distinction between the description of an infinite set of abstract entities relevant to linguistic behavior, and the description of the mode of mastery of this set is reflected by Chomsky’s phrases, “the underlying system of rules that has been mastered by the speaker—hearer and that he puts to use in*actual performance.” “Putting to use” is quite a - misleading expression to'use, however, since it presupposes the metaphor that linguistic competence is some sort of tool, like an axe, which one uses when needed. Now, even though we do not know how to analyze precisely whatisinvolved in using tools, it seems quite clear that what is involved

in using tools has no obvious analogy to what is involved in “using linguistic competence.”

Hence, the metaphor is misleading, as is the expression “put to use.” Its occurrence only shows that Chomsky was somehow aware of the distinction between formally describing a language, and

describing, no less precisely, what mastery of language does amount to. We suggest, therefore, the distinction between the following: I) a mental faculty of language, which produces sentences, and which ” the sense Chomsky should have given to this word— —in “underlies language use, that is, which interacts with other faculties to determine speech;

Il) a structure of language, which is described just by a recursive definition of the set of ordered pairs (S, SD), where SD is the structural description of

the sentence S;

III) processes of language use (including speaking, listening, writing, reading, etc.) which are mixed processes, accounted for by describing the interaction of mental faculties, each of which in itself would have produced

22

A SKETCH OF THE STRUCTURE OF THE MIND

a pure process, and which constitute the observable data for the theories

_ of the faculties involved. This distinction between faculty, structure, and mental process, and the — distinction between pure and mixed mental processes seems to do all the © distinct kinds of work Chomsky’s simple-minded (and confused) competence-performance

distinction fails to do. Moreover, it allows us to

connect this discussion with one of the ideas elaborated in the preceding chapters, namely, that Chomsky has provided a good case for utilizing introspective evidence, “linguistic intuitions,” as legitimate evidence. Linguistic intuitions, for instance, allow us to assign the string “John eats

cheese” the property “grammatical” (rather “a grammatical sentence”), as distinguished from the string “Eats or and John.” Hence, they impose on any theory of the structure of language the requirement to generate an ordered pair (S, SD) having the first string as a first argument, and to generate

no pair having the second string as a first argument. Moreover, the assignment of ambiguity (rather structural ambiguity) to

the grammatical sentence S$ “They are shooting hunters” by our linguistic intuitions requires the theory of the structure of language to generate two distinct ordered pairs (S, SD,), (S, SD). Thus, linguistic intuitions bear directly on theories of language structure, and Chomskyan grammars should be taken only as theories of language structure, since the evidence used in testing their adequacy consists only of linguistic intuitions. Theories of the faculty of language, on the other hand, should account for the production of linguistic intuitions. Linguistic intuitions are some sort of mental reaction to the linguistic aspects of utterances, or rather to the grammatical properties of the sentences realized in them. Hence, they are produced by a “pure” mental process acountable for by reference to the mental faculty involved. Any theory of structure therefore imposes certain

requirements on the-corresponding theory of mental faculty. These requirements themselves have an empirical motivation, in this case, the (linguistic) intuitions involved.

2.2. ILLUSTRATION: ARITHMETIC AND ARITHMETIC FACULTY

STRUCTURE

In order to convince the reader that the distinction between faculty, structure, pure mental process, and mixed mental process is indeed significant, let us leave for the moment linguistic behavior (and its “underlying mental reality”) and consider arithmetical behavior and the underlying mental reality to which it is related. Most human beings in our culture can count to any

MENTAL

FACULTIES

23

number (unless they die too soon, that is), can add, subtract, multiply and

divide natural numbers after not too many years of schooling. Since numbers are abstract entities, and since their set is infinite, we cannot explain these arithmetical facilities by reference to any “mental store” of numbers and of “reaction” to numbers. Human beings can process numbers which they

have never met before in their arithmetical experience. This shows that they did not somehow acquire a “conditioned response” which allows them

to deal with numbers [27]. Any adequate axiomatization of the arithmetic of natural numbers,

conjoined with the relevant definitions of the various

arithmetical operations can be taken as a theory of the structure of the mastery of arithmetic. Thus consider the following set of axioms, presented in [119, p. 35], in a manner which is not fully formalized: The system N of natural numbers is a set N with a function o:N-—N and a selected element 0¢ N such that (i) a is injective,

(ii) OEN, (iii) any subset U c N with the two properties, (a) Oe U, (b) for all ne N,

ne U > a(n)e U, must be the whole set N.

This definition accounts for the structure of the set of natural numbers. ‘When conjoined with the recursive definition of addition [119, p. 58] m+0=m,m + a(n) = o(m + n), it accounts for all the intuitions we have

about addition. It can be easily verified that all statements representing the result of addition in a manner which accords with out arithmetical .. intuitions, such as 2 + 3 = 5, can be derived from this system (when numerals such as ‘5’ are taken as defined symbols, of course. ‘5S’ abbreviates,

e.g. o(4(a(0(a(0)))))).

However, this theory of structure for addition can be transformed into

a theory of arithmetical faculty without much effort, at least insofar as this - faculty involves addition. Thus, consider

the following instructions for an addition mechanism, mental faculty: “Whenever fed with the input (n, m), a be to conceived where n, m are natural numbers, assign it the output which results when the

function o is applied n times to m.” Obviously, this instruction presupposes that the mechanism has additional devices: to distinguish between natural and non-natural numbers (by applying another instruction, deriving directly

from the characterization of N above), and to count the number of applications of the function (by analogous means). Moreover, the instruction is not formulated precisely since it contains the phrase “apply the function.” Ina precise formulation, we would rather have a rewrite rule, which replaces n by a(n), a(n) by a(a(n)), etc., m times. A precisely formulated set of in-

structions of this sort could, however, be programmed into a computer.

24

A SKETCH

OF THE

STRUCTURE

OF THE

MIND

The resulting program would operate sequentially, in time, on given ordered pairs of natural numbers, assigning them their sums as output. Thus, it can’ be seen that constructing a theory of the faculty of addition amounts to the construction of a computer program which performs this same task, and considering the formal processes realized by the program to

be simulations

[127] of the mental processes taking place within that

faculty. This shows that the revival of mental faculties involves, essentially, taking computer simulation to be the dominant method for representing mental processes, and taking computer programs, or formal descriptions

having a similar nature, to be the theoretical descriptions of the corresponding faculties. Thus, if we take the program for addition described above as the theory of the faculty of addition (which is a subfaculty of the arith-

metical faculty) we can see that arithmetical intuitions which justify m+n=n-+m for us are reconstructed by the program assigning the same output to the distinct inputs (n, m), (m, n). Moreover, the interaction between the addition program and other programs within the computer (such as a program which preserves precisely its input for a limited length

of time and then modifies it systematically as a function of time) can produce “mixed” processes, which can account, for instance, for arithmetical errors in the simulated behavior. Thus, if in adding three numbers one is assumed to add first the first two, to transfer the sum to the (possibly) distorting memory program, to retrieve it from this program after the critical time interval of correct storage has elapsed, and to add the third

number (the instruction we gave above makes it possible for our addition program to deal also with triads of natural numbers as input), we can simulate processes of actual addition in which errors are produced, without

assuming that these errors should be assigned to the arithmetical faculty itself. Rather, they result from its interactions with other faculties.

Thus, we have arithmetic, the theory of structure of arithmetic mastery, a

computer program making arithmetical operations as a theory of arithmetic faculty, and interactions between this program and others (or between this program and sheerly physical limitations, suchas finiteness of representation) to account for the mixed processes revealed in behavior. This computer inter-

pretation for the concept of faculty, which will be somewhat modified later,

enables us to account for the mind-body problem by using the computer analogy of programs and physical hardware.

However, this theory of the faculty of arithmetic is immediately refuted, despite the fact that it is flawless as a realization of our theory of structur e. That is to say, we can refute it despite the fact that it accounts for all of our arithmetical intuitions. Thus, if we assume that any applicat ion of

MENTAL

FACULTIES

25

the function to a number (or any application of the rewrite rule, replacing n by a(n)) requires a fixed finite interval of time t, we predict the following: the time required to add 25 and 67 will be millions of times shorter than the

time required to add 25,000,000 and 67,000,000. This prediction is immediately refuted by common observation. Thus, theories of faculties have to satisfy empirical constraints in addition to those imposed on them by the corresponding theories of structure. In particular, the concept of functioning in time, which is crucial to describing them, opens the door to such additional constraints. Nevertheless, we will see in the next chapter that even a theory of structure has, sometimes, nontrivial and surprising em_ pirical consequences. This will show the fertility of our revival of faculty psychology, of the interpretation of mathematical theories as mentalistic theories of structure, and, at the same time, will point out a significant factor within our approach that has considerable implications for our

theory of conscience, explained in the next part. This factor also explains our reluctance to conceive of mental faculties as completely identifiable with computer programs, i.e. our reluctance to conceive of the mind as a system of such programs in an unqualified manner. This factor is undecidability,

which is a characteristic of first-order predicate logic [32]. As we shall see, taking quantification theory to be also a theory of mental structure

commits us to providing undecidability, which is a formal property of this theory, with a corresponding psychological interpretation.

2.3. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL UNDECIDABILITY

RELEVANCE

OF

As far as my experience as a high school student of elementary Euclidean

geometry goes, there was a sharp distinction in it between two types of problems. There were problems which I succeeded in solving by routine procedures applying proved theorems of all sorts, utilizing definitions of

concepts in terms of more elementary concepts, etc. These problems were,

for me, and for most other students in my class, easy problems. On the other hand, there was another type of problems. These required

an unpredictable amount of trial and error in attempts to solve them, and quite often all these attempts were in vain. Whenever a teacher gave as an exam

question one of these difficult problems, he was accused of

being unfair by most of the students in the class. Now, such accusation

can be taken seriously only if there existed some sort of objective criterion which could enable us to distinguish easy problems from difficult ones by referring to the structure of their solution. This is so, since the distinction

26

A SKETCH OF THE STRUCTURE OF THE MIND

involved does not identify easy problems with problems soluble by all students. Solving most of the easy problems required a good grasp of geometrical concepts, and a mastery of the stock of theorems previously proved in class. Hence, using only easy problems as exam questions was

sufficient to create a distribution of marks which reflected the geometrical skill of all students. But one could distinguish between the two types of problems whenever confronted with their complete solution. Then, it could be decided, quite swiftly and with impressive consensus, whether the problem was “fair” as an exam question, i.e. easy, or “unfair” as an exam

question, i.e. difficult. Now, the criterion which was applied to the structure of completed solutions in order to effect the distinction is quite easy to formulate with a meager stock of technical terminology. Moreover, I expect the reader to feel familiar with the criterion, and to recollect that he himself, as a geometry student, made the same sort of distinction. Such recollection may justify my reliance on anecdotal material rather than on scientific research on the distinction made between geometrical problems by high school students according to fairness. Obviously, I recommend that such research be conducted. The criterion in question refers to construction. A problem whose solution required a construction, that is, the addition of a specific line segment somewhere in the diagram guiding the proof, or the labelling ofa hitherto unlabelled point in it, etc., was considered difficult. For example, the proof that the sum of angles in a triangle is 180° involves sucha construc-

tion: one has to draw a parallel to the base of the triangle in the diagram through its vertex. After this construction has been made, the proof turns

out to be quite easy. Now, since the need for construction is what makes problems difficult, and since, by the extension of this criterion, proofs involving constructions appear much more profound, non-trivial, and informative than proofs which do not involve construction, the logical structure of the process of construction should be studied. In any case, whatever structure it has, this process shows that our reasoning faculty (which our faculty approach takes to be involved in the solution of geometrical problems) cannot be simply matched by a computer program. At least, it cannot be represented by an algorithmic program: an algorithmic program is in order in cases where a solution, whenever it exists, is sure to be found in a finite bounded number of steps. But there is no bounded number of steps in which one can expect to reach

a solution in our case. Another sort of program is require d ; but this will

emerge from the logical analysis of the process of construction which is

suggested below.

MENTAL

FACULTIES

27

The logical analysis suggested, and the relevance of the whole matter of construction problems in elementary geometry, is due to Hintikka [78]. He has suggested that we interpret Kant’s claim that mathematical truths are synthetic a priori by equating the process of synthesis with the process of construction, i.e. with the process of adding to a (symbolic) constellation of (represented) individuals an additional (representation of an) individual. This would facilitate the solution of some problems

concerned with the original constellation. He has also suggested that we

regard this synthesis as the major source of insight provided by theorizing

in science [89]. But this extension lies beyond our present concerns. However, Hintikka has pointed out that, logically speaking, the process

of synthesis is an instance of the logical rule of Existential Instantiation (EI). A version of this rule will be presented later, when our discussion becomes more formal. For our purposes, however, it is sufficient to note that

this rule allows transition from statements of the form “There is an x such that ... x...” to those of the form “...a...,” where a is a new free singular term (i.e. a name of an individual), ie. one that has not occurred

before in the derivation. Now, if one completely formalizes geometrical proofs, there is of course no longer any reason to draw lines in diagrams. Construction is now presented by applying Existential Instantiation to a (now explicit) statement

which claims that the line, segment, or point satisfying the relevant conditions

exists. After all, the drawing of a line in a diagram during a proof is not

assumed to be a process of creating a new geometrical entity; it mainly

serves to draw attention to, to distinguish explicitly, a geometrical entity which has tacitly been assumed to exist but which has not been explicitly name to pointed out before. Thus, labelling a point is merely giving a new assume we paper on diagram a an entity assumed to exist, since by drawing

and it to represent a geometrical figure embedded in a geometrical plane, points such any point in the plane is assumed thereby to exist, and only

can be referred to by labelling a point in the diagram by a new letter. marking lines. A similar argument pertains to drawing line segments, or

the All of these entities are assumed to exist in the abstract plane which

) stands sheet of paper on which we write our proof (containing a diagram a new them give for. Drawing such geometrical entities merely serves to it tion, our observa name, in order to make them prominent. In terms of

serves to shift them from background to foreground.

te synthesis. Thus, formalizing geometrical proofs does not elimina by another, , drawing It only substitutes one realization of it, diagrammatic

application of the rule EI.

28

A SKETCH

OF THE STRUCTURE

OF THE MIND

\

We have thus reformulated the criterion for difficulty (“fairness of exam problems”) in terms of the need to apply EI. But what is it about this rule of inference, as distinguished from other rules (say, in a system of natural deduction [56]), that makes its application in proofs a symptom for the “inherent difficulty” of the theorem to be proved? It was, again, Hintikka who solved this problem. Any system of rules of inference (equivalent to first-order predicate logic with identity) is undecidable, as Church has shown [32]. That is, given a formula of a first-order language, we cannot be —

sure of our ability to answer the question whether it is a logical truth (i.e.

in view of the completeness of this logic [162, 4.2], a theorem) in a finite number of routine applications of all logical rules of inference (say, in some

standard order). If the formula is a theorem, a proof for it will emerge after

a finite number of steps, to be sure. But we cannot state, in advance, any upper bound on this finite number. Now the undecidability of any complete system of rules of inference

for quantification theory which includes EI as an independent rule is exclusively due to EI [78, 88]. That is, if we omit EI from the system of

rules, redefining the concept of “theorem” in terms of the remainin g rules, the new concept of “theorem” will be decidable. The point of this claim

is the following: if quantification theory were decidable, then, utilizing an

appropriate complete system of rules of inference, we would exhaust the set of distinct logical consequences of any given formula in a finite _humber of steps. (Obviously, this claim is true only relative to a precise | notion of “distinct,” relative to which p and p&p are not distinct. Otherwise, we could have, even within a decidable system, an infinite set of logical

consequences for any formula p, which would include any of its self-conjunctions: p, p & p, p & p & p, etc); But consider the following formula:

1) “There is afi x such that, for all y, there is a z such that...x... y

Chipape

”

Applying EI we get 2) “For all y, there is a z such that SER SAR

ah CR phy

Applying the rule of Universal Instantiation (UI), which replaces “For

any X,...x...” by “....a@...,” where a is any name hitherto introduced, we get: 3) “The is a zre such that Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y)] 3. V, —DIE(a)

Stage 111: Input Adjustment 4.PABORT(a) (1) 5. O[Ux ABORT (x) > Ey BABY (y) & DIE (y)] 6. O —DIE(a) (3)

(2)

Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination Assume the wffs in 4—6 to be members of i.

7. ABORT (a)e ti; ¢ O(ii) (4, A. P*) 8. Ux ABORT (x) > Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y)e ii, (5, A.0*) 9. —DiE(a)ecii, (6, A.0*) 10. ABORT (a) > Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y)e ii, (8, A.U) v) >,A. (10,def. 11.(a). —ABORT(a)eii,,or (b). Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y)¢ ii,

158

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

Stage v: Consistency Check

A. — eliminates 11 (a) from i, in view of 7.So 11 = 11(b), and {i, i,} = O is a submodel system where ii, € O(ii). Stage vi: Permutation

Since D = {a}, K = @, hence this stage has no effect, and its output is O. Final Stage: Decision

Since O + @, the decision is

12. PR, ABORT (a) Suppose, however, that after permutation (and the trivial stages of expansion by imagination and consistency check, which have no effect),

O is transferred to the optional stage of existential instantiation. Stage vii: Existential Instantiation

13. BABY (b) & DIE (b) € ii,

(11, A. E)

Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination

14. BABY (b) € ii, (13, A. &) 15. DIE (b) € ii, (13, A. &) 16. ABORT (b) > Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y) € ii, 17. (a).

—ABORT (b)e€ a, or

(b). Ey BABY (y) & DIE(y)e

(8, A. U)

(16, def. >, A. v)

ii,

Stage v: Check and Annihilation

No effect. Stage vi: Permutation

Now D = {a,b}, hence K = {f}, where f(a) = b, f(b) = a. 18. f (ti,) € O(ii)

19. DIE(ae f(ii,)

(15)

Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination

20. — DIE (a) f (ii;)

(6, 18, A. O*)

Stage v: Check and Annihilation 19, 20 trigger A. — to annihilate f(i,), so ii, ti,, hence O, are annihilated by A. Annihilation and the output to the final stage is, now, @. Final Stage: Decision

Since the input to this stage is the empty set, its output is

21. — PR, ABORT (a).

MORAL

EMOTIONS

159

In order to distinguish the outputs 12 and 21, we will index them by temporal superindexes t, and t,, respectively, where t; < ft). 22. Action: R? ABORT (a), where t, < t3 < fp. Affect: Af (PR, ABORT (a) & — P* ABORT (a) & R*? ABORT (a)) = Remorse (12, 21, 22, with the appropriate constraint on t,, t,, and t;).

The reader is invited to apply the theory to other cases of remorse to convince himself that our success in derivation of the remorse actually

felt in the story (a story which seems to be “intuitively convincing’’) is not accidental. Thus, we feel remorse since our conscience, like any other mental faculty that relies on the application of logical rules, is ineffective: the distinction between guilt and remorse hinges essentially on Church’s theorem (of the

undecidability of first order predicate logic).

10.3. MORAL

SELF-CONTENTMENT

When are you morally self-contented? Obviously, when you have done what you should have done. Self-contentment is Af(OR,p & R,p). Thus, suppose that one of your values is that you should be helped whenever _ you are in trouble. Suppose you help somebody else in trouble. You may be

expected to feel morally self-contented (you have done your daily good deed, if you are a boy-scout...). Our theory of the conscience, in conjunction

with the formal analysis of self-contentment in a few lines above, takes account of this feeling. Stage i: Major Input

1. R, IN TROUBLE (b) & — HELP (a, b) Stage 11: Auxiliary Input 2. V, IN TROUBLE (a) > Ux HELP (x, a) Stage iii: Input Adjustment 3. P IN TROUBLE(b) & — HELP (a, b) 4.0 IN TROUBLE(a) > Ux HELP(x, a)

(1) (2)

Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination

Assume the wffs in 3—4 members of ii.

5. IN TROUBLE (b) & —HELP(a, b)€ii,¢ O(a) — (3, A. P*) 6. INTROUBLE(a) > Ux HELP(x,a)eii; (4, A. O*) 7,.IN TROUBLE(b)eii, (5, A. &)

160

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

8. —HELP(a,b)eu, (5,A.&) 9.(a). —IN TROUBLE (a)eii,or (b). Ux

(6, def. > ,A. v)

HELP (x, a)e ii,

10. (b). HELP (b,a)e ii; — (9(b), A. U) Stage v: Check and Annihilation No effect Stage vi: Permutation

D = {a,b}, hence K = {f}, f(a) = b, f(b) =a

11. f(ti,) € O(a) 12.IN TROUBLE (a)ef(ii;) 13. HELP(b, a)ef(i,) (8)

(7)

; Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination

14. IN 15. (a). (b). 16. (a). 17. (a). (b).

TROUBLE (a) > Ux HELP (x, a) € f (ii;) (4, 11, A. O*) —IN TROUBLE (a)e f (i,), or (14, def. >, A. v) Ux HELP (x, a) € f (ii;) HELP (b, a)e f(ii,) (15(b), A. U) —IN TROUBLE(a) ef (i,), or (15, 16) HELP (b, a) f (ii;)

Stage v: Check and Annihilation

12, 13 and 17 trigger A. — to annihilate f(i,), while A. Annihilation annihilates i, ii;, hence O, and the output is the empty set. Final Stage: Decision

Since the input to this stage is the empty set, its output is

18. —PR, IN TROUBLE (b) & — HELP (a, b) By trivial application of A. — P, and the definition of > , 18 is the same as

19.0 IN TROUBLE (b) > HELP(a, b) 20. Action: R, IN TROUBLE (b) > HELP (a, b) Affect: Af (OR, INTROUBLE(b) > HELP (a, b) & R, INTROUBLE(b)

> HELP(a, b)) = Moral self-contentment

(19, 20) _ Itshould be stressed that the result established here, namely , the obligation to help people in trouble, depends on the input value of being helped when in trouble. This value cannot be assumed to be universal, pace Kant [99, pp. 90-91]. Hence, the output may not be taken to be universally acceptable, as in fact it is not [148]. Whenever a person rejects any help in what-

.

MORAL EMOTIONS

161

ever circumstances he is in, he need not consider it to be obligatory to help people in trouble.

10.4. MORAL

CONTEMPT

We hold people in moral contempt if they violate moral obligations. If, by our conscience, —PR,p, while we perceive that R,p, we feel moral contempt for b. That is, for a (who is distinct from b), moral contempt is Af (—PR,p & R,p). It should be noted that the formal theory of the faculty of conscience described in Chapter 7 does not distinguish between “I” and “he,” even if the conscience considered is actually mine. If I perceive that b realizes the state of affairs p, I can take this perception as an input for my conscience, which will generate a moral evaluation of b’s action (or, rather, of the intention realized in that action). Thus, we predict that whenever somebody else performs an action which would make me feel guilty if I were to perform it, I feel moral contempt for him. Often, I may even disapprove explicitly of his action, verbally expressing the moral considerations

(produced by the conscience) which

motivate the disap-

proval. On the assumption that b’s values and nomic beliefs are the same as mine, at least those values and those nomic beliefs which are relevant

to the case at hand, we can expect that my moral disapproval will be reconstructed by b’s conscience, and he will feel guilty. Thus, all the examples given so far for guilt (or for remorse, or, for that matter, all the derivations

in Chapter 8) can be used as a basis for deriving the prediction that I will despise murderers,

despise unjust persons (unjust in property division),

_ despise uncooperative persons (in prisoner’s dilemma situations), and that if I were to accept the value of wanting to be helped whenever in trouble, I should morally despise persons who remained indifferent to the suffering of others. Moreover, we can predict that by verbalizing the derivations my conscience produces to reach the state of contempt, I can make the object of this emotional attitude feel guilty.

10.5. MORAL

RESPECT

We feel moral respect for a person who acts in accordance with his obligations. That is, we respect b whenever OR,p& R,p. Respect for b is Af (OR,p & R,p). Thus, we feel moral respect for b whenever, had we been in his place, we should have felt moral self-contentment. Thus, those of us who accept the value of being helped when in trouble will feel considerable

respect for a person, b, who helps a person c in trouble. The derivation

162

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

exactly parallels the one given above for self-contentment. Moreover, it can be expected that whenever a tells b that he, a, morally respects b for certain reasons, b’s conscience will reconstruct a’s considerations and b

will come to feel morally self-contented, if he had not felt so before. (Clearly, this claim presupposes sharing of values and of nomic beliefs.) Thus, we may consider guilt to be a special case of moral contempt,

moral contempt for oneself. Moral self-contentment may similarly be considered a special case of respect: it is respect for oneself. These relationships between contempt and guilt, and respect and self-contentment, conform to our common-sense views of the relations between them. It should be noted that the “special case” terminology here is not metaphorical but meant literally. Thus, while moral contempt may be depicted as Af (OR,,p & R,, —p) where x varies over representations of persons, guilt is the special case when we substitute one’s representation for oneself for x. Any other

substitution will give us moral contempt in the narrow sense (i.e. contempt for others). The same claim can be made about the relations between moral respect and moral self-contentment. In the case of all these emotions, guilt, remorse, moral self-contentment,

moral contempt and moral respect, our theory of conscience provides

derivations of the circumstances when one may be expected to feel these emotions. We have given only illustrations here for some common-sensically familiar cases. These derivations and certain other derivations may, perhaps,

be subject to an experimental test.

10.6. PITY We feel pity for a person if we prefer not to be in his position. Thus, we

may feel pity for the poor, for the oppressed, for persons who have been

severely traumatized by an accident, for the sick, etc. Formally, pity is

Af(p& V, — f( p)) where p represents the situation of b (i.e. b occurs in p) and f(a) = b, f(b) = a, f(d) = d for d + a,b. That is, f permutes a with b.

The representation of pity thus presupposes the applicability of the per-

muting device (since it presupposes that the imagination is able to interpret

f(p)). Moreover, since pity is not the result of any operation of the con-

science, it can be seen that the assignment of a permutin g device, as in F,_5, to the imagination, is theoretically preferable to the assignment of a universalization device to the conscience, as in F,. Thus, pity (as well as

envy, Compassion, and empathy) provide strong reasons for preferring F,.,toF,!

However, pity is sometimes connected with guilt. Many persons, when

MORAL

EMOTIONS

163

confronted with the pity-arousing state of other persons, feel guilty that they do not do anything about it. Many rich persons feel guilty for not doing anything about the poverty of the poor. Moreover, it is quite easy

to make a person feel guilty for not helping someone he pities. How can we account for these relationships? Our theory of the conscience helps. Thus, suppose that the plan for action to be considered is that of not doing anything. That is, if one feels pity, ic. Af(p & V, —f(p)), one’s plan is R,p, i.e. one allows p to continue to obtain. One’s value V, — f(p) is

included in the auxiliary input for the conscience. We now provide the required derivation of guilt: Stage 1: Major Input 1. R,p Stage 11: Auxiliary Input

2. V, — f(p) Stage iii: Input Adjustment 3. Pp (1)

d20 =f (p)e

«(2)

Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination Assume wffs in 3, 4 members of ii.

5. pé ii, € O(ii) 6. —f(p)e ti,

(3, A. P*) (4,A. O*)

Stage v: Check and Annihilation

O = {ii, ti,} a submodel system, with ii, € O(ii). Stage vi: Permutation Apply f to i.

7. f (i;)€ Ow) 8. f(p)e f(t) — (5) Stage iv: Expansion by the Imagination

9.—f(p)ef(i,)

(4,7, A. 0*)

Stage v: Check and Annihilation 8, 9 trigger A. — to annihilate f(d,), while A. Annihilation annihilates

ii, i, hence O, the output being @. Final Stage: Decision The input to this stage being @, its output is 10. 10. —PR,p

164

EMPIRICAL

APPLICATIONS

The knowledge that a does not do anything to prevent p combined with 10 give R,p & —PR,p. Under Af this gives us guilt. Thus, if a feels pity for b, and if he feels that he is responsible for b’s state (by not doing anything), our theory adequately predicts he will feel guilty. On the other hand, the derivation is blocked whenever a does not consider

b’s state his responsibility. He does not consider his lack of action a special kind of action. Hence, such a person will not feel guilty. Thus, our theory predicts a correlation between the conjunction of pity for other persons and

the belief that one has actually brought about something he did not prevent and the feeling of guilt. The belief in question may be considered to be a magical one, for, after all, how can any single person prevent all the states of

affairs he does not like? Even if he can prevent either p or q (separately), it really does not follow that he can prevent both of them. Thus, you cannot personally both feed the hungry children of Biafra and those of Bangla-Desh

at the same time. But our theory predicts that persons who have this belief— and they may be diagnosed by independent means—will feel guilty when-

ever they feel pity. This seems to be a pathological phenomenon, but it nevertheless is quite frequent. Our treatment represents and explains it.

10.7. ENVY We envy a person in whose place we should like to be. Thus, envy is Af (p & W,f(p)) where p represents b’s situation and f is defined as it was in Sec. 10.6. Thus, the representation of envy presupposes the permuting

device, hence counts in favour of F,., as against F 1: Envy is also connected with guilt: people feel guilty when they plan to act out of envy, that is,

when they plan to cancel p and to realize f(p). The reader is left to derive

their guilt from the input R, —p & f(p), which

represents

the relevant

intention, and the input V,(W,p > —ExR, —p& g(p)). This, in turn, represents the value that whenever a person wishes some state of affairs to obtain, he values negatively the situation in which another person tries to make

this state of affairs not obtain for him, a, but for somebody else, c; g here

is a permuting function which permutes a with c. Thus, our theory of the conscience accounts for the feeling of guilt people have when they act out of envy and try to take over a possessi on of someone else’s. Had we further elaborated the theory of the imaginat ion, we might have explained why people feel guilty for feeling envy, by pointing _ out the systematic relationship between feeling envy, imaginin g oneself doing something to relieve this envy, ice. representing to oneself a possible world in which one actually does Something out of that envy, and the

MORAL

EMOTIONS

165

subsequent feeling of guilt “in that possible world.” However, our informal description given just now paves the way, I hope, for a formalized explanation of the relationships between envy and guilt.

10.8. EMPATHY,

COMPASSION

Feeling empathy with a person consists in “putting oneself, in one’s imagination, in the position of that other person.” Thus, let K represent

a description of b’s state, within a, and let p be the conjunction of the wffs in K. Then empathy is correlated with imagining the truth of f(p). Thus Af (B,p & I,f (p)) represents empathy, or compassion, where I is an RS operator which may be assumed to be prefixed to any output of the imagination. So far, we have not bothered about this operator, for we have not needed it, and its elimination from explicit discussion has not affected

anything. However, we have already required that the output of any mental faculty be distinguished by an appropriate modal operator, and the existence of I merely satisfies this requirement. J represents the verb “imagine.”

Thus, the representation of empathy, while not connected in any direct way with the functioning of the conscience, presupposes the permuting device. Hence, it is another reason for preferring F,_, to F,. Empathy is closely related to pity and envy. Informally, when I empathize

with you and find out that if I had been in your place, my wishes would have been jeopardized, I pity you, while when I empathize with you and find out that if I had been in your position, one of my actually frustrated

wishes would have been satisfied, I envy you. Thus, empathy with a poor person can easily turn into pity, while empathy with a wealthy person easily turns into envy. Formally, the representation of empathy involves the representation of f(p). When V, —f(p) is conjoined, pity is the result, while when W, f (p) is conjoined, envy results. Either V, or W, may be considered to represent a’s judgment concerning the desirability of a’s being

in b’s state.

10.9. SOME

GENERAL

REMARKS

ON EMOTION

Up till now, we have not imposed any explicit constraints on Af. However, certain constraints on Af do emerge from our discussion. Thus, whenever p is logically equivalent to q, Af(p) = Af(q). Moreover, “whenever p is the result of replacing formula r by formula s, within q, also Af(p) = Af(q), provided that the relevant structure of p (modal operators, permuting functions, connectives) is preserved.

166

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

As a last remark here, we can define certain “chemical reactions” between emotions. Thus, if we accept

Af (p) + Af (q) = Af (p & q) as a definition for the “summation” of emotions, we get

Af (Bap & I,f(p)) + Af(V. — f(p)) = Af (Bap & Taf (p) & V, — f (p)). Thus, empathy for b + feeling strongly against being in b’s position = pity for b

(when the representation of pity given above is amended by taking the new operator J into consideration). This gives prospects for further fruitful research on emotions; but they are clearly beyond our present interests.

SUMMARY

OF CHAPTER

10

In this chapter, we have discussed moral emotions: guilt, remorse, moral

self-contentment, moral contempt, moral respect, envy, pity, empathy, and compassion. We have provided these affective states with their formal

representations, according to the sketch for the mentalistic study of emotions given in Chapter 4. We have illustrated cases in which they may be expected to take place, and formally derived their occurrence by means of our theory of the faculty of conscience. We have given a formalized

account of the observed co-occurrence relations between some of them

(i.e. pity and guilt, envy and guilt). We have also illustrated the possibility

of a “chemistry” of emotions by providing a precise basis for such equations as:

empathy with b + desire to be in his place = envy for b.

Chapter 11 MORAL

DEVELOPMENT

We have tacitly assumed, up to this point, that we are dealing with adult mentality. The formalized theory of the conscience and its empirical applications to moral judgments and to moral emotions make sense, basically, only for adults. But what about children? How do we acquire a conscience

of the form described above, even provided that the fully developed conscience really has the form we have assigned to it? Developmental questions are very hard to answer at this stage of research in mentalistic psychology. For one thing, the success of this research largely depends on the availability

of the relevant sort of intuitions as crucial evidence against which one can test theories: linguistic intuitions, logical intuitions, and moral intuitions are crucial for theorizing about the linguistic faculty, the faculty of reason (or imagnination), and the conscience. But a researcher may use his intuitions only to test a theory of adult faculties, for he himself is an adult. He may have no intuitions whatsoever concerning the intuitions of a threeyear-old child, for example. Is “Raining” a grammatical sentence for such

a child? My intuitions on this point are problematic and there is no simple way to gather the answer from children, not to say anything about the

possibility that the question as here formulated makes no sense. It may very well be the case that different three-year-old children in the same linguistic community will have different “intuitions.” In studying linguistic

development, sophisticated observation of children and experimentation may turn out to be more promising than attempting to poll their “intuitions.” But employment of such methods considerably slows the rate of progress in research: whenever it is hard to get your data, and you get them in small chunks, theorizing becomes much more difficult. There is also another reason why developmental questions are hard to

answer for the mentalist. It makes sense to attempt a theoretical reconstruction of mental development if you represent it in terms of stages of progress

toward a predetermined final stage, which is the adult stage. But then a developmental theory presupposes a fairly well developed theory of the 167

168

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

x

adult faculty. Since faculty psychology has been banned, academically, for many years, we have only a very meager stock of developed theories of mental faculties. These considerations obviously do not imply that a non-mentalistic study of mental development is more promising than a mentalistic study. I hope the reader will be convinced that a non-mentalistic (i.e. behavioristic) study of any psychological problem simply makes no sense (cf. [27, 30] for further argumentation). However, with respect to moral development, we are somewhat better off. Since common-sense ideas of “morality” are clear enough, two researchers, who worked outside the mainstream of academic psychology,

allowed themselves a highly interesting study of moral development, which

can be directly fitted into the mentalistic framework. I have in mind Freud —

[51], who theorized on the development of what he called the “superego” (identifiable with our conscience), and Piaget [130], who systematically studied the development of the moral judgment of children. In this chapter, © we shall attempt to formulate somewhat more sharply the problems in-

volved in any study of moral development, and to integrate Piaget’s and Freud’s findings into a meaningful framework, provided by our meta psychology in combination with our theory of the conscience.

11.1. DIFFERENT FACTORS DEVELOPMENT

IN MORAL

The theory of the conscience we have elaborated involves a variety of

factors. Each of them involves a developmental problem. _ Thus, we have assumed that the following components of a theory of the conscience can be singled out.

1.A developed representation system, in which action plans, values, nomic beliefs, and moral evaluations are expressible. 2. A will, which generates action plans and intentions. 3. A control system, which evaluates action plans before they are executed. 4. A developed imagination, which can test (however fallibly and ineffectively) the consistency of given sets of RS repres entations. 5. A system of values.

6. A system of nomic beliefs. 7.A permutation device, which enables the imagin ation to “permute” the representations of the “inhabitants” of the possib le worlds represented by the imagination.

Clearly, none of these seven factors can be assum ed to be innate in the

_

MORAL

DEVELOPMENT

169

form it is exhibited in the adult. A full-fledged theory of moral development should take account of the development of each of these factors, as well as of the interactions between developmental sequences of all of them. Thus, a theory of the development of RS is, essentially, a theory of “cognitive development.” Piaget’s studies can be considered as a most important first step towards such a theory [129]. However, any attempt to reinterpret

Piaget’s researches within the framework of the study of the development of RS is beyond our scope. ; Similarly, the developmental processes in which actions become “internalized,” and overt actions become realizations of mental plans are beyond our confines. The development of an action-control system is directly relevant to our concerns. There is, therefore, a good case for claiming that

the development of interest precedes the development of conscience, and that the conscience may be considered an outgrowth of interest. The main differences between the conscience and the interest are:

1. The conscience is sensitive to nomic beliefs only, not to all beliefs. 2. The conscience involves a permutation device. Thus, structurally, the conscience is a refinement of the interest. However, we cannot deal with this topic here. We will also leave the claim that the conscience is an outgrowth of the interest undefended, and only

point out in passing that evidently children learn to beware of dangers of all sorts much before they are “moral” in any sense, and that the major point of morality is seeing one’s actions from the point of view of the interests

of somebody else. The reader is summoned to develop, from these two points, an argument for the defense of the claim. The development of imagination is closely related to that of RS, and we

cannot deal with it here. One’s value system develops from a rudimentary system which represents one’s physiological needs into a very ramified system, which presupposes

a lot of knowledge about world and society (e.g. the meaning of money is presupposed by the adult’s value of not losing money). Its development therefore interacts with the development of one’s system of nomic beliefs, which was also discussed significantly by Piaget, but is also beyond our concerns. We shall consider here the study of moral development only from the findings point of view of the development of the permuting device. The

which already exist——Piaget’s and Freud’s studies —relate, as we shall

ly. show, to the development of the permuting device exclusive

The “integration” we shall provide for Piaget’s and Freud’s findings

170

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

,

will basically consist of embedding Freud’s “oedipal” stage, in which, he claims, the conscience emerges, between the two major periods of moral development according to Piaget, the heteronomous and the autonomous stages. The point of this embedding is this: Piaget’s heteronomous stage can be theoretically interpreted as the stage in which the child has not acquired

the permuting device, Piaget’s autonomous stage can be identified, in our theoretical framework, with the stage in which he has already acquired this device, while Freud’s oedipal stage will be interpreted by us as the stage during which the child actually acquires it. Obviously, the integrated story of moral development does not answer the fundamental question: “How is the permuting device acquired?” It only

shows that two seemingly disconnected bodies of data fall into the same unified account, according to which the major phase of moral development is the acquisition of the permuting device. There is some evidence that the answer to this question is to be sought in biological considerations. Con-

siderable similarity has been found between the EEG representation of the

brain activity of psychopaths—persons

who “lack a conscience,” to be

discussed in the next chapter—and children [8, 40]. Since these two cate-

gories of human beings share the property of lacking a permuting device,

it seems tempting to connect the physiological fact with the mental one,

and to look for the acquisition of the permuting device in studies correlating cognitive development directly with neurological growth. This evidence is not, of course, conclusive; but we cannot offer anything better with respect

to the fundamental question above, other than noticing the possibility

that perhaps, as mentalistic psychologists, it should not bother us at all. Let it bother the neurophysiologists!

11.2. PIAGET’S 11.2.1. PIAGET’S

FINDINGS METHOD

[139, p. 82 |

Piaget’s data were collected in the following manner:

I.

Heand his collaborators observed and reported the behavior of children in the context of a structured social interaction, the game of playing with marbles.

II.

Piaget and his collaborators conversed with children of various ages about their ideas concerning the “moral status” of the rules of these games. They compared the children’s verbal responses with their non-verbal behavior.

MORAL

DEVELOPMENT

171

III. Piaget and his collaborators presented the children with stories in which the behavior of one of the characters was “morally problematic.” The children were required to evaluate the morality of the behavior of the characters, or to suggest a mode of treatment of them, on moral grounds. Obviously, the findings of the last two methods, being verbal, must be treated with caution. We do not know to what degree children, at this age, are successful in verbally expressing their ideas. Piaget suggests [130, p. 35] a temporal lag hypothesis, according to which the verbal judgment of a child at age n represents his actual judgment at age n — i, where i is the lag interval. We will make tacit use of this lag hypothesis, which seems very plausible, and which Piaget supports empirically [130, p. 35]. The topics which were studied by Piaget by these methods were:

1. The degree of actual acquaintance of children with the “rules of the game” (marbles). 2. The attitude of children towards the rules: their conceptions regarding their source, history, the reasons for taking them seriously, their modifiability. 3. The factors involved in the production of a moral evaluation on story characters who lied, disobeyed material damage, etc.

adults,

behaved

clumsily,

caused

4, The factors involved in children’s conception of punishment: why it is given, when it is fair, which considerations should determine it, etc.

5, Factors considered by children relevant in problems of sharing— either sharing a good (say, a trip), or sharing an unpleasant task.

The first two topics can be classified as pertaining to the children’s attitude - to the social norms of their society. The third topic represents the moral intuitions of children, their notion of moral responsibility. The two last topics seem to cluster around the notion of justice. Obviously, this classification is very rough, and is not to be taken as a substitute for a theoretical analysis.

11.2.2. THE

STAGE

OF HETERONOMY

This stage roughly precedes school age. We have also described it as g a stage in which we may assume the child does not yet possess the permutin of most, at device. Hence, the control system on his action plans consists, interest considerations.

172

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

This last claim may seem objectionable. Perhaps the heteronomous child does not possess a permutation device. But is it not possible that he nevertheless has a “degenerate” conscience? After all, it is quite possible to delete the stage of permutation from the theory of the faculty of the conscience, and to get a theory of a faculty which tests the consistency of any intention with one’s values (according

to their hierarchical

structure) and one’s

nomic beliefs. We could rule out this objection by claiming, simply, that one has a permuting device if one has a conscience. But such a claim would make it impossible for us to describe a certain sort of psychopath, in the next stage, as having a permuting device and yet lacking a conscience. Fortunately, the formal nature of our theory of the conscience escapes the objection without making this assumption.

Suppose that the degenerate conscience, without the permutation devices, prohibits R,p on Cycle i, either positive or negative subcycle. This

shows that R,p is inconsistent with the set of the i’ most important values and all nomic beliefs. But then R,p is inconsistent also with the set of the i most important values and all beliefs (relative to the same “depth” of consistency, i.e. relative to the same number of blocks of applications of A. E) because any nomic belief is also a belief. Hence, this intention will be marked as irrational on Stage i, the same subcycle, the same number of blocks of applications of A. E, by the interest. Thus, whatever the conscience,

without the permutation device, can prohibit is already prohibited by the interest. Hence, since all moral judgments obtainable by Piaget’s method _telate to prohibitions and obligations, they can all be assumed to reflect

_ judgments of interest, not moral judgments (even if some sort of a degenerate conscience exists), for purely formal reasons. It follows from our theory that all the “moral evaluations” which Piaget has gathered from his “heteronomous” subjects can be identified with

considerations of interest. As interest considerations, they can be analyzed in terms of consistency with values and beliefs. Now, the child may be as-

sumed to value good treatment by his parents (i.e. warmth, reward, etc.); otherwise harsh treatments (punishments of all sorts) would not have the

inhibitory effects they have. Moreover, the beliefs of the child relevant to

his “moral” considerations at this stage seem to involve the regulariti es which relate the child’s behavior to the adult reactions (punishme nts,

rewards). Hence, the distinction between “beliefs” and “nomic beliefs” is irrelevant for the understanding of the behavior of children and of their

replies in Piaget’s data. The beliefs actually relevant are in any case nomic.

We shall now briefly review Piaget’s finding in terms of this predicti on,

:

MORAL DEVELOPMENT

173

namely, that the responses of children will reveal interest considerations

and not truly moral ones. I. Acquaintance with the rules of the game: Piaget, after analyzing a somewhat lengthy example, concludes [130, p. 40]: “This shows the characteristics of the stage. The child plays for himself. His interest does not in any way consist in competing with his companions and in binding himself by common rules so as to see who will get the better of the others.”

The rules of the game do not constitute any kind of control on the behavior of the child in the game. Since, in any case, such a control could not be considered, at this age, as control by interest, because a four-year-old

child’s playmates could not apply any effective sanctions to him, the lack of control can be neatly explained by our assumption that there is no conscience as yet.

Il. Attitude toward the rules, as verbally expressed: We shall quote, in full, a dialogue between Piaget and the five-year-old Fal, so as to help the reader realize the concrete significance of our theoretical analysis ([130, p. 55], P for Piaget, F for Fal).

“P:

Long ago, when people were beginning to build the town of Neuchatel, did little children play at marbles the way you showed

me? SY ac. Ves:

“P:

Always that way?

ors

Yes.

“P: “F:

How did you get to know the rules? When I was quite little my brother showed me. My daddy showed my brother.

“P: “F: “P: _“F: -“P: “F: “P:

And how did your daddy know? My daddy just knew. No one told him. How did he know? No one had showed him... Was it a long time ago when people played for the first time? Oh, yes. How did they find out how to play?

“F:

Well, they took some marbles, and then they made a square,

“P:

and they put the marbles inside it. . . Was it little children who found out or grown up gentlemen?

174

EMPIRICAL

APPLICATIONS

“F:

Grown up gentlement. ..

“P:

Could one find a new way of playing?

“F:

Ican’t play any other way...”

Thus, the child considers the rules to have been invented by his father, and

unmodifiable, quite like the regulations imposed on his behavior by his father. Thus, rules can have force only if they are enforced by a forceful authority. This accords quite well with our suggestion that inhibitions on behavior can stem, for a child of this stage, only from regularities connecting his activities to parental reaction, reward or punishment. If the rules of the game can have any controlling force, they have it in the same way as other parental regulations. Actually, as we have already seen, they had no force whatsoever; parents do not intervene in marble playing.

III. As for the moral evaluation of the behavior of characters in simple — stories, one can get the flavor of this stage in typical reaction from the following quoted dialogue, which took place after the child had been presented with two simple stories about two children [130, p. 125]. The six-year-old child will be designated S, and Piaget P:

“P: Have you understood these stories? Let’s hear you tell them. “S: A little child was called in to dinner. There were fifteen plates on a tray. He didn’t know. He opens the door and he breaks the fifteen plates. “P: That’s very good. And now the second story? “S: There was a child. And then this child wanted to go and get some jam. He gets on to a chair, his arm catches on to a cup, and it gets broken. “P: Are those children both naughty, or is one not so naught y as the other? “S: Both just as naughty. “P: Would you punish them the same? “S: No, the one who broke fifteen plates. “P: And would you punish the other more, or less?

“S:

“P: “S:

The first broke lots of things, the other fewer.

How would you punish them? The one who broke the fifteen cups, two slaps, the other one, one slap!”

Clearly, the child’s “moral evaluation” reflects nothing more than the severity of the expected parental reaction in either of these cases. Parents tend to punish according to the extent of the materi al damage caused by

MORAL DEVELOPMENT

175

the child. Their punishment reflects their rage, as we all know too well, and their rage is proportional to the damage caused. The child’s notions of “badness” and of due punishment simply reflect his interest considerations: it is much worse, from the point of view of one’s wellbeing, to break many plates than to break just one. As for the “equal naughtiness” this

child is atypical in this respect. Other respondents described the one who broke more plates as naughtier, as expected from our analysis. A similar picture emerges with respect to lying. We quote a dialogue

with a six-year-old child, Clai [130, p. 143]: “P:

Do you know what a lie is?

“C:

It’s when you say what isn’t true.

PP “C:

=4s2+ 2. = S.a lie? Yes, it’s a lie.

Fr

Why?

“C: “P:

Because it’s not right. Did the boy who said that “2 + 2 = 5” know that it wasn’t right or did he make a mistake? He madea mistake. Then if he made a mistake, did he tell a lie or not?

“C: “P:

“C: . Yes, he told a lie”.

_

Thus, what is wrong in any misdeed is not the intention—it is the results. In lying, you are at fault because you deliver false information. In being clumsy, you are at fault because you cause material damage. Badness can, in any case, be directly traced to parental reaction. It has no moral significance

whatsoever. IV. Punishment: At this stage, children believe that the connection between

“crime” and “punishment” is a natural one. To them, it is a natural law.

They accept a story about a child who did a misdeed, and, afterwards, when

he crossed a bridge, the bridge collapsed and he fell into the water, as representing a “just punishment”

brought

about

by “God,”

or natural

forces [130, p. 253-257]. We have already seen that punishment is proportional to the material damage caused by the “crime.” Moreover, children consider the worst crime to be disobedience to parents, or adults in general (ibid). Again, we see that what Piaget considered as a stage in the development of morality might better be interpreted as a simple reflection of the parental disciplinary regime, which is relevant to the child’s interest considerations, though obviously irrelevant to his morality.

V. Distributive justice: Children at this stage acknowledge equal distribu-

176

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

_ tion to be fair, but its fairness may be overruled by parental decisions. This shows that the fairness of equal distribution stems from parental practice of dividing “treasures” equally among their children, and not from conscience considerations (like the one formalized in Chapter 8). Quotation

of a single, short dialogue may bring the point home [130, p. 264]:

“B:

It was fair. The other one was disobedient.

“P:

But was it fair to give more to one than to the other?

“B:

Yes. She (the disobedient one) must always do what she is told.”

Thus, while parents impose distributive justice, they are free to give up equality in the face of other considerations, such as disobedience, which disqualifies the child from getting his share. ah This rather sketchy discussion of Piaget’s heteronomous stage suffices, I hope, to make it clear that, at this stage, the child applies nothing similar

—

to adult moral considerations. His “morality” is the morality of the citizen of a closed society. Might, for him, is right, and his parents are mighty. What is “right” to do is that which will not involve you in punishments. In short, moral considerations cannot be distinguished from interest con-

siderations when the value involved is that of not getting punished , and when the beliefs involved concern the regularities connecting child’s be-

havior to adult reaction. These results can be expected from our assumpt ion that the child at this stage has no permuting device. The reader is invited

to carry out a more comprehensive systematization of the “moral intuitions”

of heteronomous children (as reported, for instance, by Piaget) relative to this assumption.

11.2.3. THE

STAGE

OF AUTONOMY

In theoretical terms, Piaget’s autonomous stage can be represe nted as

the stage at which the child’s “moral” intuitions can be taken on par with adult moral intuitions. That is to say, at this stage the child may be assumed to have already acquired the permuting device, and to apply his conscience,

in the way adults do, to morally relevant issues. The explanatory power of

this conjecture will now be illustrated by applying it to account for the general

characteristics of the children’s reactions in the various fields in which Piaget checked them.

I. Acquaintance with the rules of the game: Piaget, after analyzing a variety

of examples, sums up with respect to the last stage of development (as far as game playing is considered) [50]:

\

MORAL

DEVELOPMENT

177

“Throughout this fourth stage, then, the dominating interest seems to be interest in the rules themselves. For mere cooperation would not require such subtleties as those attending the disposition of the marbles in the square... The fact that the child enjoys complicating things at will proves that what he is after is rules for their own sake.” Now, consider this description from the point of view of our theory of the faculty of conscience. Consider an intention of playing a game without obeying its rules. On the assumption that one values winning, provided that one is good enough, it is easy to show that the intention in question is proved impermissible on the stage of permutation, because if breaking the rules gives one an advantage in winning (unfairly), then permutation with some other player, who does not have this advantage, is inconsistent with one’s value of winning if one is good enough: one may lose in a game not for

reasons of incompetence but for reasons connected with the unfairness of the other player. (Obviously, this last claim should be formally represented

by a nomic belief of the appropriate sort: the reader is urged to formalize the informal consideration developed here). Hence, it is impermissible to violate rules for advantage.

It is pointless to break rules without any purpose, so this latter kind of cheating is ruled out on grounds of interest, provided that one is interested in playing the game in question. A man who has a conscience of the type described by us above, would take rules very seriously. He would consider cheating in a game to be quite immoral. Obviously, as Piaget points out

[130, p. 40]: “Being an honest man is not enough to make one know the law. It is even not enough to enable us to solve all the problems that may

arise in our concrete ‘moral experience’.” Piaget thus has a four-stage theory of development of marble playing, in which the “autonomous” stage has two substages, the “cooperative” stage, in which children seem already to be interested in preserving the rules for

the sake of cooperation, but in which they are simply ignorant of the considerable detail and sophistication of the system of rules (cf. [130, p. 45-47]), and the fourth stage, in which children already know the rules well enough.

However, from our point of view, what is crucial is that in these two stages obeying the rules has a distinctly moral motivation, which is significantly

connected with the fact that one is interested in cooperation. Obviously, cooperation, as our formal analysis of the prisoner’s dilemma (Chapter 8)

shows, presupposes either coercion by an authority, or the preference of

178

EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS

|

s

the decrees of one’s conscience to those of one’s interest. It is safe to assume that in games one’s realistic interests are not too deeply involved, and hence one may allow oneself to obey one’s conscience (this claim is obviously a grossly schematized

oversimplification).

Respect for the rules (in the

operative sense) is the game manifestation of obedience to one’s conscience.

The growth of the knowledge of rules clearly relates to aspects of cognitive development beyond our present concerns.

Il. Attitude toward the rules: Suppose you are involved in playing some sort of game, and you wish to modify one of its accepted rules, R, so as to get it replaced by a new rule, R’. Or that you wish to introduce a new rule R’ that restricts the game in a way in which the game was not restricted before. When will your activity to make the new rule acceptable be morally permissible? Obviously, our theory of the conscience can answer this question only relative to specific assumptions concerning the auxiliary input to the conscience. Suppose, however, that you have a value: not to be forced to play games by rules to which you did not consent. This value may be taken as a special case of a value which is probably quite widespread: not to be coerced to action. When this value is assumed, it is obvious that

permutation makes it impermissible for you to attempt to impose your new

rule on any other, unconsenting, player. Hence, common consent to the introduction of a new rule seems to be the necessary ground for its moral

acceptability. When this consideration is combined with the one brought

up in the preceding subsection, namely, that if one wishes to play a game at all, one should avoid cheating, i.e. violating the rules of the game, one derives (informally, but the formalization is straightforward and left to the reader)

a respect for the rules of the game stemming not from their authoritativ e source but from their root in common consent. Obviously, there are consid-

erations which make a rule R, preferable as a modification of the existing

game to another rule, R,, for the adoption of R, may make the game more interesting, hence more enjoyable to play. However, these considerations are interest considerations, which any player should apply to determine his. attitude —such as consent or dissent, with respect to the suggested modification. They are irrelevant to the moral issues concerning the reasons to respect rules (i.c., to abide by them and to impose restrictions on their

modifiability),

The following dialogue

between

Piaget

and

an “autonomous”

child

shows that our theoretical derivations suffice to explain the intuitions of

children in this stage with respect to their attitu des towards rules of the game, on our assumption that “autonomy” in Piaget ’s sense can be identified

—

MORAL

DEVELOPMENT

179

with “applying a conscience” in the sense formally characterized in Chapter 7

[130, p. 67]. The child is 13 years old and his name is Gros. His high age

is not really required by the stage. It is required by the verbal skills pre-

supposed by the dialogue to be quoted. Moreover, replications of Piaget’s studies have shown that Piaget’s age assignments to stages are rather too late (cf. [17, p. 404]). ae “G: SPs “G: A ak “G: oh ich a Crs melbe “G:

Did your father play that way when he was little? No, they had other rules. They didn’t play with a square.

And did the other boys of your father’s time play with a square? There must have been one who knew, since we know it now. And how did that one know about the square? They thought they would see if it was nicer than the other game. How old was the boy who invented the square?

I expect thirteen. Did the children of the Swiss who lived at the time of the battle of Morat play at marbles? They may have played with a hole, and then later on with a

square. ba nas “G: iy a “G: oP Gy: “Pp: “G:

vas : EG: : oy a: “G: ;

And in the time of David de Purry?

I expect they had a bit ofa lark too. Have rules changed since the square was invented? There may have been little changes. And do the rules still change? No, you always play the same way.

Are you allowed to change the rules at all? Oh, yes, some want to, and some don’t. If the boys play that way you have to play like they do. Do you think you could invent a new rule?

Oh, yes... you could play with your feet. Would it be fair? I don’t know. It’s just my idea.

“ 1) p(ei/d). = p(ex/d,) - - - (€1/dy) (k 2 1)

Moreover, we will rely on the following lemma:

Lemma: If tie O, and if neither p nor —p

are in di, then there is a iieG

such that (i) @ ii, (ii) either pei, or —pei,, (iii) if wieOi.) then ii, € O(ii2), (iv) if ie O(ii,) then ii, € O(ii,). - The proof of the lemma relies both on the theorem that any consistent set of wifs can be embedded in some model set in some model system [74, 75] and on the generalization of the well-known theorem of first-order predicate

logic which states that if a set of wffs, K, is consistent, then precisely one of p, —p can be conjoined to it, preserving consistency. Otherwise, we could

derive from the consistent set K both a proof that —p and a proof that — —p, hence K would be inconsistent. We will not give here explicit proofs

of these results, to spare the reader irrelevant metamathematical details. We will, however, rely on the lemma in order to rewrite claims such as If peu then not gqeu

as claims of the form If pew then —qeiu. The second formulation is not precise. Actually, the second i there should refer to ii,. But since tu < ii,, any claim about the membership in i

or the alternatives to i is true also about ii,, so no trouble will be caused by this (deliberate) imprecision. As a matter of fact, the formulations of the theorems in the text already presupposed the rewriting convention presented here which is justified, in turn, by the lemma. The lemma Justifies our logical indifference between the two sorts of formulations. It entitles 199

200

APPENDIX

|

us to infer from a proof that not p € i the conclusion — p € u,, where ti, €O, ii < ii, and no ii, €O satisfies i < ii,, pe ti,. Hence, we will write, in a shorter though imprecise manner, —pe wu. Proof1: PpewiffUx Pp(x/a)eu. The right to left implication follows by C. U, while the left to right implication iis Ay.

Proof2: Ppeii iff U{x; Pp (x;,/a,)j €u. . The right to left implication is established by n applications of C. U. | The left to right implication is proved by induction on n. The case n = 1 is simply A,. So suppose the theorem holds for n but fails for n + 1.

1. —U"%*!x,; Pp(x,/a)t*1 eu . Ppeé ti (assumption)

. Ex, —U3**x, Pp(x;/a;)(x,/a)g** eu . —US*+x; Pp (b/a,) &,/a,),** € ii . UxPp(x,/a,)etu (2, Ag) . Pp(b/a;) et (5, 4, C. U)

. U3**x, Pp(b/a,) (x,/a)3*1€u%

LD HRW NM NAIDW

(1,C.—U,D,,D,)

G8

(6, induction hypothesis)

|

The violation of C.— by the pair 4,7 shows that 1 cannot be retained, hence, by the lemma, and the convention above, the proof is concluded. Proof3: Ope iff UxOp(x/a) € ui. The right to left implication follows by C. U. The left to right implication © is proved as follows: 1. Opeu 2. —Ux Op(x/a)€ i

. Ex —Op(x/a)eu (2,C. —U) . —Op(b/a) € ii G,C. 4) . P —p(b/a)eu (4, C. —O)

. UxP —p(x/ajeii . P—pei

. —peu,cO(ii)

(5, Ag, p(x/a) (b/x) = p(b/a))

(6,C.U

(7,C. P*)

. peu, (1, 8, C. O*) The pair 8, 9 violates C. — showing that if 1, then not 2. By the lemma, | and the convention based on it, this concludes the proof. ~ | HRW NA © OID

Proof4: OUxpeiiiff UxOp ¢ ii. 1. OUxpeii 2. —UxOpei

3. Ex —Opeii 4. —Op(a/x)e€ii

(2,C. —U) (3, C. E)

PRooFsS

.

P —p(a/x)eut

201

(4,C. -—O)

Oi) . —p(a/xjeti,e

(5, C. P*)

. Uxpeii, (1,6,C. O*) (6, 7, C. U) 8. p(a/x) eu, 6 and 8 violate C.— showing that 1 entails not 2. By the lemma and our convention, this yields the left to right implication. aNN

9. UxOpe ii 10. —OUxpe ii 11. P—Uxpeu

C., (10 —O)

12. —Uxpeii,eO(ui)

(11, C. P*)

13. Ex —pei, (12, C. —U) 14. —p(a/x)e ti, (13; C2) 15. Op(x/a)eé ii (9, 13,C. U) (12, 45)/C" 0%) 16. p(a/x) Ei, The fact that 14, 16 violate C.— and our convention establish the right to left implication. Proof5: Oped iff OUxp(x/a) € ii. By Proof 4, Oped iff UxOp(x/a)eu. By Proof 5, UxOp(x/a)eia iff OUxp(x/a) € ii. Hence, by transitivity of iff, we get our theorem. Proof6: Opei iff Ux; Op(x,/a,)i € ii. The right to left implication follows by n applications of C. U. The left to right implication is proved by induction on n, in a method similar to the one in Proof 2. Proof7: Opeu iff OU}x,p(x,/a,)i € ii. By Proof 5, OUxpe ui iff UxOp e€ii. Hence, Ux; Ope ii iff OU" x,Opeii (as the reader can easily prove by induction on n). From this and the theorem in Proof 7, we get our result.

Proofs 8-9:

If ie O and feG, f(ii)e O (where ii is a model set and O a

model system, and also where ii is a submodel set and O a submodel system). In order to carry out the proofs, we need to show that if a set of wffs,

u, satisfies any one of the conditions in the list defining a (sub)model set, f (id) also satisfies this condition. Similarly, that if O satisfies any condition defining (sub)model systems, f(O) also satisfies this condition. From this result our theorem clearly follows. In order to prove this result, we have to provide a separate proof for any condition, C. x, that it is preserved under f. To save space, we will give the detailed proof for three conditions only, C. &, C. E and C. P*. The reader is advised to complete the proof. Suppose ii satisfies C. &, while f (i) violates it. Hence, for some pe f (ii),

202

APPENDIX

1

p=qé&r, either gef (i), or not ref (i). But since G is a set of permutations, it is a group under composition of functions [119, pp. 72-73]. f~'f(i). Hence f~! (p)ed. Sof~* (q&r)eu. But, Hence, f~1€G, and iis

ff! (q&r)isf~!(q)&f1().Sof *@eu,f-* Wei ofion by definit

by C. &. But then ff~1(q) = qe fii, ff (r) = ref, disproving the assumption that f(d) violates C. &.

Suppose i satisfies C. E, while f(z) violates it. So, Exp € f (i), while no wits of the form p(a/x)€ f (ii). But f ~* (Exp) ii, hence (by definition of f) Exf—‘(p)eii. Since ti satisfies C. E, f(p)(a/x)eu, for some a. Hence,

f-'(f(p)) (a/x)e f (ii). Hence, f~*f(p) (f(@/x)€ fi). So, p(f(a@)/x)e a, disproving our assumption that f(d) violates C. E.

Suppose O satisfies C. P*, but f(O) violates it. Hence, for some iie f(O), Ppeii, while for no i, € O(ii),pe ii,. But f~'(@)eO, and f~*Pp= Pf-!(p)ef ~1(i). Hence, for some ti, €eO( f ~1(i)), f ~*(p) €dy. But f(2) f(O(f ~*(ii)), hence f (ii) ¢ O(i) and ff ~'(p) = pe f (ii), disproving our assumption that f(O) violates C. P*. Intuitively, f preserves logical structure, since it simply replaces free singular terms by other free singular terms, and systematically so. Hence, it preserves

model

sets, submodel

sets, model

systems

and

submodel

systems.

Proof 10:

The condition

For anyf eG, if i, € O(ii) then f (ii,) e O(a) is equivalent to the condition

For any feG, f(O(ii)) = O(ii). Suppose the first condition holds. We have f (O(i)) = {f (ii;)/ii; € O(ii)}.

Hence, by the first condition f(O(i)) < O(ii). Consider now ii, € Oi). Since G is a set of permutations, it isa group under composition of functions [119, pp. 72-73]. Hence, any feG has an inverse f~' so that f-'f= ff ~* =I (where I € G is the function I(d) = d for all de D). Hence, by the first condition, f~'(d,) € O(ii). But then ii, = ff ~+(ii,), hence ii, € f(O(a). So O(i) < f(O(ii)) and the second condition is proved to be satisfied. Suppose now that the second condition is satisfied. Suppose ii, € O(ii).

But then f(d,)e f(O(ii)). By the second condition, f(O(i)) = O(i), hence f (ti,) € O(ii) and the first condition is also satisfied. Thus, either condition implies the other and the theorem is proved. Proof 11:

The condition

For any f eG, f(d) = aford = b, f(d) = b ford = a,f(d) = d ford + a,b,

f(ti,) €O(a) and for any wi, € O(ii),

PROOFS

203

implies the condition If Ppe ti then UxPp(x/a)€

ii.

The proof will be conducted, as is usual in the model system approach, by reductio ad absurdum. Assume that the first condition holds, while the other is violated. Ppeéii

. —UxPp(x/a)e€ ti . Ex —Pp(x/a)eit (2,C. —U) . —Pp(b/a)et (3:40.02) . O —p(b/a)eu AnhwWnde . peti, € O(ii)

(4,C. —P)

ie) Let fe G, f(a) = b, f(b) = a, f(d) = dfor d # a,b.

7. f(p) ef (i,)€ Oi)

—(6, the first condition)

8. p(b/a) Ef (ti;) (7, the lemma below) 9. —p(b/a) Ef (ti;) 6xa-C.: 0") 8 and 9 violate C.— proving that 1 and 2 are inconsistent, hence that the first condition implies the second one. Lemma: If b does not occur in p, then p(b/a) = f (p). The proof of the lemma depends on the detailed recursive definition of _ p(e/d), but is intuitively obvious: when b does not occur in p, then substituting b for a and a for b throughout, which is what f does to p, is just substituting b for a throughout. Hence, in this case f(p) = p(b/a). The lemma applies in 8, since b introduced by C. E (4) cannot occur in p. Proof12:

The condition If Ppeu then UxPp(x/a) eu

implies the condition

For any feG, if i, € O(w), then f(u,)

«OW.

Now, f (ii,) is a model set (Proof 10). Hence, to show that it is a member of O(i) all that is necessary is to show that it satisfies C. O*, C. OO*, and

C. O. That is to say:

1. If OpeiithenOpef(u,) provided that ii, ¢ O(i). 2. If Ope ii then p €flii;) provided that ii, ¢ O(ii). 3. If ii, € O(ii) for some we O and Ope f (ii,), then pe f (ii,). It is easy to see that when 1 and 3 are satisfied by f(u,), for any u; € O (ii), is 2 also satisfied. Hence we only have to prove that both | and 3 are satisfied.

204

APPENDIX

|

Thus, let us assume that: 1. Ope ii

2. Ope ti,

(1, C. 0O*)

3. Ul x,0 p(x,/a;)4 € ty

(2, T;, which follows from our condition as

proved above, Proof 6) We assume that a,...a, are all free singular terms in p. Hence U"x;Pp(x;/a,), contains no free singular terms, hence it is invariant under f: 4. f(U{x;Op(x;/a;); =

U5xOp(x;/a;)j

5. f(U{x,Op(x/ayi ef(ds)

(3)

6. Ut x,Op(x;/a;)i © f (a1) (4, 5) 7. Ope f(ii;) (6, C. U n times). Let us now prove 3. That is, assume that

8. Ope J(ti,)

.

9. ut, € O(u) for some iE O

10. f~'(Op)eii, 11. Of “+(p)eu, 12 (peu,

13. pef(%,)

— (8, and f~*f (iy) = ii,) (10, def. f) (11,C::0* 29)

(12)

Thus, f(a) satisfies both 1 and 3, hence also 2, hence is a member of O (ii) if ii, is. Thus our first condition implies the second condition. Proof 13:

The condition If Pp eu then UxPp(x/a) € ti

is equivalent ot the condition If Pp eu, then Pp(b/a) € ti for any a occurring in a wff in O.

Obviously, by C. U the first condition implies the second. Conversely, assume that the first condition is violated while the second holds: ; 1. Phew 2. —UxPp(x/a)€ ii

3. Ex —Pp(x/a)€ ii (2, C. -U) 4. —Pp(b/a) €ii (3, C. E) 5. Pf(p) € ti (1, the second condition) 4,5 violate C.— when fe G permutes a and J, leaving all other elements of D invariant; this establishes our theorem.

Proof 14:

The condition Ppe tiiff Ux(Qx = Pp(x/a))¢€ti

PROOFS

205

implies the condition If Qae ti then OQae

ii.

Suppose that while the first condition holds, the second fails: i. Qae iti 2. —OQaeEii

3. P —Qaéii (2,C. —O) 4. —Qae ii, € O(ii) (3, CoP*) It is easy to show, by arguments analogous to Proof 3, that the first condition entails Ope iiiff Ux(Qx = Op{x/a))€ ii. Suppose also 5. Ope (for some p, thus Op Vv —pei, so making 5 is not making any additional assumption at all)

6. Ux[Qx = Op(x/b)]

ii

(5, first condition)

7. Qa = Op(a/b)eE it (6, C. U) 8. Op(a/b) € ti (1,7,def. =,C. v)

9. Opeii, (5, 1, C. OO*) 10. Ux[Qx = Op(x/b) ]et, (9, the first condition) 11. Qa = Op(a/b) e€ii, (10, C. U) 12. —Op(a/b)eii,

13. Op(a/b) €ii,

(4, 11, def. =,C. v)

(8, C. OO*)

12 and 13 violate C.—, showing the inconsistency of 1 and 2 with the first condition; this proves our theorem. Proof 15:

The condition

Ppeiiiff Ux(Qx = Pp(x/a))€ ii is equivalent to the condition

if i, © Ola), and if feG, f@ = bf) = afd) -dford 4 ad, and Qa, Qbe ii, then f(ii,) € O(ii). We will first prove that the second condition implies the first. . Poet . —Ux(Qx = Pp(x/a))€ ui . Ex —(Qx = Pp(x/a))€ ii

(2,C. —U)

—(Qb = Pp(b/a)) ei (3, C. E) Qa, Obeii (by assumption) . —Pp(b/a)ei

. O —plb/ajeu

(4, 5, def. =,C. v)

(6,C. —P)

pen, )

Here, f(a) = b, f(b) = a, f(d) = dford # a,b 6. —R(b, a)e f (ti) (3, C. O*) 5 and 6 violate C. —, establishing our result.

Appendix i, OPTIMAL

VALUE SYSTEMS

Prisoner’s dilemma situations analyzed in Chapter 8 (pp. 129-141) illustrate a major class of conflicts between the recommendations of the conscience and those of the interest. However, we have indicated in the text the possibility of characterizing in formal terms a set of value systems, optimal value systems, relative to which such conflicts are eliminable

(p. 133). The revolutionary moral philosophy of Ayn Rand [147, 148], deplorably ignored by most academic philosophers, makes fairly strong systematic claims concerning the relations between the optimality, or non-optimality, of one’s value system and a variety of phenomena which are also treated in our text. These include mental conflict, guilt neuroses, psychopathy, the nature of education, the relations between the individual and society. These claims in turn serve as a cornerstone in the argument

proposed by Ayn Rand to establish the objective preferability of ethical

systems derived from optimal value systems, which she calls “egoism,”” over those derived from non-optimal value systems, which she calls “al-

truism.” The purpose of this Appendix is to sketch, on the basis of the theory

of planning and evaluation of plans developed in the text, a program for systematizing Ayn Rand’s striking ideas within the framework elaborated

in this book. This sketch outlines a program for the next stage of our research.

1.

A FORMAL CHARACTERIZATION VALUE SYSTEMS

OF OPTIMAL

Within our context, the notion of value system plays a central role. One’s value system affects both one’s interest conside rations and one’s conscience considerations. Moreover, it is possible, as noted in footnote on p. 43, to replace the theory of the id by a theory relatin g wishes to values

in a very intimate fashion. The possibility of making a clearcut formal

distinction

208

between

different kinds of value systems

may

therefore be

OPTIMAL

VALUE

SYSTEMS

209

related in a fairly strong fashion to the possibility of characterizing individual personality and character differences within our framework. An optimal value system is defined as a value system (more strictly, a system of values and nomic beliefs) relative to which interest and conscience cannot clash. More precisely, it is a value system which precludes the possibility that an intention for action is recommended as obligatory by

the conscience and yet prohibited by the interest, as well as the possibility that what the conscience prohibits will be required as obligatory by the interest. The complementary notion of a pathological value system is then characterizable as a value system relative to which clashes of these kinds are possible. We have previously specified in the text a condition which any optimal ~ value system must satisfy. The specification occurred in the context of the theoretical analysis of guilt neurosis: a value which requires one to occupy

a unique social position cannot be embedded in an optimal value system, since it does not withstand the test of universalization. Consequently, every action one intends to perform will be morally impermissible relative to the verdict of one’s conscience and its performance will inevitably lead to guilt (p. 154). However, the condition in the text can be generalized. A value system which contains a value of the form V,ExR(a, x) cannot be optimal when it is conjoined with a nomic belief system containing the

belief A, ((x) (y) R(x, y) > — R(y,x)). The existence of such a value makes it obligatory, from the point of view of one’s interests, to realize the state of affairs R(a, b) for some b. However, since the realization of this state of affairs precludes the realization of R(b,a),R being antisymmetrical, this

intention is at the same time prohibited by the conscience, which permutes a and b. Thus, to give some flesh and blood concreteness to this formal requirement: if R is the relation of exploiter to exploitee (or, in general, any relation of unilateral dependence), one’s interests oblige one to find a victim for exploitation, while the conscience prohibits this course of action. One is thus necessarily torn between moral badness and practical stupidity. What is good is against one’s interests, and what is required by one’s interests is bad. On the other hand, it may be proved that a value system which does other not include values of having an antisymmetrical relation to some

and the con‘person cannot give place to any conflicts between the interest exercise. an as science. The detailed proof is left to the reader it is proved Thus, the possibility of optimal value systems can be proved :

value by the specification of a formal criterion distinguishing optimal shows systems from pathological value systems. Moreover, our example corsystems value ical patholog and that the distinction between optimal

210

APPENDIX

2

relates structurally with the distinction between dependence on other persons, conceived as an existential necessity (i.e. as a value), and independence. The substantial implications of this formal correlation will be clarified in the next section.

2. ALTRUISM

AND

EGOISM

An ethical system is a system of moral obligations. Moral obligations are _ the products of the conscience, determined by its auxiliary input: values and nomic beliefs. Hence, the distinction between optimal and pathological — value systems (which, to repeat, is a distinction between value-and-belief — systems, not just value systems) may be expected to relate to the distinction between ethical systems. Let us examine a value system which may be called “egocentrical.” It contains values which require its possessor to relate himself dependently to other persons. He tries to establish a system of —

social relations in which other persons take care of his existence: he expects — help whenever he is in trouble, he expects that his needs will oblige other

persons to satisfy them. He assumes that he is the center of the world: not just of his world, but of your world. The ethical system projected by his conscience from this egocentric value system is easily identifiable: it is the ethics commonly accepted as obliging by almost all competing ideologies,

whether religious, fascist, communist, social-democrat, or nationalist. This is Altruism. Clearly, if you have a value that whenever you need help others fill your need, your conscience transforms this value into an obligation on your part to fill the needs of others. Thus, egocentrical value systems are — also altruistic. Conversely, altruistic ethics can only be generated from an _ egocentric value system. An egocentric value system, a system of dependence, is precisely a system identified by the formal-structura l criteria of

Sec. 1.

But, as is easily seen, egocentrism and altruism clash. More precisely, the

same pathological value system gives rise to incessant conflicts between the interest and the conscience: the interest requires that you seek help from others; the conscience requires that you help them. Whatev er you do therefore either violates the recommendation of your interests (in which case, in terms of our theory of emotions, you feel either anxiety or, more simply, loss), or violates the decree of your conscience (in which case our theory of emotions prescribes that you feel guilty). Hence, a pathological value system, one containing values of dependence, will lead to an irrecon- — cilable dilemma between sacrifice and anxiety on the one hand, and guilt on the other. Clearly, this makes for a very miserable life: guilt neurosis is just

i

OPTIMAL

a special, extreme, manifestation

VALUE

SYSTEMS

211

of this inescapable existential dilemma

(p. 189). On the other hand, an optimal value system cannot contain values of dependence, hence it cannot give rise to obligations to help others in need. To be sure, it does not prohibit such acts of benevolence, but it provides a fairly sharp distinction between benevolence, which one may or may not exercise according to one’s considerations, and moral duty. A person with

an optimal value system will not expect help from others, he will try to help himself. He is independent. Nor will he feel obliged to help others. He will be neither egocentric nor altruistic in behavior, and we have seen that the egocentric and the altruist are in effect complementary behavioral ma-

nifestations of the same underlying pathological value system. Following Ayn Rand and the dictionary, we will call a person with an optimal value system an “egoist.” He is the center of his own world, and he acts according to his interests. But he never expects to be the center of anybody else’s world. Hence, in acting according to his interests, he also acts according to his conscience.

The guilt—sacrifice dilemma

does not

torment him. - Thus, we must distinguish rather sharply between egoism and egocentrism. The egocentric differs only superficially from the altruist: both agree on dependence values. But both differ radically from the egoist, whose major concern is attaining existential independence. The egoist, from evolutionary

point of view, is more fit for survival. Hence, we must consider the problem of the fairly extensive spread of successful altruism. How can an ethical code reflecting a pathological value system, a value system which menaces

survival, be so generally accepted? To answer this question we must consider another aspect of moral development which was omitted in the text: the growth of value systems (p. 168).

3. THE GROWTH

OF VALUE

SYSTEMS

How does one’s value system grow? I suggest the following hypothesis. First, the value of preservation of one’s existence (particularized with respect to one’s various basic physiological needs) is innate. Second, whenever one learns of a new regularity governing one’s environ-

ment, which relates the obtaining of some condition or other to the satisfaction of a value which already belongs to the hierarchy, this condition in turn may also become a value in one’s hierarchy. Thus, in the standard

Pavlovian situation where a dog salivates to the ringing of the bell, which

212

APPENDIX

2

signals food in the laboratory environment, it may be assumed that the dog has acquired a nomic belief as to the connection between the ringing — bell and food. Since it has a value of eating derived from its basic survival value, it develops a value for the ringing of the bell. This can be tested by allowing the dog to act so as to operate the bell. Thus far, our theory of value acquisition is no more than an adaptation of the theory of “secondary need acquisition” [72, pp. 1, 2-3] to our framework. However, we claim that a condition connected regularly with need satisfaction may become a value. Yet it may be denied this status if its inclusion in the value hierarchy produces conflicts between the conscience and the interest. Thus, we assume that whenever a new candidate for a value — arises through the acquisition of a new nomic belief, it is tested for its . potential for causing conflicts between the conscience and the interest. Only

if it satisfies the formal conditions specified in Sec. 1 for optimal value systems can it become a value.

However, there is an overriding consideration: if, according to the system of one’s nomic beliefs, the satisfaction of this condition is not only sufficient but also necessary for the satisfaction of a value already included in the value system, the condition in question is incorporated in the value system irrespective of its suitability for an optimal value system. Thus, the process may be summed up as follows: Value acquisition is a recursive process. The base of recursion is the system of survival values, assumed innate. Whenever one acquires the belief A,(p = q), where the value V,q is already included in one’s value system, the value V,p is conjoined to it. Whenever one acquires the nomic belief A,(p > q), where the value V,q is already included in one’s value system, the value V,p may be

added if it does not introduce non-optimality into one’s value system.

If one creates a regular environment in which one’s basic needs can be satisfied only by submitting to conditions of dependence, and in which any

act of independence is punished by frustration of a basic survival need, one creates the necessary and sufficient conditions for the emergence of a pathological value system. Educational environments in which obedience to superiors and strong ties of emotional dependence to the peer group are rewarded by need satisfaction, and in which independence of decision is discouraged by punishment, are the obvious vehicle for the generation of persons with pathological value systems. Most schools and kindergartens, not to speak of parental educational regimes, are of this nature. One can escape the predicament only if one acquires the belief that the regularities of

the environment are not nomically necessary, but man-made and arbitrary.

The structure of the educational environment then is not reflected in the

a re:

|

OPTIMAL

VALUE

SYSTEMS

213

nomic belief system, nor in the value system, which correspondingly does not incorporate any value which menaces its optimality. Optimal value systems are thus “‘natural’’ in the following sense: First they

make man fittest for survival since they eliminate internal conflicts reducing efficiency of action. Second, they would emerge in an educational environment simulating a natural environment in which dependence is punished and independence rewarded. But they are not “natural” in the sense of “innate.” They grow, like other value systems, in close dependence on the growth of one’s system of nomic beliefs. There is not a necessary course of

growth for nomic beliefs, and for each individual this course may be strongly affected

(though

not determined,

since human

beings are free) by the

creators of educational environments. If one now adds the obvious assumption that a person with a pathological value system acting as an educator creates an educational environment which generates the same kind of ‘ value system in his educational victims, we can easily see how altruism,

having emerged, was preserved.

4. PSYCHOPATHY Armed with the theoretical developments of the preceding sections, we can now somewhat deepen our account of psychopathy. The psychopath, as we have noted (p. 192), lacks a conscience. Hence, his value system grows

unaffected by considerations of optimality. In short, he has no built-in objection to developing values of dependence. His behavior reflects these values of dependence only through his plans and interest considerations,

since he does not posses the conscience to project his egocentric value system into altruistic ethics, thus generating a restraining internal conflict between

the interest and the conscience. He is purely egocentric, untainted by altruism. His way of life is the only way of life allowed by the egocentric— altruistic code which escapes the predicament of mental struggle.

5. THE INDIVIDUAL

AND

SOCIETY

Our analysis of optimal value systems also promises some new lines of

thought concerning the taxonomy of societies and the relations between _ the individual and society. In the text, we have adopted a Popperian approach distinguishing between closed societies, maintained by fear, and open societies, maintained by the conscience (hence, by guilt) (p. 148). However, this distinction presupposes the altruistic—egocentric value

system. Taking it to be exhaustive, we completely miss a third possibility,

Fe

214

APPENDIX. 2

that of a free society. A free society is maintained neither by guilt nor by fear. It is maintained by everybody’s egoistic self-interest. It is a utopian society, to be sure. Even the capitalist USA at the end of the 19th century only approximated to this ideal. However, none of Popper’s objections against utopianism applies to it [136, Ch. 9], since they all identify utopias with collectivism. Hence, they should be considered in the context of our. discussion of the relation between the conscience and the membership in society (p. 144).

We have pointed out in the text that Arrow’s theorem may be interpreted as stating that open societies can exist only if their members have a conscience (p. 149). However, Arrow’s theorem presupposes a superorganismic

view of society as some autonomous system which has its own preferences,

and which contains human individuals as dependent subsystems. Yet, the same conception of man which marks off optimal value systems and egoism as

objectively preferable implies that human beings can survive, like Robinson

Crusoe, outside any society, in direct confrontation with nature. They need

society not for life, but for the good life: cooperation, specialization, trade, accumulation of knowledge through scientific progress make it possible for anyone to improve one’s lot [147, Pt. 3, Ch. VII]. A society of persons with

optimal value systems will allow no compulsion, since compulsion is morally

forbidden relative to an optimal value system. It will not allow any institutionalized requests of personal sacrifice, since such requests presuppose the superiority of the social collective over the individual. It will be a free society. Such a society needs a conscience, yet not for controlling through guilt, but as a factor in mental growth which constrains value acquisition to adjoin

only values compatible with the requirements of optimality. Any society

which deviates from this utopian model can be considered oppressive, and educational systems creating pathological value systems for a person to survive in an oppressive society are oppressive devices. A detailed excursion

into the theory of oppression is beyond our present concern.

6. OBJECTIVE

ETHICS

We have argued for the naturalness and preferability of optimal value

systems (hence, of egoistic ethics) on the ground s of enhanced survival.

This may be taken as circular argumentation, since we have relied essentially on an ethics of survival to recommend an ethics of survival. Without this tacit ethical assumption, our argument would be anothe r instance of invalid inference from “‘is” to “ought.” However, this objection does not hold water. The whole idea of rationality,

OPTIMAL

VALUE SYSTEMS

215

in all its applications, presupposes the supremacy of survival. If one does not care for one’s life, one need not be rational. But while it may be circular (as indeed it is) to provide rational arguments for rationality, thus presupposing in a sense what is to be established, this circle is not vicious. Its main import is to clarify the alternatives and to deepen the contrast between them. One may indeed reject our argument, but then only at the cost of explicitly rejecting the value of life. By this the relevance of rationality is rejected, and one passes into the domain where no further communication is possible. It should be pointed out that whereas Ayn Rand presumes her ethics to be hostile to Kantianism, our argument relies essentially on the major Kantian insight, the categorical imperative incorporated within our theory of the structure of the conscience, and it leads to Ayn Rand’s con-

clusions. Thus, instead of rejecting summarily the entire Kantian framework as immoral, as Ayn Rand does [148], it becomes possible to reduce it to in-

ternal inconsistency by showing how egoism, Kant’s major horror, follows inevitably from assumptions which are Kantian in spirit. Consequently, Kant’s conception of the inevitability of conflict between duty and interest, duty and inclination [99, pp. 99- 100] is revealed to be a petitio principii. It does not follow from his imperative. It follows only if altruism is tacitly added, thus providing a reductio ad absurdum of altruism. Thus, the major promise of the fourth stage of research in the present framework is the possibility of providing a rational basis for an objective ethics, an ethics of happiness and not of conflict, an ethics of achievement and pride and not of sacrifice: the ethics of rational egoism.

REFERENCES

[1] Acassi, J., “The Nature of Scientific Problems and Their Roots in Meta-

physics,” in [18].

[2] AMERICAN PSYCHIATRIC ASSOCIATION (1952), Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorder, APA. [3] ArreTti, S. (1967), The Intrapsychic Self, Basic Books. [4] ARIsTOTLE, ‘“‘Nicomachean Ethics,” in R. MCKEON (ed.) (1941), The Basic Works of Aristotle, Random House. [5] ARRow, K.J., “Mathematical Models in the Social Sciences,” in D. LERNER and H.D. Lasswet (eds.) (1951), The Policy Sciences, Stanford Universit y Press, pp. 129-154. [6] ARRow, K.J. (1951), The Meaning of Social Welfare—a Comment on Some Recent Proposals, Technical Report No. 2, Stanford Universit y. [7] ARRow, K.J. (1951), Social Choice and Individual Values, Wiley. [8] ARTHURS, R.G.S. and CaHoon, E.B. (1964), “A Clinical and Electroencephalographical Survey of Psychopathic Personality, America n Journal of Psychiatry, 120, pp. 875-882. [9] ATKINSON, K.L. and SHIFFRIN, R.D., “Human Memory : A Proposal System and Its Control Processes,” in K.W. SPENCE and J.T. SPENCE (eds.) (1968), The Psychology of Learning and Motivation, Academic Press. [10] Ayer, A.J., “Carnap’s Treatment of the Problem of Other Minds,” in [158],

pp. 269-282.

[11] Ayer, A.J. (1964), The Problem of Knowledge, Penguin. [12] Bar-HILLEL, Y. (1970), Aspects of Language, The Magness Press. [13] Bere, P.S. (1963), Neurotic and Psychopathic Crimin als—Some Measures of Ego Syntonycity, Socialization and Perceptual Constan cy, unpublished Ph. D. Dissertation, Michigan State University. [14] Bern, E.W. (1965), Mathematical Thought, Reidel. [15] Bern, E.W. (1970), Aspects of Modern Logic, Reidel. [16] Britt, A.A. (ed.) (1938), The Basic Writings of Sigmund Freud, Random House. [17] Brown, R. (1965), Social Psychology, The Free Press. [18] BUNGE, M. (ed.) (1964), The Critical Approach to Science and Philosophy, Free Press.

216

REFERENCES

217

[19] Bunce, M. (1967), Scientific Research, Vol. 1, The Search for System, Springer Verlag.

[20] Buss, A.H. (1966), Psychopathology, Wiley. [21] CANNoNn, W.B. (1942), The Wisdom of the Body, Norton. [22] CarnaP, R. (1937), The Logical Syntax of Language, Routledge & Kegan Paul. [23] CarnaP, R. (1956), ‘““Meaning Postulates,” in Meaning and Necessity, Phoenix

Books. [24] Carnap, R., “P.F. Strasson on Linguistic Naturalism,” in [158], pp. 933-939. [25] CaRNApP, R., “A.J. Ayer on Other Minds,” in [158], pp. 886-888. [26] CarnaP, R. (1966), The Philosophical Foundations of Physics, Basic Books. [27] CHomsky, N. (1957), ““Review of Skinner’s Verbal Behavior,” reprinted in J.A. Fopor and J.J. Katz (eds.) (1964), The Structure of Language, Prentice Hall. [28] Cuomsky, N. (1957), Syntactic Structures, Mouton. [29] Cuomsky, N. (1965), Aspects of the Theory of Syntax, M.1.T. Press. [30] Cuomsky, N. (1972), Language and Mind, enlarged edition, Harcourt, Brace & Jovanovich. [31] CHomsky, N. (1972), Papers on Semantic Theory, Mouton. [32] Cuurcn, A. (1936), ““A Note on the Entscheidungsproblem,”

Journal of

Symbolic Logic, 1, pp. 40-41. [33] Cuurcn, A. (1956), Introduction to Mathematical Logic, Princeton. [34] Cuurcu, A., “On Carnap’s Analysis of Statements of Assertion and Belief,” reprinted in L. Lrnsky (ed.) (1971), Reference and Modality, Oxford Univer-

sity Paperbacks. [35] CLECKLY,

H. (1964), The Mask of Sanity, Masby. [36] CrarFT, M., STEPHENSON, G., and GRANGER, C. (1964), ‘A Controlled Trial of Authoritarian and Self-Governing Regimes with Adolescent Psychopaths,” American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 32, pp. 543-554. [37] Day, R.H. (1971), “Rational Choice and Economic Behavior,” Theory and

Decision, 1, 3, pp. 229-251. [38] DescarTEs, R., “The Principles of Philosophy,” in [63], Vol. I, pp. 201-303. [39] DotiarD, J. and MiLier, N.E. (1956), Personality and Psychotherapy, McGraw Hill. [40] Extincson, R.J. (1954), “Incidence of EEG Abnormality among Patients with Mental Disorders of Apparently Non-Organic Origin: A Criminal Review,” American Journal of Psychiatry, 111, pp. 263-275. & [41] FENICHEL, O. (1971), The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis, Routledge

Kegan Paul. [42] Fopor, J. (1968), Psychological Explanation, Random House. to Die’,” [43] Fopor, J. (1970), ‘Three Reasons not to Derive ‘Kill’ from ‘Cause 429-438. Linguistic Inquiry, 1, 4, pp. Publications. [44] Foup, G.A. (1965), Personality and Personal Illness, Tavistock Holland. North edition, 3rd Theory, Set Abstract [45] FRAENKEL, A.A. (1966),

wi”

;

218

ey (>

ie

|REFERENCES

ne

[46] Freup, A. (1966), The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense, tevised edition, — Hogarth Press.

[47] Freup, S. (1922), Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Hogarth © Press.

[48] Freup, S. (1925), “Formulations Regarding the Two Principles in Mental Functioning,” Collected Papers, Vol. 1V, Hogarth Press.

[49] FREuD, S. (1927), The Ego and the Id, Hogarth Press. [50] FREUD, S., Totem and Taboo, in [16], pp. 807-930. [51] FReup, S. (1964), New Introductory Lectures to Psychoanalysis, Hogarth Press. [52] FREUD, S., The Interpretation of Dreams, in [16], pp. 181-468.

—

.

[53] Fromm, E. (1948), “‘The Oedipus Complex and the Oedipus Myth,” in R.N. ANSCHEN (ed.), The Family, Its Function and Destiny, Vol. V, Harper.

[54] Gaspay, D. (1969), Model Theory for Tense Logic, Scientific Report No. 1,

Applied Logic Branch, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. [55] Geacu, P.T. (1971), Mental Acts, 2nd edition, Routledge & Kegan Paul. [56] GENTZEN, G. (1934), “Untersuchungen iiber das logische Schliessen,”’ Mathematische Zeitschrift, 39, pp. 176-210, 405-413. [57] GrpBens, T.C.N., Ponp, P.A. and STAFFORD, C.D. (1955), “A Follow up Study of Criminal Psychopathy,” British Journal of Delinquency, 5, pp. 126-136. [58] GoopMan, N. (1951), The Structure of Appearance, Harvard University Press. [59] GouGu, F.G. (1948), “A Sociological Theory of Psychopa thy,” American Journal of Psychology, 53, pp. 159-166. [60] GraHaM, A.C. (1961), The Problem of Value, Hutchinson. [61] Gray, K.C. and Hurcuinson, H.S. (1964), “The Psychop athic Personality: A Survey of Canadian Psychiatrists’ Opinion,” Canadian Psychiat ric Association Journal, 9, pp. 452-461. [62] Greene, J. (1972), Psycholinguistics, Penguin. [63] HALDANE, E.S. and Ross, G.R.T. (trs., eds.) (1911), The Philosophical Works of Descartes, Cambridge University Press. [64] Hare, R.D. (1965), “Temporal Gradient of Fear Arousal in Psychopathy,” Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 70, pp. 442-445.

[65] Hare, R.D. (1965), “‘A Conflict and Learning Theory Analysis of Psychopathic Behavior,” Journal of Research in Crime and Delinquency, 2, pp. 12-19.

[66] Hare, R.D. (1970), Psychopathy: Theory and Research, Wiley.

[67] Hare, R.M. (1952), The Language of Morals , Oxford, Clarendon Press.

[68] HARTMAN, R., ‘Psychoanalysis as Scientific Theory,” in S. Hook (ed.) (1958), Psychoanalysis, Scientific Method, and Philos ophy, Grove Press.

[69] HELLER, J. (1967), Catch 22, Corgi Books.

[70] HENKin, K. (1949), “The Completene ss of the First Order Functional Cal-

culus,” Journal of Symbolic Logic, 14, pp. 159-166. [71] Hesse, M., ‘The Explanatory Function of Metaphor,” in Y. BAR-HILLEL (ed.) (1966), Logic, Methodology and Philosophy of Science, Proceedings of the 1964 International Congress, North Holla nd.

Nice z

REFERENCES

219

[72] HitGarp, R.E. and Bower, G.H. (1968), Theories of Learning, Appleton Century Crofts. [73] HiLGarD, R.E., ATKINSON, R.C. and ATKINSON, R.L. (1971), Introduction to

Psychology, Sth edition, Harcourt Brace & World. [74] HinTIKKA,

J. (1951), ‘Content and Form in Quantification Theory,” Acta

Philosophica Fennica, VU, pp. 7-55. [75] HintiKka, J. (1953), “‘A New Approach

to Sentential

Logic,”

Societas

Scientiarum Fennica, Commentationes Physico Mathematicae, XXII. [76] HinTiKKa, J. (1964), Knowledge and Belief, Cornell University Press. [77] HintiKKA, J. (1965), “Are Logical Truths Analytic?”’, The Philosophical

Review, LXXIV, pp. 178-203.

'

[78] Hintixka, J. (1966), “An Analysis of Analyticity,” ‘*Are Mathematical Truths Tautologies?’’, ‘““Kant Vindicated,” ‘‘Kant and the Tradition of Analysis,” in P. WEINGARTNER (ed.), Deskription, Analytizitat und Existenz, Pustet Salzburg

und Miinich, pp. 193-272. [79] Hintixka, J. (1967), ““Kant on the Mathematical Method,” The Monist, 51,

pp. 352-375. [80] HinTIKKA, J. (1968), ‘““Language Games with Quantifiers,” American Philosophical Quarterly, Supplementary Monograph No. 2. [81] Hintikka, J. (1969), “Are

Mathematical

Truths Synthetic A Priori?”, The

Journal of Philosophy, 66, pp. 640-651. (82) Hintikka, J. (1969), ‘“‘Quantification and the Picture Theory of Language,”

The Monist, 53, 2, pp. 204-230. [83] HinTIKKA, J. (1969), Models for Modalities, Reidel.

[84] HinTiKKa, J. ““Epistemic Logic and the Methods of Philosophical Analysis,” Y in [83], pp. 3-19. [85] HinTIKKA, J., “Semantics for Propositional Attitudes,” in [83], pp. 87-111. [86] HinTIKKa, J., “‘On the Logic of Perception,” in [83], pp. 151-183. [87] HinmikKa, J., “Deontic Logic and Its Philosophical Morals,” in [83], pp.

184-214. ~ [88] HintiKKa, J. (1970), “Information, Deduction and the A Priori,” Noiis, IV, 2, pp. 135-152. — [89] Hintixka, J. and Suppes, P. (eds.) (1970), Information and Inference, Reidel. [90] Hintikka, J., “Surface Information and Depth Information,” in [89], pp.

263-297. [91] Hosses, T. (reprinted 1952), Leviathan, Clarendon Press, Oxford.

[92] HuGues, G.E. and CressweLL, M.J. (1968), An Introduction to Modal Logic, Methuen. [93] Hussert, E. (reprinted 1970), Logical Investigations, Routledge & Kegan Paul.

[94] Issacs, S. (1948), Social Development of Young Children, Routledge & Kegan

Paul. [95] James, D. (1972), “Some Aspects of the Syntax and Semantics of Interjection,” Studies in Generative Semantics, 2.

ay

220

REFERENCES

[96] JEFFREY, R. (1967), Formal Logic: Its Scope and Limits, McGraw Hill. [97] Kamp, J.A.W. (1968), Tense Logic and the Theory of Linear Order, unpublished —

Ph. D. Dissertation, University of California. [98] KANT, I. (reprinted 1956), Critique of Practical Reason, The Liberal Art Press. [99] Kant, I. (reprinted 1964), Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, Harper Torchbooks. [100] Kitcn, L. and OsseLton, J.W. (1966), Clinical Electroencephalography, Butterworth. [101] Kirk, G.S. and RAveEn, J.E. (1966), The Presocratic Philosophers, Cambridge University Press. [102] KNEALE, W. and KNEgALE, M. (1962), The Development of Logic, Oxford University Press. [103] KretcH, D., CRUTCHFIELD, K.S. and BALANCHEY, E.L. (1962), Individual in ' Society, McGraw Hill. [104] KripKE, S.A. (1959), “A Completeness Theorem in Modal Logic,” Journal of Symbolic Logic, 24, pp. 1-14. [105] Kripke, S.A. (1962), “The Undecidability of Monadic Modal Quantification Theory,” Zeitschrift fiir Mathematische Logik und Grundlagen der Mathematik, 8, pp. 113-116. [106] Kripke, S.A., “‘Semantical Considerations on Modal Logic,” in L. Linsky (ed.) (1971), Reference and Modality, Oxford University Press, pp. 53-72. [107] Kripke, S.A. (1963), ““Semantical Analysis of Modal Logic I: Normal Propositional Calculi,” Zeitschrift fiir Mathematische Logik und Grundlagen der, Mathematik, 9, pp. 83-94. [108] Kroy, M. (1969), Deep Structures, Model Sets and Presuppo sitions, Technical Report No. 3, Applied Logic Branch, Philosophy Departm ent, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. [109] Kroy, M. (1972), Kantian Ethics as a Competence Theory of the Conscience, unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Tel Aviv University. [110] Kroy, M. (1974), “Logic, Language and F ormalization,” Logique et Analyse (55—56) (in press). [111] Kroy, M. (1973), “Ethics and Conscience,” Philosophia, 3, 1-2, pp. 265—294.

[112] Lakorr, G. and Ross, J. (1968), ‘‘Is Deep Structu re Necessary?”, reprint by

the Linguistic Club of Indiana University. [113] Laxkorr, J., “On Generative Semantics,” in L. JakoBovitz and D. STEINBERG (eds.) (1970), Semantics, an Interdisciplinary Reader, Cambridge University Press, pp. 232-296. [114] Lakorr, G., “Linguistics and Natura l Logic,” in D. Davison and E. HarMAN (eds.) (1972), Semantics of Natural Languages, Reidel. [115] LENNENBERG, E.H. (1967), Biological Foundations of Language, Wiley. [116] Locke, J. (reprinted 1964), The Secon d Treatise on Civil Government, Two Treatises of Government, Cambridge Univer sity Press. [117] Luce, R.D. and Rarrra, H. (1957) , Games and Decisions, Wiley.

REFERENCES

221

[118] LyKKEN, D.T. (1955), A Study of Anxiety in the Sociopath Personality, unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Minnesota University. [119] MacLang, S. and BirkHorfF, E. (1967), Algebra, Macmillan. [120] McCaw ey, J.D., ‘““The Role of Semantics in Grammar,” in E. BACH and -R. Harms (eds.) (1968), Universals in Linguistic Theory, Holt, Rinehart &

Winston. [121]

McCaw ey, J.D., “Semantic Representation,” in P. GaRviN Cognition, A Multiple View, Holt, Rinehart & Winston.

[122] McCorp, W. and McCorp, J. (1964), The-Psychopath: Criminal Mind, Van Nostrand. [123] Miter,

G.A.,

GALANTER,

E. and

PRispRAM,

K.H.

(ed.) (1970),

An Essay on the

(1960),

Plans and the

Structure of Behavior, Holt, Rinehart & Winston. [124] Mintz, A. (1951), “Comparative Group Behavior,” Journal of Abnormal and ; Social Psychology, 46, pp. 150-159. [125] Moore, G.E. (1903), Principia Ethica, Cambridge University Press. [126] Nexson, R.J. (1968), Introduction to Automata, Wiley. [127] NEWELL, A. and Simon, H.A. (1972), Human Problem Solving, Prentice Hall. [128] OLTMAN, J. and FREEDMAN, S. (1968), ‘Parental Departure in Psychiatric

Conditions,” Diseases of the Nervous System, 28, pp. 298—303. Piacer, J. (1963), The Origin of Intelligence in Children, Norton. PiaGer, J. (1965), The Moral Judgment of the Child, The Free Press. PiaGer, J. (1968), Le Structuralisme, Que Sais-je? 1311. PLaTo, Creto, in E. HAMILTON and C. HUNTINGTON (eds.) (1963), The Collected Works of Plato, Pantheon Books, pp. 27-40. [133] PLato, Theatitus, in E. HAMILTON and C. HuNTINGTON (eds.) (1963), The

[129] [130] [131] [132]

Collected Works of Plato, Pantheon Books, pp. 845-920.

s. [134] Popper, K.R. (1959), The Logic of Scientific Discovery, Harper Torchbook Kegan & Routledge s, Refutation and es Conjectur [135] Popper, K.R. (1963), Paul. edition, Routledge [136] Popper, K.R. (1966), The Open Society and Its Enemies, 5th & Kegan Paul. Press, Oxford. [137] Popper, K.R. (1972), Objective Knowledge, Clarendon ” in [135], Ch. 12. [138] Popper, K.R., “Language and the Body Mind Problem, [135], Ch. 13. in [139] Popper, K.R., “A Note on the Body Mind Problem,” c Inquiry, il, pp. Linguisti ,” [140] Postar, P. (1970), “The Surface Verb ‘Remind’

37-120.

& Winston. [141] PostaL, P. (1971), Crossover Phenomena, Holt, Rinehart Oxford. Press, on Clarend Future, [142] Prior, A.N. (1967), Past, Present and University Harvard View, of Point Logical A [143] Quine, W.V.O. (1953), From Press.

[144] Quine, W.V.O. (1960), Word and Object, M.1.T. Press. [145] Quine, W.V.O.

books.

Torch(1962), Mathematical Logic, revised edition, Harper

222

REFERENCES

[146] Quine, W.V.O. (1972), Methods of Logic, 3rd edition, Holt, Rinehart & Winston. [147] RANb, A. (1957), Atlas Shrugged, Signet Books. [148] RANp, A. (1963), The Virtue of Selfishness, Signet Books. [149] Rapaport, D., “A Theoretical Analysis of the Superego Concept,” “A Theory of Ego Autonomy: a Generalization,” “A Historical Survey of ’ Psychoanalytic Ego Psychology,” in M.M. GILL (ed.) (1967), The Collected Papers of David Rapaport, Basic Books.

[150] REED, C.F. and Cupron,

}

>

C.A. (1957), “The Role Taking Hypothesis in

Delinquency,” Journal of Consulting Psychology, 21, pp. 380-390.

[151] REICHENBACH, H. (1964), The Rise of Scientific Philosophy, University of —

California Press. [152] Rosinson, A. (1963), The Theory of Models , North Holland.

[153] Ropinson, A. (1966), “Formalism

64: Appendix: A Notion of Potential.

Truth,” in Y. BAR-HILLEL (ed.) (1966), Logic, Methodology and Philosophy of Science, Proceedings of the 1964 International Congress, North Holland. [154] Ross, J.R., “On Declarative Sentences,” in R.A. Jacoss and P.S. ROSENBAUM (eds.) (1970), Readings in English Transformati onal Grammar, pp. 222-272. | [155] RusseLL, B. (1962), An Inquiry Into Meaning and Truth, Penguin. [156] Rye, G. (1963), The Concept of Mind, Penguin. [157] Rye, G. (1969), ‘“‘Formal and Informal Logic,” Dilemmas, Cambridge ~ f University Press. [158] Scuitpp, P.A. (ed.) (1963), The Philos ophy of Rudolf Carnap, Open Court. [159] ScHLOsBERG, H. (1941), “A Scale for the Judgment of Facial Expression s,” Journal of Experimental Psychology, 29, pp. 497-510. [160] ScHOPENHAUER, A. (reprinted 1958), The World as Will and Representation, Dover Books. [161] SEARLE, R.J., “What is a Speec h Act?”, in J.R. SEARLE (ed.) (1971 ), The Philosophy of Language, Oxford Unive rsity Press. [162] SHOENFIELD, J. (1967), Mathematic al Logic, Addison Wesley. [163] SipGwick, H. (reprinted 1967) , The Methods of Ethics, 7th edition, Macmillan. [164] Skinner, B.F. (1938), The Behav ior of Organisms, Appleton Century Crofts. [165] SoLomon, R.L., TURNER, L.H. and LENAR, M.S. (1968), “Some Effects of Delay of Punishment on Resistance to Temptation,” Journal of Perso nality and Social Psychology, 8 pp. 233-2 38.

[166] Spinoza, B., “The Ethics,” in E.H. M. Ewes (tr., ed.) (1951), The Chief Works of Benedict de

Spinoza, Dover. [167] STEVENSON, C.I. (1944), Ethic s and Language, Yale University Press. [168] StRa

wson, P.F, (1950), “On Referring,” Mind, LIX, pp. 320-344,

[169] StrAwson, [170] Strawson, [171] Tarski, A. Semantics,

P.F, (1959), Individuals, University Paperbacks. P.F. (1963), Introduction to Logic al Theory, University Paperbacks, (1956), “The Concept of Truth in Formalized Language,” Logic , Metamathematics, Clarendon Press , Oxford, Ch. VIII.

REFERENCES

223

[172] Toian, E. (1932), Purposive Behavior in Animal and Man, Appleton Century Crofts. [173] Watkins, J. (1970), “Imperfect Rationality,” in R. BORGER and F. CIOFFI

(eds.), Explanation in the Behavioral Sciences, Cambridge University Press, pp. 167-218, 228-230.

[174] Watson, J.B. (1914), Behavior, An Introduction to Comparative Psychology, Holt, Rinehart & Winston. [175] Wiener, N. (1954), The Human Use of Human Beings, Doubleday. [176] WiTTGENSTEIN, L. (reprinted 1971), Tractatus Logico Philosophicus, Routledge

& Kegan Paul. . [177] Woorpworty,

R:S. (1924), Psychology, Holt.

[178] Wricut, G.H.V. (1951), “Deontic Logic,” Mind, 60, pp. 1-15. [179] WriGcut,

G.H.V.

(1967), “Deontic

Logics,”

American

Philosophical Quar-

terly, 4, pp. 136-143. [180] WriGut, G.H.V. (1968), An Essay in Deontic Logic and the General Theory of Action, North Holland.

INDEX

abortion 156ff. affective representation, cf. emotion/s, 60ff., 64 altruistic, altruism 131, 133, 140, 208, 210ff., 213

91, 92ff., 109, 111, 128, 132, 133, 140, 144, 152, 169, 178-9, 181, 189, 192, 208, 210 consciousness xiv, 39-40, 41, 42, 44, 46, 59ff., 62, 64, 84, 111, 119, 192

anxiety 189ff., 210

consistency, depth and surface, cf. information,

ArigTI, S., 193, 196

Arrow, K. J. 149ff. ATKINSON, K. L., cf. SHIFFRIN 34, 48 autonomy, autonomous stage, cf. heteronomy 172ff., 176, 183-4, 185 behaviorists,

behaviorism,

physicalism,

consistency of logic 68, 85, 100, 168, 189, 199

materialism

depth

and

surface

107,

172

141,

construction 26, 27, 30, 74, 78 contempt, moral 101-2 context dependence, independence 48-50, 59 cooperation 129ff., 147ff., 177 criterion for ontic commitment

3, 4

cf. naturalism, 11, 53, 168

decision-making

36, 38, 39, 46, 48, 54, 76,

beliefs 36, 38, 43, 54, 65, 82ff., 86, 186, 198 beliefs, nomic 94, 95, 99, 103, 107, 110ff., 119, 122, 133, 134, 142-3, 145, 156, 161, 168, 169, 177, 183, 188, 189, 191, 198, 210, 212 Brown, R. 130, 151, 198

105-107, 192 decision mechanism, rule(s) (DM) 38, 39, 41, 42, 46, 82, 145 defense mechanism 40, 43-4, 46, 59-60, 64, 192

capacity 80, 82ff., 88

division,

cf. egalitarian distribution 122ff.

dualism,

cf. mentalism,

categorical

imperative xiv, 93, 94, 96, 97,

108, 184, 215 Cuomsky, N. ix, xiii, xiv, 1, 2, 9, 12, 14, 17,

18, 20, 22, 29, 31, 39, 54, 78, 116. CuurcH, A. 6, 17, 28, 159 compassion, cf. empathy 60, 109, 165 competence 16, 17, 19, 20

competence,

moral,

cf. conscience ix, xiv

competence-performance distinction 16, 18ff.,

31 conflict 41, 60, 63, 132ff., 137, 140ff., 194, 208, 210ff. conscience xi, xii, xiii, xiv, 1, 16, 33, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 45, 46, 47, 55, 58, 60, 61, 65, 80,

POPPER

demarcation, criterion of, cf. development, moral 109, 167ff.

behaviorism

13

9, 13

duty, cf. obligation egalitarian/nonegalitarian distribution 122ff., 128-9, 144, 146, 175ff., 183ff. egocentric 140, 197, 210 egoistic, egoism 131, 133, 140, 147, 208, 210ff.

emotion(s), cf. affective representations 60ff., 64, 149, 154ff. emotions, moral

109, 154ff., 197

empathy, cf. compassion

165, 197ff.

entities, abstract 2, 3

envy 164-5, 184-5 existential

instantiation

(EI,

A.£)

27-29,

Dae

= a =

226

INDEX

existential instantiation (contd.) 32, 74, 79, 83, 86, 88, 100, 105, 106, 128-9, 156, 191

intuition 13, 15, 22, 167 intuition, moral 109ff., 128, 171, 176

KANT, faculty, theory of xiii, xiv, 1, 16ff., 23ff., 30,

31, 32, 33, 39, 42, 45, 47, 64, 74, 9Iff, 99ff., 108, 144, 169, 195

fear, cf. anxiety 148, 152 FENICHEL, O. 188. formalization 118—120, 129, 142, 188 184ff. FRomM, E. 184-5 63—4

GEACH, P. T. 48, 59 generative semantics, cf. representation system, semantic representation, formalization, LAKOFF, MCCAWLEY S4ff., 58, 64,

120 grammar (generative), cf. CHoMsky 9, 19. 20, 23, 29, 39, 53ff., 59, 64, 110, 118

guilt, cf. moral emotions xi, xii, 60, 61, 62,

64, 109, 148, 154ff., 162-3, 164, 182-3, 184, 187, 188, 189ff., 197, 198, 210

guilt

neurosis

109,

187,

189ff.,

198,

ix, xiv,

Pe e a eee

KRIPKE,

S., cf. logic, modal

66

LakorF G., cf. generative semantics, logic,

FREUD, S. xv, 39ff., 59, 145, 168, 169-170,

frustration

I., cf. categorical imperative

12, 27, 93, 95, 96, 108, 160, 184, 188, 215

208

Hare, R. D. 194, 198 Harg, R. M. xiv, 118 heteronomy, heteronomous Stage, cf. auto-

nomy, moral development 70, 171ff., 184-5 HINTIKKA, J. K. ix, xiv, 27, 28, 55, 56, 66,

68, 75, 76, 107

id, ‘cf. FREUD, S. » faculty xiv, 43, 46, 88, 145

imagination xiv, 34ff., 40, 46, 51, 65ff., 67, 70ff., 74, 100, 103-106, 107, 125, 126, 145, 152, 168, 193, 196, 208 information, surface and depth, cf. consistency, surface and depth 83 intention, cf. plan, will 84, 85, 86ff., 89, 92, 93, 99, 100, 103ff., 107, 116, 155, 161, 168, 175,.181, 188, 209 interactionism, cf. dualism, menta lism, behaviorism 9-11, 15 interest 36, 37, 38, 40, 42, 45, 46, SOff., 85ff., 132ff., 134, 138¢f., 140, 146, 148, 169, VT, 726173, 977: 189, 193, 208, 210, 213

natural ix, 53 language, cf. grammar 2, Tals logic, deontic xiv, 68ff., 95, 112 logic, modal 68 logic, natural, cf. reason 53ff., 128

masochism, cf. sadism 188-9 materialism, cf. naturalism, physicalism 3

44, 48

behaviorism,

McCawkiey, J. D., cf. generative semantics ix, 53, 54 memory xiv, 33, 41, 46, 49, 54, 88 mentalistic, mentalism, cf. dualism, interactionsim 1, 13, 15, 16, 18, 77, 109, 177 mental process 10, 19, 20 mental processes, pure and mixed 21ff., 112 mind xiv, 1, 9, 10, 12, 30, 31, 33, 45-6, 47 60, 64, 80, 109, 119, 195 mobility, social 151ff., 184ff., 196 modal operators 55ff., 67

model theory 41, 66 model set 68ff., 74ff., 79, 98ff. model system 68, 70, 73-4, 76ff., 79, 98, 107, 108, 113, 123, 134, 199¢f. morally perfect world 69ff., 97ff., 108, 113, 114, 117, 140 =4

naturalism,

cf. materialism, behaviorism 3, 7, 8,9 norms 17]

oedipal

stage,

cf. moral

physicalism,

development

169,

184 ff. obligation(s) ix, 69, 70, 92, 94, 95, 96, 99, 108, 110, 113, 115, 122, 128, 157, 161 pathology, moral 109, 197¢f. Permission, cf. obligation 70,'72, 92, 93, 94, 96, 108, 110, 115, 122

e

INDEX permutation,

permutating

device,

permu-

tability 96ff., 10S5ff., 120, 125, 127, 129, 147, 152, 156, 158, 162, 164, 168ff., 176ff., 181ff., 185ff., 189, 191, 195 perversion(s),

cf. sadism,

masochism

187ff.

65ff., 72ff., 79, 82, 84, 92, 113, 118, 119, 120, 128, 152ff., 168ff., 189, 195 repression, cf. defense mechanisms, psychoanalysis respect,

moral,

cf. emotions,

ROBINSON, A. 76

186 picture 72 pity, cf. emotions,

role playing 196ff

role, person-role distinction

moral 60,

cf. imagination

35,

109, 65,

162-5 73,

78

physicalism, cf. materialism, naturalism, be-

FREUD,

44ff., 184

PIAGET, J. ix, xii, xv, 52, 54, 168, 169, 172ff.,

phantasy,

227

moral

151ff.

Ross, J. R., cf. generative semantics rule(s),-

rule

program

system,

161-2

cf. faculty,

xi, 54

computer

8,9, 13, 15, 16

haviorism 3, 6, 9, 12

plan, action plan, cf. intention, will ix, 35ff., 40, 46, 48, 58, 65, 73, 80ff., 87, 123, 163, 168, 208, 213 unpleasantness,

cf. emotions

- 60-63

114, 164-5,

168, 196, 213, 214

perversion

SHIFFRIN, R. D., cf. ATKINSON

preference pattern, cf. ARROW, welfare function 149ff. prisoner’s dilemma

xv,

120,

129ff.,

132ff.,

142, 177, 194, 208 program, computer

122

society 145ff., 148ff. society, free 150, 214 society, open vs. closed xv, 148ff., 176, 181,

184—5, 194ff., 196, 213

PosTAL, P. ix, 54

23, 24, 28ff., 47

propositional attitude 55 psychoanalysis, cf. FREUD xiv, 146, 172, 184ff. psychopathy xi, xv, 109, 170, 187, 192ff., 208 psychopath, simple vs. complex, cf. ARIETTI, 193ff., 196 quantification theory anantihers

cf. masochism,

self contentment, moral, cf. emotions, moral

socialism K. R. ix, 11, 12, 13, 31, 148, 192

possible world 34ff., 41-2, 65ff., 74, 97, 100,

17, 25ff., 51, 54, 68, 73

65, 67, 128 xi, 60,

109,

154, 156ff. representation, mental

undecidability,

superego,

cf. FREUD,

psychoanalysis,

con-

science xiv, 42, 145, 168, 184ff., 186 structure, deep and surface 112ff., 128 structure,

theory of 21, 22, 28-30, 39, 60,

91, 96, 108, 112, 142, 144, 206 TARSKI, A. 68 time, representation of 95-6

system

47,

transformation, linguistic 54, 58

reason, cf. logic, natural, faculty, mind, imagination 29, 30, 31, 40, 41, AS25413; 52,

moral

cf.

model system, consistency surface and depth 75ff., 79, 82, 84, 86, 98, 100, 108, 125, 156, 201 ff.

TotmaN, E. 130

RAND, AYN 150, 208ff., 211, 215 rationality, theory of 131, 172

cf. emotions,

SPINOZA, B. 63-4 submodel set, system,

three world doctrine 12ff. thought(s), cf. representation 52ff., 59, 61

56

Quine, W. V. O. 3, 4, 5, 52

remorse,

sadism,

187ff. 159, 162

PLaTo 33-4 pleasantness, Popper,

sadist,

47ff., 63 ff.

representation, semantic 53 representation system (RS) Afiffs, 55, 8th,

undecidability, cf. CHURCH, consistency, surface and depth, submodel set 17, 25ff.,

29ff., 38ff., 67, 73ff., 79, 144 universalizability, universalization xiv, 94, 96, 99, 103-4, 107ff., 115, 118, 142 universal instantiation, stantiation 28ff., 74

cf.

existential

in-

‘ valid, eatidiey uw ae value, system ix, 37ff., 43, 8sff, 94,95,99, ~100, 107; 110ff., .L13ff; 119ff, 122ff., - will,a scious pian xe 6 _, 130)133, 140ff., 155, 161, 168ff., 172, 176 4S, a 80, 83ff., 89, 92, 168 181, 188, 189, 198, 208, 210

é

Se system, optimal vs. pathological 133,

ouaenetEat

82ff., 85,88 WITTGENSTEIN, L. 72, 146

&BF ae

| 1974

Kroy, The

M conscience,

a structural

theory

M. Kroy. New York, Wiley (c1974] xv, 228 p. illus. 24 cm. "A Halsted

Press

Bibliography: 1.

Conscience.

book."

p. 216-223. I.

Title.

CCSC/js A 022 FSo

[by]

f

Bios

a a