Jonathan Harrison teases our minds with two short stories …

This article is my latest attempt to come up with a minimal version of my evolutionary theory of fairness, previously summarized in my book Natural Justice. The naturalism that I espouse is currently unpopular, but Figure 1 shows that the scientific tradition in moral philosophy nevertheless has a long and distinguished history. John Mackie's Inventing Right and Wrong is the most eloquent expression of the case for naturalism in modern times. Mackie's demolition of the claims made for a priori reasoning in moral philosophy seem unanswerable to me.

The story of the preceding article continues…

The ‘why’ question is very deep seated in human nature. Children indeed are always asking such questions: Why is there lightning and thunder? Why is there the sun and moon? Sometimes they ask questions which confound their mentors: e.g. ‘Why is there a universe?’

We continuously form perceptual beliefs about the world based on how things appear to us in our perceptual experiences. I see that the ripe tomato in front of me is red and I form the belief that this tomato is red based on my seeing it, i.e. based on my veridical perceptual experience of this red tomato. Perceptual experiences and beliefs are representational mental states. Both are defined not by what they are, i.e. their physical properties, but by what they are about, what they represent, by their content. The content of both perceptual experiences and beliefs is specified by how the world must be for them to represent things correctly; it is specified by stating the conditions under which they would be true.

‘Bah! Humbug!’ It's the most famous line in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, but is it the most important? Surely not, for this Christmas classic is not centrally about Christmas, but about a man, the holiday being the convenient setting for his transformation. What kind of transformation? Why a moral transformation of course, because the man, Ebenezer Scrooge, through multiple encounters with the spirit world, becomes a good man by the end of the story. But where does this story begin, what are we to think of Scrooge at the outset and how is his transformation accomplished? These are the questions I take up here, for while Scrooge is tightfisted, covetous and hard-hearted, he is still a man of principle. Judged by the standards of some views on ethics, Scrooge isn't actually all that bad. How can that be? Let's start with a quick overview of two centuries of ethical theory.

Elinor Mason explains and contrasts consequentialist and duty-based theories of ethics.

Kotzee and Smit explain why, if unicorns don't exist, then they could not possibly have existed. In fact, even if horned horses were discovered somewhere, they would not necessarily be unicorns. The key to understanding why this is so lies in understanding how so-called natural kind terms function.

In this their fourth conversation the 17th century philosopher, John Locke and the 21st century linguist, Terence Moore, consider a question not fully answered even today: what might count as the key distinction beween man and animals, or in Locke's phrase what ‘puts a perfect distinction between Man and Brutes.’ In the Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke considers two possible linguistic candidates: the ability to use language appropriately, and the ability to ‘quit Particulars’. As Locke and Moore explore these possibilities they come to see that the distinction between man and animals is not as clear-cut as previous generations have believed. Locke tentatively posits a third possible distinction based on a central idea in his Essay – one however Moore is compelled to dismiss, though he, in return, also tentatively, offers a fourth.

An introductory course in philosophy begins with Plato's Apology. Here Socrates famously states that ‘the unexamined life is not worth living for man’. The professor lingers on the idea. In this first week of the course they have already struck upon a justification for all of the torturous analyzing, arguing, and thought-experimenting that will follow in the next few months. Without these vehicles of ‘examination’, our lives are not worth living! The students may have experienced enthusiastic defenses of the value of academic disciplines from other professors, but this guy is selling the idea that philosophy is necessary for a meaningful life.

The following is an imaginary conversation on the ever elusive qualia, or the ‘what is it like’ feeling, or conscious experiences, that has left philosophers and cognitive scientists searching for answers. This article is meant to give the beginning reader an overall view of this phenomena. Qualia is the technical name for conscious experiences like seeing the colour red or listening to Handel's Messiah. The problem is that these conscious experiences are apparently nowhere to be found in our physical brains. Thus, it would not register on any physical system in the known world (although the results of it, such as neurons firing, would).

Here Kallestrup presents a succinct introduction to some of the latest thinking about the notorious mind-body problem.

The barn/barn façade thought experiment is familiar to most epistemologists. It is intended to present a counterexample to certain causal theories of knowledge; in it, a father driving through the countryside with his son says, ‘That's a barn’ while pointing to a barn. Unbeknownst to the father, however, a film crew is working in the area, and it has constructed several barn façades. While the father did correctly point to a barn when he made his assertion, he could have just as easily pointed to a barn façade, and so, many hold, he does not know that the structure at which he is pointing is in fact a barn. If this is so, then it follows that true beliefs formed from reliable causal processes (in this case, vision by a competent observer under normal conditions) may still not qualify as knowledge.

Emily Thomas questions the common claim that spiritual objects – such as souls or God – cannot be spatially located.

We are rational creatures, in that we are beings on whom demands of rationality are appropriate. But by our rationality it doesn't follow that we always live up to those demands. In those cases, we fail to be rational (and it is appropriate to use the term ‘irrational’), but it is in a way that is different from how rocks, tadpoles, and gum fail to be rational. For them, we use the term ‘arational.’ They don't have the demands, but we do. The demands of rationality bear on us because we have minds that can move us to act, inspire us to create, and bring us to believe in ways that are responsible and directed. My interests here are the demands rationality places on our beliefs. Beliefs aim at the truth, and so one of the demands of being a rational creature with beliefs is that we manage them in a way that is pursuant of the truth. Reasons and reasoning play the primary role in that management – we ought to believe on the basis of good reasons. That is, if you believe something, you think that you're right about the world in some way or another. You believe because you think that something (call it ‘p’) is true. Now, p's truth is different from all ways it could be false, and your being right about p isn't just some arbitrary commitment, one that could just as well have been its negation. This non-arbitrary specificity of beliefs is constituted by the fact that they are held on the basis of reasons. Arguments are our model for how these reasons go – we offer some premises and show how they support a conclusion. Of course, arbitrary premises won't do, so you've got to have some reason for holding them as opposed to some others. Every premise, then, is a conclusion in need of an argument, and for arguments to be acceptable, we've got to do due diligence on the premises. This, however, leads to a disturbing pattern – for every premise we turn into a conclusion, we've got at least one other premise in need of another argument. Pretty soon, even the simplest arguments are going to get very, very complicated.