Normativity and Intentionality

Intentional states are states of mind that are about entities in the world, whether those entities be objects, properties, kinds, etc.  Related to the fact that these states are about entities, is the fact that intentional states (at least typically) have contents with truth conditions.  These contents are true or false depending on the features of the entities that the intentional states are about.  The paradigm of intentional states is, perhaps, belief.  However, intentional states include perceptual experiences, desires, hopes, memories, etc.

One thesis about intentional states that is of interest to philosophers of mind is the thesis (T) that, qua intentional states, they have normative essential natures.  This thesis could be clarified in a number of ways, but one way of thinking about it is that part of what it is to qualify as an intentional state is to be subject to certain kinds of norms.  One might think, for instance, that what makes something a belief with a particular content is the rational role that this something has.  The rational role is a matter of what other intentional states it would (as a kind of premise) rationally support as well as what other intentional states would rationally support it (as a kind of conclusion).  You might think that states qualify as intentional partly by taking on a particular rational role.

(T) is more controversial than it might first appear.  Many people would be sympathetic to the idea that, for instance, a belief is subject to epistemic norms (of rationality) even in any possible circumstance.  However, part of what is at issue is whether these norms apply to a belief because it is a belief, or whether a belief is a belief because the norms apply to it.  This kind of question is not settled even by conceding that there are epistemic norms applicable to beliefs that are even necessarily applicable.

However, I think one thing that might be relevant to whether (T) is true is the fact that, not only do we tend to think that norms apply to intentional states, we often think that intentional states are acquired, sustained, and revised because of applicable norms.  Common sense tells us that the norms have to get into the action in an explanatory sort of way.  Do they do so because the state is intentional?  If so, then it seems like we should think that intentionality is prior to the applicability of norms.  If not, then it would be more natural to think that the state is intentional because of the way the norms get into the action.  In the latter case, (T) definitely appears to be true. 

Modern Philosophy and the Space of Reasons

One thing that is generally agreed upon by scholars is that the Cartesian turn in philosophy was not an act of creatio ex nihilio, but had its roots in various tendencies in logic, metaphysics, and epistemology located in the late scholastic tradition that preceded it. One such tendency was that of nominalism, which was a characteristic feature of late scholasticism made popular by William of Ockham and his followers, notably John Buridan. Nominalism as a feature of late scholasticism is the view that universals are not real but signify certain dispositions in the subject to think or speak in a certain way. Contrast this with realism that holds that universals are really existing either universally in both the mind and extra-mental reality (Platonism) or universally only in the mind and individually in reality (Aristotelianism, Thomism, Scotism).

Now if we focus on nominalism, it holds that universals are not real but signify only dispositions of the subject. On that account then, our knowledge of kinds and the ontological make-up of reality is nothing more than certain dispositions of the subject; for an Ockhamist, these would be dispositions to think in a certain way. It follows then that for such nominalists, engagement with characteristically philosophical problems occurs within a mental space wherein universals abound. Late scholastic nominalists then moved the philosophical discussion away from extra-mental reality and sought out explanations for philosophical problems from within the mental. This is juxtaposed to realists like Aquinas or Scotus who held that to engage with philosophical problems one must engage with extra-mental reality.

What scholastic nominalism bequeathed to philosophy was a tendency to do philosophy ‘in the head’ as it were; and it is no surprise that some of the most interesting contributions to the logic of this period were made by nominalists. Now if we consider this tendency to do philosophy within the head, we can notice the roots of a philosophical problem begin to emerge. What goes on in the head has a certain character to it; it doesn’t seem to be conformable to law, rather spontaneity seems to reign such that we can think what we like and oftentimes people entertain the most wildly contradictory of thoughts. By contrast, extra-mental reality seems to be governed by law, it is determined, regular and quite different from the spontaneity of mentality. If we connect this juxtaposition of the spontaneity of thought and the determinateness of the world with the nominalistic tendency to see philosophical problems as being addressed ‘within the head’, then we see a problem. Given that ‘in the head’ we are free to think of things as we like whereas in the world things go by a regular order that is subject to law like generalisation, the immediate problem arises as to whether or not what is going on in the head is in any way comparable to what is going on in reality, that is, whether or not our patterns of thought about the world actually match up to what is going on in the world. Late scholastic nominalism then envisaged a fissure between mind and world such that the manoeuvres in the mental space for the solving of philosophical problems may not exactly connect up with the world in any way. The problem then of the mind/world relation became an urgent one, and it was out of this philosophical matrix that a Descartes was to emerge and attempt to establish knowledge of the world on the basis of a sure and certain foundation.

What I find fascinating about Descartes is not the content of his thought, but the framework within which it was undertaken. The mind/world relationship is now envisaged as a relationship between two sui generis things and the central philosophical problematic is how to get from the mind here to the object in the world there. Without an external constraint on thought’s spontaneity, thought would be left spinning frictionlessly in the void to use McDowell’s happy metaphor; and so the task was to find an external constraint on thought that would legitimately relate it to the world. If Descartes’s successors were not so happy to follow him in his conclusions, they were certainly happy to accept his framework, and they all seemed to accept some sort of dualism of two sui generis spaces: mind and world.

Now Kant is rightly considered to have made a major breakthrough in this problematic and I think the reason why it was so major is as follows. Whereas Descartes, Locke and Hume (Hume it should be said anticipated Kant’s breakthrough), were trying to find a constraint on thought that is itself extrinsic to thought, Kant suggested that perhaps thought itself is the constraint. That is to say, in the engagement between mind and world, we need not look for an external constraint on thought, but rather have the world become conformable to thought. Hence we have the articulation of the Copernican hypothesis and its validation in the first half of the Critique of Pure Reason.

I don’t want to explore the details of Kant’s thought, but I do want to remain with this notion that thought itself is the constraint such that the world is conformable to thought. Implicit in this position is the view that in order for there to be engagement between the subject and the world, there has to be some sort of homogeneity between the two (as opposed to a link). For Kant this entailed the a priori determination of the matter of experience, thereby bringing the world into conformity with thought. A lot of my own research has been into the thought of St Thomas Aquinas and Kant, and people often ask me how I can admire Kant so much when I fundamentally disagree with him. The point is often made that I as a Thomistic realist hold a totally juxtaposed view to Kant to the effect that the mind is conformed to the world, it is the world that determines our thought, not that our thought determines the world as Kant would have it. It is true that this is a disagreement between Aquinas and Kant, but it masks a greater and more profound agreement: for both, knowledge is not conceived of as finding some extrinsic constraint on the spontaneity of thought, rather knowledge is conceived of as finding a suitable conformity between mind and world. Both Aquinas and Kant then conceive of knowledge as standing in a certain relation to world; so for both there is a conformability between mind and world and whilst they disagree on the kind of conformity, they agree that we need conformity.

Now, Kant opted for the conformity of world to mind, because following the Cartesian juxtaposition of mind and world, itself a derivation of a nominalist mode of thinking, he took each to be heterogeneous, so that one would have to be conformable to the other. He could not see how mind could be conformable to world, but he could envisage how world could be conformable to mind by means of the a priori forms and categories. Aquinas on the other hand, not laden with nominalistic tendencies which would lead one to privatise mentality as a kind of inner space wholly juxtaposed to the world, sees both the subject and extra-mental objects as items in the realm of determinate being. The realm of determinate being is such that there is a structure to things and the determinations characteristic of the structure of things serve to locate things within a type. On this basis then St Thomas claims that things with mental capacities are able to discern individuals within their types and thereby go on to classify them, form propositions about them etc. In other words, whereas for Kant conceptual content is only located within mentality, for Aquinas conceptual content is unbounded – the realm of determinate beings is the realm of conceptual content, and within that realm there are certain beings who have the intellectual capacity to focus on the conceptual content implicit in their experience of other beings. So Thomas is then led to the conformity of mind to world.

The stand-off then between Aquinas and Kant will turn on whether or not one is happy with the metaphysical presuppositions made by both authors. But I think it should be noted that what we have here is an indication that certain issues in philosophy have not gone unnoticed by earlier generations of thinkers, and if a certain generation of thinkers does not see a philosophical problematic as particularly urgent, it may not necessarily be because that generation are amateurs, it may be that within their framework of philosophising, such questions do not have the force that they have within another framework. So it might be an idea that when one doggedly pursues research into a philosophical tradition to ever greater complexity and with ever greater precision, one should stop and think why it is only one’s own tradition that finds these problems alluring and why other traditions do not take such issues so seriously; this will serve to highlight the philosophical presuppositions that go to fuel the arguments and debates in one’s own tradition and perhaps even lead one to overhaul the whole framework within which those arguments and debates are conducted. If anything, it will leave one with a greater appreciation of the richness of other philosophical traditions and hopefully insulate one from a philosophical parochialism that can often invade the subject.

Can Science Teach Us Right From Wrong?

In November, 2010, some leading thinkers in various areas of science (e.g. neuroscience, theoretical physics), philosophy (applied ethics, metaethics) and psychology (cognitive psychology) gathered together to debate the question of whether science can 'teach us right from wrong.' Debaters included:

Simon Blackburn (metaethicist)
Peter Singer (ethicist / applied ethicist)
Lawrence Krauss (theoretical physicist)
Patricia Churchland (philosophy of neuroscience)
Sam Harris (neuroscientist, author)
Stephen Pinker (cognitive psychologist)

The debate, moderated by the Science Network's Roger Bingham, can be found in its entirety here.

In some sense, the debate constituted exactly the sort of thing we should be hoping to see more of: important questions being approached in a way that is informed by cutting edge research across disciplines. Unfortunately, this debate was in many ways a 'cringe-fest.' Let me explain.

What should have been (in principle), given the calibre of the discussants, one of the most fruitful discussions in the past five years, resulted in (by my estimation) in a discussion in which little to nothing was accomplished. Why? What went wrong?

Several things. One problem was that there were (roughly) two different 'claims of dominion' on the subject matter in question. Consider again the question Can Science Teach us Right From Wrong? Those from the 'science camp' took themselves to have the appropriate sort of expertise to answer the question because they take themselves to be experts in the subject matter of What Science Can Teach Us. The moral philosophers take themselves to be experts in the subject matter of What Can Teach us Right From Wrong. The science camp then took 'Can Science Teach us Right From Wrong?' to be an aspect of the embedded question 'What can Science Teach Us?' while the moral philosophers take Can Science Teach us Right From Wrong to be an aspect of the embedded question 'What Can Teach us Right From Wrong?'

The source of the cringe-fest runs deeper than this problem. Roughly, from my perspective as viewer, it seemed that no one in the panel had any confusion about what sort of methodology is used in science, and more broadly, what science is. The same is not true for philosophy. Setting aside Patricia Churchland for the moment, Sam Harris and Lawrence Krauss seemed to view (falsely, and unfoundedly) philosophy as having 'one methodology' and the methodology they seemed to be attributing to philosophy is the sort of methodology that we (with some mistrust) attribute to the speculative metaphysics of the 17th century rationalists. Harris and Krauss, taking themselves to be answering an aspect of the embedded question, "What Can Science Teach Us?", were inclined to think along the lines of: "Someone's got to say something about human values. We've got an evolutionary story about how human values have come to be, that's enough to answer the relevant question, and all they've got is 'philosophical speculation.'" It's no surprise that the representatives of the physical sciences took themselves to have answers to questions of right and wrong, then, and be at odds with the moral philosophers on the matter.

It's also no surprise that the debate was not productive. The assumption that what philosophy has to say about questions of moral philosophy is limited to the methodology of speculative metaphysics is wildly off the mark. In this respect, while the two camps of the debate were not talking past each other when discussing the question from the side of the embedded question 'what can science teach us?' (there was commonality of content vis-a-vis 'science') they were talking past each other when discussing the question from the side of the embedded question 'what can teach us about right and wrong?'. On this side of the question, the two sides had very different pre-debate conceptions of the nature and methodology of philosophy. The debate suffered for this, and it was the scientist's uninformed assumptions about philosophy that was to blame, I'm afraid.

The debate also suffered from another crucial point on which the discussants were 'talking past each other.' Based on the speeches in the debate by Harris, Churchland and Krauss, they took the question driving the debate to be one that receives an affirmative answer so long as science can provide an explanation for human values. Let's say that science explains human values just in case science provides an illuminating explanation of how human values arose within an (appropriately) evidentially supported evolutionary story. Here, the philosophers would all reject out of hand that, if such a story could be provided, it would warrant an affirmative answer to the question of whether science can teach us right from wrong. The moral philosopher finds the matter of 'teaching right and wrong' to be something more than an evolutionary-explanatory story for how human values came into existence. Rather, we want to know (for instance) what makes first-order moral judgements true? Which moral principles (which we appeal to to adjudicate moral disputes) are the right ones, and why? From the perspective where these questions need answering to answer the embedded question 'What teaches us right from wrong?', science (under a conception of science that both sides of the dispute would agree to) obviously fails to 'teach us right from wrong' and this is because the questions do not fall in the domain within which science could in principle have anything to say about.

Because there were (vastly) different conceptions going into the debate about (i) what philosophy, and its methodology, is; and (ii) what constitutes an adequate explanation to the question of whether science can teach us right from wrong, the debate was unfruitful.

At the end of the day, I think most philosophers would agree that, in the sense that the scientists understood the question, it's obvious that science can answer the question of how the emergence of the particular values humans have could have arisen within a plausible evolutionary story. That's not the interesting question, though; it's essentially a descriptive matter, not a normative one. If we tried to control for at least some of the ambiguity by clearly distinguishing descriptive from normative questions and then re-framed the debate around the question, 'Can Science Answer Normative Questions?' (all while getting all discussants on board prior to the debate on the matter of what methods constitute the methods of philosophy and science, respectively), we might have actually learned something!

p.s. The answer is no, of course.

Friday Question: Concerning the worthwhileness of philosophy

At some stage, most philosophers find themselves facing questions (either from others, or from themselves) about whether and to what extent what they do is worthwhile. When the question at issue is (construed generally) whether philosophy is worthwhile, there are usually two kinds of responses given, call them the instrumental and final value responses. The instrumentalist vindicates the value of doing philosophy by pointing to certain practical ends and pointing out how philosophy (either philosophical research itself or the development of philosophical skills) is instrumental to attaining that practical end. This sort of response embraces thinking along the lines of: "Well, even if you don't think that philosophy is valuable in its own right, surely you think that X is valuable, and (here, let me show you how) philosophy is X-valuable because it is instrumental in bringing about X." Contrast this sort of response with the final value response, which is much less concessionary. On the final value response, an instrumentalist explanation isn't needed to vindicate the value of philosophy. Philosophy is argued to be valuable for its own sake, and independent of whether philosophy is valuable as a means to some practical goals. The instrumentalist and final value replies to the question "Why is philosophy worthwhile" have notable figureheads within philosophy: Karl Marx and Plato, respectively. Marx thought philosophy is useless without corresponding action, and Plato thought man's highest aim is pure contemplation of the forms, for its own sake. I'm inclined to think that the instrumental response sells philosophy too short, while the Platonic response, even if correct, is not the sort of response that is going to convince anyone who doesn't already have some reservations about the instrumentalist reply. I'm going to try to sketch out an alternative sort of reply, one that can explain the value of purely theoretical philosophy without having to appeal to brow-beating about such philosophy having final value (brow beating that is likely to be'dialectically ineffective' in a way Moore's Proof might be when offered to someone who previously doubted the external world.) The sort of defence I want to sketch is motivated in part by a paper by Jon Kvanvig on pointless truths.  Consider (as Kvanvig does) the distinction between basic and applied research in science. Applied research in physics, for example, has obvious practical value. Basic research in physics, e.g. theoretical physics, does not. There are (to use Kvanvig's term) 'crass pragmatists' who would lobby for eliminating basic research in physics altogether. But this would be absurd. After all, if our only science was applied science, our applied science would suffer for it. The same is the case for applied maths, where basic reserach (e.g. analytic number theory) lacks obvious practical value. It goes without saying that, if only applied maths were ever funded, we would be able to do a lot less practically speaking with math. (Consider, for example, the indispensibility of using imaginary and complex numbers in various practical applications--imaginary numbers that arose in part from Euler's studying numbers for their own sake.) In philosophy, we can distinguish between applied and theoretical philosophy. It isn't applied philosophy for which we typically find individuals asking for a defence of their value; it's not medical ethicists, but meta-ethicists who get asked why what they do is worthwhile. Here, I think that the value of theoretical philosophy can be seen as valuable for many of the same reasons that basic research in other branches of study are valuable. Just as we can't do applied math well if the only math we do is applied math, and we can't do applied physics well if all research in physics is limited to applied physics, we can't do applied philosophy well if we limit philosophy to applied philosophy. This argument of course takes as a premise that applied philosophy is valuable. I'm not going to try to defend that, as I think it's obvious, and moreover, it isn't applied philosophy that most people question the value of (when questioning the value of philosophy).

One might point out that what I sketched here is a sort of 'crass instrumentalist' account of the value of philosophy--one that 'sells philosophy short' by explaining its value in terms of the value of something else. This objection is only partly fair. It's an instrumentalist account that takes theoretical philosophy to be valuable by way of its connection to practical philosophy, rather than (directly) by its connection to something outside of philosophy. To the extent that practical philosophy is only valuable by way of its connection to practical ends, the argument is ultimately instrumentalist. It however, is a better (less crass) instrumentalist view than one that would suppose (for instance) that metaphysics or metaethics are valuable (if at all) only if they have direct, immediate implications on day to day life (which they don't clearly have).

Also, it is a type of instrumentalist that (for those who accept it) have no principled reason to doubt the value of theoretical philosophy while not also (by parity of reasoning) doubting the value of basic research in math and science. That is a good result, because people do give philosophers a harder time than those doing basic math or basic science. Equal footing would be a good thing.

To see why the proposed instrumentalism places philosophy on the same footing as basic math and science, consider an analogy: if applied math is valuable because meeting our practical ends is valuable, and basic math is valuable because of it is indispensible to doing applied math well (and making progress in applied math), then basic research in math is instrumentally valuable relative to this sort of connection with our practical ends. If philosophy is tarred with this same brush, then it seems to be in decent company. No one is shutting down math programs. And the 'crassness' of the instrumentalism makes it no crasser than what we have to say about basic math research--research that no one expects to have immediate practical implications.

At the end of the day, my more salient reasons for thinking philosophy is valuable align not with an instrumentalist approach but with something like a final value approach. But since non-philosophers can't be bothered taking that seriously, it's good to have some alternative explanation that doesn't sell philosophy too short. The kind of instrumentalism I sketched here might be such an explanation. [Warning: not all basic research in fact facilitates any practical applications, even if some basic research does so substantially. A philosophical problem with the sort of instrumentalism I sketched is that some basic research in philosophy, and other fields, might only have 'some possibility' of facilitating practical research in the corresponding fields. So ultimately, a fuller account would be needed that deals with this problem.]

Easter Break

Dear bloggers, we are taking a short break from regular posting during the Easter Break (and will return to our normal schedule afterwards).

Friday Question: Philosophical Judgments: A Product of "Anton's Syndrome?"

Today's Friday question is submitted by third-year QUB philosophy student Adrian Downey.

There are two positions one can take in the ontology of mind; emergentism and pan-psychism. Emergentism is the view that the world is made up of non-experiential matter and in certain cases experiential properties emerge from this matter. Pan-psychism is the view that the fundamental matter is itself experiential. Pan-psychism has been largely discredited (many see the view itself as a reductio) and so the majority of discussion in the ontology of the mind concerns itself with emergentism.  

Galen Strawson has recently argued that pan-psychism is the most complete materialist position one can take. Probably the main reason that pan-psychism has been discredited is that it appears unscientific but Strawson argues that this is not true. Physics is the study of the relations between particles, not what they are made off, and so is agnostic on this question. It appears pan-psychism was discredited because of an intuition, the assumption that fundamental matter could not be experiential.    

Within emergentism there are two positions one can take; materialism (there exists only one type of matter, the physical) or dualism (the mental substance that emerge from physical substance is a different type of thing). With a few notable exceptions aside[1], the vast majority of emergentists are physicalists of one stripe or another. Yet even these exceptions agree with the physicalists to a certain extent.[2] Henry Stapp argues this base agreement ignores the findings of quantam mechanics, which he suggests entail that dualism is in fact the correct theory of the mind.[3]   

I have brought up these points not to argue for any particular position but to show how, at the fundamental level, a lot of these disagreements rest on intuition and not facts or arguments. It seems the choices are made on hunches or guesswork more than anything else. When deciding what position to take in the ontology of mind it appears we have little more to work with than intuitions, assumptions and base preferences.

Some materialists argue that their position is better because it is ontologically parsimonious (offers the simplest explanation of the effect). This belief is itself an intuition because we don’t have any reason to believe that simplicity is a virtue of a position. The answer to the question of how many substances make up the world should in no way reflect the human maxim that the simplest theory is usually the better one. The number of substances which make up the world will be the number of substances that in fact make up the world (whether that number is one, ten or five hundred). Even if humans see a theory about the world as a better one because it is simple this will have no effect on whether it is true.

I feel that there are many such cases within philosophy. In the Chinese Room thought experiment John Searle argues against the possibility of strong AI (artificial intelligence capable of understanding). He argues that just as there is no individual point in which understanding occurs in functional systems, so there is no understanding occurring in functional systems as a whole. Many of the critics of this thought experiment argue that although Searle is right that there is no one place where understanding occurs; understanding does occur when we look at the system as a whole. At this point there appears to be no avenue for the disagreement to be reconciled; it seems that in such a case it is really just the intuition that the system doesn’t understand pitted against the intuition that the system does. And I feel both sides are within their rights to argue that the other is begging the question when stating their view.[4] 

The point I have been trying to make is that philosophy, which appears at surface to be a rigorous and structured analytic system, is at base little more than the presumptions or preferences of the individual who postulates them. The rationality comes in alright, but only after the decision of what to believe that has already been made. As I have argued earlier it does not appear that we have any real justification in making these assumptions. In the Chinese Room example both sides of the dispute agree that there is no understanding in individual parts of the system. Searle and his supporters argue that if no part of it understands then the system doesn’t. His opponents argue that although no individual part understands the system when taken as a whole does. At this point there appears to be no argument which can be made that has the force to propel someone to either position; it seems that one just decides who they agree with. There is no reasoning involved here. 

Anton’s syndrome is a pathological condition in which, despite objective evidence of visual loss, patients deny that they are blind. They will even confabulate to support this belief. Maddula, Lutton and Keegan describe an eighty-three year old patient with this condition. This patient, when asked what tie the doctor was wearing, would give an (incorrect) answer, in spite of the fact she was blind (Maddula, 2009). A cursory glance at the evidence from a range of other pathologies (e.g. split-brain syndrome) highlight the same type of thing happening. Subjects who are unaware of their deficiency for one reason or another will often confabulate and rationalise their actions nonetheless.

I have argued that we appear to make our philosophical judgements based on intuitions or judgements and that these are not rationally founded. I have also argued that we do not appear to have any real justification for making them. Arguably when we do philosophy we are behaving a lot more like the eighty-three year old with Anton’s syndrome than we may think. Perhaps we are doing nothing more than confabulating our unfounded and baseless intuitions in much the same way that the eighty-three year old confabulated about her choice of what colour the tie was. It could be the case that rather than getting to any fundamental truths of the world, we as philosophers are merely suffering from the effects of a human wide pathology. We may believe in what we are doing but, as sufferers of this pathology, in reality we are just deluding ourselves (and are perhaps biologically constrained to do so).       

---

[1] David Chalmers, a dualist, and John Searle, who argues that he is neither a dualist or a physicalist

[2] David Chalmers believes that science must be extended in order to accommodate the mental and so in a sense he agrees with the characterisation of science as studying only the physical. John Searle argues that there exists only one thing in the world, physical particles contained in fields of force.

[3] “In view of the turmoil that has engulfed philosophy during the three centuries since Newton cut the bond between mind and matter, the re-bonding achieved by physicists during the first half of the twentieth century must be seen as an enormous development, a lifting of the veil. Ignoring this huge and enormously pertinent development in basic science, and proclaiming the validity of materialism on the basis of inapplicable-in-this-context- nineteenth-century science is not a rational judgement.” (Stapp, 2010) 

[4] David Chalmers’ ‘Zombie Argument’ and Frank Jackson’s ‘What Mary Didn’t Know’ are other arguments which immediately spring to mind that I think follow the same type of format. 

Anger and moral concern

The emotion of anger gets something of a mixed press. Although it is often presented as a dark and destructive aspect of human nature, there is a countervailing view that holds that, so long as it is suitably directed by reason, it can be an expression of virtue. Indeed some philosophers who take this view go as far as to suggest that not to feel anger in the face of serious immorality constitutes a vice since it fails to take wrongdoing seriously enough. Jeffrie Murphy, for example, claims that a failure to feel anger at moral injuries is a failure to care about the value incarnate in our own moral persons and thus a failure to “care about the very rules of morality”.

In this post, I don’t want to consider all of the ways in which this view of anger might be assessed or developed, but I do want to consider very briefly a particular style of argument against unconditional forgiveness that it sometimes motivates. The argument that I have in mind holds that it is wrong to grant forgiveness unconditionally and immediately because it fails to take the wrong seriously enough: in virtue of a positive assessment of the role of anger in the emotional repertoire of the virtuous agent, a negative view of unconditional forgiveness is inferred.

Whilst this argument seems to me to be worthy of serious philosophical consideration, the first point that I want to make in relation to it is that, instead of accepting its conclusion, we might see it as a reductio of the key premise. After all, those who are able to show unconditional forgiveness might be seen as illustrating the possibility of taking wrongdoing seriously without feeling anger. Consider – in this regard – the case of Gordon Wilson whose daughter was killed in the 1987 Enniskillen bombing. In the immediate aftermath of the atrocity, Wilson said that he felt no anger or ill will towards the perpetrators, yet it would seem strange to claim that he didn’t care about the norms that his daughter’s killers had violated (e.g. norms prohibiting the taking of innocent life) since he subsequently worked tirelessly for peace and reconciliation, engaging in dialogue with loyalist and republican paramilitaries and helping to set up a peace-building charity, all with a view to preventing other people suffering the kind of loss that he had suffered.

The second point that I’d like to make is that the argument seems to be much more plausible in the case of self-directed anger and forgiveness than other-directed anger and forgiveness. There does seem to be something right about the claim that those who self-forgive too quickly are failing to take their own misdeeds seriously, but this point doesn’t seem so plausible in the third-person case. It is therefore interesting to speculate on what accounts for this apparent asymmetry. Why does anger (perhaps in the modulated form of guilt) seem to be a more fitting and necessary response to our own misdeeds than to the misdeeds of others?