final version: Australasian Journal of Philosophy
93(2), 2015: 273-286
PEER DISAGREEMENT AND TWO PRINCIPLES OF RATIONAL
BELIEF
Theodore J. Everett
This paper presents a new solution
to the problem of peer disagreement that distinguishes two principles of rational
belief, here called probability and autonomy. When we discover that we disagree with peers,
there is one sense in which we rationally ought to suspend belief, and another
in which we rationally ought to retain our original belief. In the first sense, we aim to believe what is
most probably true according to our total evidence, including testimony from
peers and authorities. In the second, we
aim to base our beliefs only on objective evidence and argumentation, even if
that lowers the probability of their being true. The first principle of rational belief tends
to serve the short-term epistemic interests of individuals, while the second
tends to serve the long-term epistemic interests of both individuals and
groups. The best way to reconcile these
principles in cases of peer disagreement is to associate them with two
corresponding species of belief, here called perception and opinion.
Keywords: disagreement, epistemic peer,
rationality, belief
1. Peer disagreement
My brother and I have been playing a game for many
years in which we mentally compute square roots. We take a random number between 1 and 10,000,
set a timer for 30 seconds, and see who can get closer to the exact square
root. So far, we seem to be about evenly
matched, each of us having won about half of all the rounds we’ve played that
didn’t end in ties. So, just before each
round, I believe there is about a 50% probability that I will win, and just
after each round, prior to checking, I believe that there is about a 50%
probability that I did win. I know how I
go about computing these square roots, which is by progressive estimation: I
make a first guess, take the square of that number, adjust the guess, take the
new square, and so on, as many times as I can in thirty seconds. But I have no clear idea how my brother
operates – he claims that he just 'sees' the numbers like the character in Rain Man, though he is not as good at
it. Yet the fact that I have no idea how
my brother’s mind works seems to have no bearing on what I rationally ought to
believe about who is more likely to be right.
In cases like this, at least, it seems that nothing trumps basic
inductive or probabilistic reasoning.
Therefore, when my brother and I agree about a square root, I feel
confident that my method has produced the right result. But when we disagree, as long as there is
nothing special about that particular round of the game, I always suspend
belief until the question is settled.
I have
an old friend from graduate school with whom I play a similar game, except that
instead of figuring square roots we try to figure out the concepts of
knowledge, truth, and justice, and instead of thirty seconds we take thirty
years. Philosophy has less definite
answers than arithmetic, so it is harder for me to tell inductively which of us
is more likely to be right when we find, as often happens, that we
disagree. But I have plenty of indirect
reasons to think that my friend and I are about evenly matched in this game. We have received similar scores in other
games of mental skill like GRE exams, we have had similar records in college
and in the same Ph.D. program, and we have had similar careers since then,
including publishing articles in many of the same journals, and we seem to be
about equally (dis)respected as philosophers by our mutual colleagues and
friends. Moreover, we have had all kinds
of arguments over the years in which one of us has convinced the other that he
was misinformed or making some kind of error in reasoning, and these have been
about evenly balanced between the two of us.
So, even in the absence of definite judgments on most of our major
disagreements, I have plenty of reason to see my friend as an epistemic peer in matters of philosophy, that is, someone who is about as likely to be right as I am about the
issues in question.[1] But when my friend and I disagree in this
game, I do not suspend belief about who is right, the way I do in the
square-roots game with my brother.
Instead, I stick to my guns, just as my old friend sticks to his. Each of us does his best to poke dialectical
holes in the other's position, and to defend his own with solid evidence and
valid arguments. This is a generally
pleasant, stimulating way for us to spend time together, and I suppose it
satisfies a certain drive for competition in two unathletic people. But it isn't really just a game, and we're
not just being stubborn for the fun of it.
We also stick to our guns because we each think that we're right about the point in question and
that the other ought to agree with
us.
When I
think about these disagreements more detachedly, though, it seems to me that I
ought to believe that my probability of being right is no better than about 50%,
conditional on either of us being right, just as I do when disagreeing with my
brother over square roots. And in an
abstract sort of way, I guess I do. That
is, I know that I can’t reasonably say that I am a better philosopher than he
is overall, or that I’m right and he is wrong in every disagreement that we
have. It seems to follow that I ought to
believe that when the truth is finally revealed, it is more or less a coin toss
which of us is going to be proven right, supposing either of us is. But somehow that is not what I believe – not how I feel, speak, or behave – in each
case as it comes along. In any
particular disagreement, I believe that I am right and he is wrong. Not only that; I also usually feel that he is
being rather dense about the point in question, and that while I understand his
arguments, he isn’t really understanding mine.
He lets me know that he feels the same way about me, so we are clearly
still in a symmetrical relation. But
this doesn't seem to matter to my confidence that I am right and that it is
reasonable for me not to give in. So, I
hold on to my position and keep arguing the point, just as he does, until we
run out of time, or steam, or patience, or (occasionally) come to agreement on
the issue.
What
accounts for the difference in my attitude towards these two sorts of
disagreement? I accept that I am often
wrong in my mathematical computations, and more or less cheerfully suspend
belief in peer disagreements about arithmetic.
But I insist on retaining belief in the analogous peer disagreements in
philosophy, even though I know that I am also likely to be wrong about
philosophy – indeed, more likely in philosophy than in arithmetic. Why should I think this way? It can’t be just because my philosophical
reasoning is transparent to me while my friend’s is partly opaque, because the
same is true in the square-roots game with my brother. For I have no conception at all of how my
brother makes his calculations; I just know that they turn out to be about as
reliable as mine. And it can’t be just
because I often think I see what is wrong with my friend’s positions, since he
also often thinks he sees what is wrong with my positions, and all of my
evidence, including our long history of partly-conclusive arguments, shows that
my guesses about what is wrong with his arguments are no more reliable than his
guesses about what is wrong with mine.
Even when something seems perfectly obvious to me, experience has shown
that this is not a better guide to the truth than what seems obvious to
him. So, why should I keep sticking with
my own beliefs in each of our disagreements – and thinking that this is the
right thing to do – instead of humbly accepting that my friend’s beliefs are
just as likely to be true as mine are?[2] To believe a proposition surely entails
believing that it is at least probably true.
How can I do so rationally when my total evidence strongly implies that
it is just as likely to be false?
Here is the
basic problem of peer disagreement as I see it, in the form of a loose paradox:
(1) When you are likely to be wrong, you ought to
suspend belief.[3]
(2) When peers disagree with you, you are likely
to be wrong.
(3) (Therefore) When peers disagree with you, you
ought to suspend belief.
(4) (But) When peers disagree with you, you ought
not to suspend belief.
The argument from (1) and (2) to (3) is plainly
valid. Moreover, when we think about
simple matters like arithmetic, or in general terms about our own fallibility,
even within our range of expertise, the argument seems perfectly sound. So, it looks like (3) is true. But when we think about particular
disagreements in philosophy, (3) seems to be false and (4) seems to be true
instead. What is going
on? I think the problem is that (3) is
always true in a sense, but (4) is sometimes true in another sense, where the
ambiguity hinges on different principles that govern how we rationally ought to
think, or, to put it linguistically, on different uses of the epistemic
'ought'.
We all
accept that the word 'ought' can be used in different ways depending on the
purposes that speakers have in mind.
Sometimes we mean what people ought to do in order to be morally good or
to have done the morally right thing – what is called the moral 'ought'. But there are
many other uses of the word 'ought' that depend on other goals that speakers
might have in mind. Thus, you might tell
people that they ought to stop smoking, meaning not that this will make them
morally better people, but just that they’ll be better off in terms of their
own interests – the so-called prudential
'ought'.[4] This makes it easy to equivocate sometimes,
for example as to whether a soldier facing battle ought to run away or ought to
stand and fight. Here is another little
paradox, analogous to the one above about peer disagreement:
(1a) When you are likely to be killed, you ought
to run away.
(2a) When you are attacked in battle, you are
likely to be killed.
(3a) (Therefore) When you are attacked in battle,
you ought to run away.
(4a) (But) When you are attacked in battle, you
ought not to run away.
This is not much of a paradox, of course, just an
equivocation in (3a) and (4a) between the prudential and moral senses of
'ought'. In the prudential sense of
'ought', where the implicit goal is serving one’s own interests, a person in
great danger generally ought to run away if he can. But in the moral sense of 'ought', where the
implicit goal is serving the general interest of his country, a soldier ought
in many of the same cases to stand and fight, even at great risk to his own
life.[5]
Here is
the problem with this analogy. What is at work in the paradox about
peer disagreement is neither the moral nor the prudential 'ought', but what we
call the epistemic 'ought', meaning
what people ought rationally to believe, given the goal of knowledge, or at
least well-justified belief. The
immediate problem, then, is that the 'ought' seems to be unequivocally
epistemic in both (3) and (4), so the analogy seems not to help at all. When we think we ought to suspend belief in
arithmetic disagreements, we mean simply that this is the rational thing to
do. And by the same probabilistic
reasoning, it seems that we ought to suspend belief about our controversial
philosophical positions as well, since it makes no sense to say that we believe
something without believing that it is at least probably true. But when we think we ought to retain belief
in particular philosophical disagreements, we also mean that this is the
rational thing to do, despite the implication that we therefore believe we are
probably right.[6] That is, we do not think that we’re sticking
to our guns in arguments just because it makes us feel good, or because we
don’t want to be seen as wishy-washy, or anything of the sort. We believe that we are being perfectly
rational, and we explain our stands with rational arguments, not with appeals
to other values. So, we are left with
the problem of reconciling our confidence in these beliefs with the evident
fact that they are likely to be wrong in cases of peer disagreement.
2. Two principles of rational belief
The problem seems to turn on which of
these two attitudes, humility or self-assurance, we believe that rationality
demands in cases of peer disagreement. Philosophers
seem to be about evenly split on this question, with some arguing that
rationality requires suspension of belief (or 'conciliation' as much of the
literature has it) in all such cases, and others arguing that sticking to our
guns (or 'dogmatism') is what is rational at least some of the time. But should we try to make a single
sort of judgment as to what is rational in cases like this? Is rationality even a univocal concept? In general, it seems to mean something like
this: reasoning in a way that leads reliably to true beliefs. But which true beliefs are we talking about,
exactly? True beliefs for whom, and
when, and under what conditions?
Different answers to these questions could yield many conflicting
judgments as to what is rational in this or that particular case. I believe that there are two philosophically
essential ways to answer these questions, and that the often but not always
inconsequential difference between them accounts for our conflicting intuitions
about peer disagreement. So, let me
propose two principles of rational belief, each of which I think defines one
sense or sub-sense of the epistemic 'ought'.
The principle of probability is that you ought to believe whatever is
most likely to be true, given your total pool of evidence. More precisely, you should believe with
greater confidence whatever is more likely to be true, given the total evidence
available to you, and to adjust that confidence accordingly whenever new
evidence appears.
The principle of autonomy is that you ought to base your beliefs (or
degrees of belief) solely on objective evidence, using your own best reasoning
and judgment. You should consider the
arguments of others on their merits, but you should not allow the simple
probability that they are right to influence your thinking.
These principles
determine different epistemic 'oughts' because they reflect different
fundamental epistemic interests. The
principle of probability reflects the goal of maximally justified belief at any
moment, which is primarily a goal of individuals who need to act. When
thinking only of your own immediate probability of being right on any issue,
you should consider all of the evidence available to you, including testimony
from a peer or any other source that you have reason to consider somewhat
reliable. There is no reason to rule out
any evidence at all, if the only thing you care about is the most probable
truth right now. So, if you are being forced to bet your life,
say, on some unestablished fact, then you should typically weigh the testimony
of your epistemic peers more or less equally with your own prior opinion on the
matter, and you should weigh more heavily the testimony of your epistemic
betters, if you have any, even
in your own areas of expertise. Thus, in
medical decision-making where lives may be at stake, doctors are ordinarily
expected to follow protocols or 'standards of care' that the consensus of their
peers say yield the highest probability of good results, rather than their own,
perhaps eccentric, theories.[7]
But
we have other epistemic goals as well.
We do not just want to place bets on which existing ideas are most
probably right, but also to produce, defend, and criticize ideas and arguments
in ways that ultimately lead to greater knowledge for ourselves and our
societies. When faced with intellectual
problems and puzzles, we try to solve
them, not just to guess at what theories will turn out to be true. There are two connected reasons for
this. One reason is that we desire as
individuals to understand the world, not just to play the market, as it were,
of probabilities. There is no knowledge
worthy of the name without at least a fair degree of understanding. For example, I can say that I believe in
quantum mechanics because physicists tell me that this is the best-established
theory in their field, and I have reason to suppose that they are probably
telling the truth. But I have only the
wispiest notions of wave-particle duality and other concepts integral to
quantum mechanics, hardly enough to say that I believe anything about quantum
mechanics itself, as opposed to just believing that there is a theory called 'quantum mechanics' that is
probably true. If I have any real
interest in physics, such degenerate beliefs are of essentially no use to
me. Even where I can clearly grasp the
major claims involved (as with the thesis of anthropogenic global warming,
say), I still can't claim to understand the issue as a whole, let alone know whether the thesis is true, without
examining the arguments objectively.
(For me even to know what I am
talking about, as it is commonly put, means at a minimum that my statements
must make sense to me along objective lines of reasoning.) Whether my peers agree or disagree with me
has little bearing on the matter, except as it gets me to notice their ideas
and arguments, which I can then evaluate strictly according to their
merits. To the extent that rational
belief aims at real knowledge, then, as opposed to mere successful bets on
propositions, the principle of autonomy would seem to trump the principle of probability.
Our other essential
reason for thinking autonomously is, ironically, that our deepest intellectual
problems are typically too subtle and complex for one person to solve.[8] We must think for ourselves in order that as
many plausible theories as possible can be criticized and tested by other
thinkers, also acting independently, in the expectation that the truth will
someday emerge from this collective competition. No doubt, some philosophers or scientists are
better at constructing theories than others, in the sense of being more likely
to be proven right over the long run.
There might even be some one philosopher superior to all the rest of us,
so that if we had to bet serious money on any particular theory being true, it
would be rational for us to bet on that person’s theory rather than one of our
own. But why should we think we have to
make such bets? We are not in this
business just to gamble on which theories will turn out to be right. We are in it to work on solving hard problems
over a long time, both as individual philosophers and collectively, as members
of the philosophical profession. It
would be absurd for us to leave the whole business to a single
most-probably-correct philosopher, because even the best of us makes plenty of
mistakes, and even the least of us is capable of contributing useful ideas to
the ongoing discussion. For the same
reason, we should not be discouraged when it turns out that our epistemic peers
disagree with us. Of course they do, because it is part of our very job to come up
with new ideas and new objective arguments to back them up. As philosophers, we are producers and critics
of ideas, not just consumers, so
if we do not think for ourselves, then we are not being responsible, effective
members of our community.
Much
of this creative sort of thinking can in fact be done in an entirely
hypothetical spirit, with no violation of the principle of probability. In working on difficult problems we can, and
often do, experiment with theories we consider unlikely to be true and see what
develops, in the confidence that peers are working on other (and perhaps more
plausible) conjectures. There is no
reason in principle that we should believe in any of these theories to a degree
beyond what all the evidence, including testimony from our peers, entails. In fact, if we are all completely rational
and fully informed of each other's evidence and reasoning, we ought ideally to
be able to agree on a single, shared subjective likelihood for each hypothesis
that we consider, and this would not prevent us from continuing to work towards
a more permanent consensus. Much current
scientific practice is already like this, more or less. In industry, for example, the scientist is
someone with a job; his leaders give him a project to work on, and whether he
personally thinks the project will succeed is hardly relevant to what he has to
do. And in medicine, researchers are
particularly conscious of the complex social nature of their work, accepting
that unlikely possibilities need to be carefully ruled out for the sake of
completeness in their broad-based investigations.
In
philosophy, though, and in more revolutionary science, we have four strong
reasons to adhere to the principle of autonomy, working our own theories out as
individuals regardless of the level of agreement from our peers. First, though theoretical diversity can in
principle be maintained by people working with hypotheses they don't believe,
philosophers are not just motivated to be helpful in communal projects; we also
seek for truth and understanding for ourselves. So, it is natural for us focus our attention
on hypotheses that strike us independently as the most probably true, rather
than work against our own epistemic interests on theories we consider less
likely to pan out. Second, as
philosophers we are expected not just to produce new theories, but also to
promote them and defend them in the public arguments that constitute our
testing system. We are poor actors, most
of us, so a good measure of sincere belief is usually needed for us to be
effective advocates, especially for complex theories that demand years of
debate. Third, we are also
philosophically more competent defending our own theories sincerely than our
opponents' hypothetically, because our own theories articulate perceptions of
the way things really are, while our opponents' typically appear to us as sets
of propositions that are false at best, and that at worst don't even make sense. And fourth, to develop and promote dissenting
theories in particular demands persistence in the face of not just widespread
disagreement, but often also ridicule, rejection, and even persecution from our
peers, as witness Socrates or Galileo, and this is almost impossible absent the
conviction that we are at least probably right.[9] Not as a matter of ideal epistemology, then,
perhaps, but psychologically, at least, it seems that we must believe in what
we say in order to say it maximally well, to persist in its autonomous
development over a long career, and to withstand the consequences of upsetting
other interested parties.
Here,
then, is my preliminary solution to the problem of peer disagreement. We have two different, equally useful
principles that govern rational belief formation, and these define two
corresponding uses of the epistemic 'ought'.
Both employ the same inductive and deductive methods, so there is no
difference in the rationality per se
of these two principles; the only essential difference lies in what gets
counted as appropriate evidential 'input' to the rational machinery.[10] One principle takes in all available
evidence, including testimony from reliable sources, and produces probabilized
bets on facts. The other excludes evidence
derived solely from testimony, and produces arguments and theories necessary
for both understanding and objective progress in philosophy and much of
science. Qua mere consumers of theories, then, we ought to suspend belief on
probabilistic grounds when confronted with disagreement from people as likely
as ourselves to turn out to be right. Qua producers and defenders of theories
and qua seekers of understanding, we
ought to stand by our own beliefs until we are convinced to yield them on
objective grounds.
3. What to believe
There is something
unsatisfactory about a theory that posits two contradictory things that
rationally ought to be believed, without saying which is finally to be
preferred. In cases of peer disagreement,
even allowing that opposed beliefs are rational in different ways (or that we
ought to believe them in two different senses of the word 'ought'), the
question remains: what, after all, on balance, should we really believe?
It looks like the original problem of peer disagreement must now be
recapitulated, not directly in terms of which belief is rational according to
common sense (for they both are), but indirectly, in terms of which of standard
of rational belief takes precedence when they conflict. Taking for granted that we cannot rationally
hold two contradictory beliefs at once, there are four possible coherent
answers to this latter question: probability,
autonomy, neither, and both.
The
first option is to say that in cases of peer disagreement, the only rational
thing for us to do is to follow the principle of probability inwardly,
respecting what we really believe, even while following the principle of
autonomy outwardly in our debates with peers.
On this approach, we ought to view our independently-developed arguments
and theories with sceptical detachment, accepting that we are likely to be
wrong while continuing to work on making concrete sense of the matter for
ourselves and others. So, the
achievements of Einstein and Wittgenstein are great, and may well have depended
causally on an autonomous approach; nevertheless, these thinkers had no
rational warrant to believe that they were right. So, in an epistemic if not in a practical or
moral sense, they ought not to have believed in their own theories.
The
second approach is to
say that our real beliefs are our autonomous beliefs, and that mere
probabilized statements that derive from testimony ought not to count. We will have practical reasons for
considering peer disagreement when we need to guess at the truth for purposes
of action. In philosophical
disagreements, though, where no real decisions are required, the principle of
probability has no force at all. We will
observe that other people just as
sharp and well-informed as we are see things differently, but we will have no
strictly epistemic need to reconcile their different views with ours in
terms of probabilities. Odd as it sounds, then, we can in fact
believe something without believing that it is probably true.
The third possible
solution is to claim that there is no fact of the matter as to which principle
is more important, so that neither of the first two approaches is correct. Instead, belief can be determined in cases of
peer disagreement only by the interests of the believer. If the believer seeks to be most-probably right, then he should follow the
principle of probability. If he wants to
understand things and develop new ideas, then he should favour the principle of
autonomy. Our soldier in battle ought prudentially
to run away, and ought morally to stand and fight – but how can it be clear
which one he ought to do, all things considered? Unless there is good overall prudential
reason for him to prefer the moral action, or good moral reason to prefer the prudent
one, the soldier seems to be left with a brute choice to make, not a rational
decision.[11] The same can be said to hold for
people like ourselves in cases of peer disagreement: there is no other choice
but just to choose what we believe.
The fourth way around the
problem is to claim that both principles can safely be followed at the same
time, because they never actually produce contradictory beliefs. In fact, thinking autonomously will always
maximize the probable truth of our beliefs.
It is hard to see how this thesis can make sense as a general rule, for
it seems to imply that each of any pair of disagreeing peers is more probably
right than his opponent.[12] But each of us could separately work around
this implication by denying that we have any peers at all who disagree with
us. If we claim that we can follow both
principles together and end up with consistent beliefs, then we must accept
that the mere fact that others disagree with us excludes them categorically as
epistemic peers.
None of these options
strikes me as satisfactory. The first
approach fails in privileging the probabilist betting-on-things-right-now
conception of rational belief over the constructive sort of rationality
required both for understanding and for major progress in philosophy and
science. This makes good blackjack
players rational and great thinkers like Galileo not, which is a hard
consequence to swallow intuitively. If
philosophers and scientists aren't being rational in thinking for themselves,
we need another word of epistemic praise that's just as good. The second approach has the opposite problem:
it may be rational for me to stick to my guns in philosophical disputes, but it
is surely still irrational for me to
do so in peer disagreements over things like arithmetic, where comparative
track-record constitutes most of our evidence.
The third approach allows
us to follow both principles, which is good, but forces us to choose what to
believe whenever they conflict, according to our interests. What if our interests lie primarily in having
rational beliefs? The third approach
permits no answer. It also joins the
second approach in licensing belief in things that we do not believe are even
probably true. And the fourth approach,
to say that nobody who disagrees with us counts as an epistemic peer, cannot
succeed because few serious philosophers are quite so arrogant; and anyway,
it's not a general solution. Many are
working on the problem of peer disagreement, and this approach could only satisfy
one person at a time.[13]
4. Two ways of believing
The
only possible alternative approach to these four is to give up our assumption
that beliefs must be consistent to be rational.
This looks like nonsense on its face if we think of belief in the normal
way, that is, univocally, so that for every proposition you consider, either
you believe it or you don't. But let me
try to distinguish between two sorts of belief or ways of believing, one for
each of the two rational principles to govern exclusively. If a theory of this sort could be developed
in a reasonable way, both principles could then be followed in peer
disagreements without yielding contradictory beliefs of either of the two
types.
There
is evidence for just the right sort of ambiguity in the way that we distinguish
what we call opinions from other
beliefs. When we find ourselves
challenged by peers who disagree with something we have said, we often retreat
to some extent by saying things like, 'Well, I was only stating an opinion.' This suggests that the beliefs we call
opinions leave room for debate and doubt in a way that other beliefs do
not. In fact, unless we are
acknowledging or anticipating disagreement of some sort, it seems to me we never
call a belief an opinion. So we might
think of something like my belief that Canada will someday rule the world as
just a belief, not an opinion, until we discover that there are peers of ours
who disagree. At that point, the belief
in question either survives as an opinion or it stops being a belief at all –
depending on whether or not we desire to maintain it in the face of
disagreement from our peers. Let me
extend the ordinary meaning of the work 'opinion' to include such potential as
well as actual cases, so that any belief that you would tend to retain in the
face of disagreement will count as an opinion in the sense I mean. And let me say that to believe something in
this sense is to hold it as an opinion, or simply to hold it, so as to avoid the clumsy word
'opine'. So, I will say that I hold that
Canada will someday rule the world, regardless of whether anybody
disagrees. All beliefs are subject to
disagreement, of course, but it is only beliefs we have worked out for
ourselves to some extent that we are liable to maintain when faced with
disagreeing peers; otherwise, we would have no concrete arguments to make. Opinions in my extended sense may be
conceived, then, simply as beliefs derived according to the principle of
autonomy.
Another
sense of the word 'belief' respects the way that we perceive the world after
all evidence has been considered. As I
have said, beliefs in this sense are sometimes only probabilized repetitions of
things that we have been told, with little understanding or autonomous
justification. To reprise my earlier
example: I believe that there is such a thing as wave-particle duality, based
only on testimony from experts. If a
peer were to challenge this belief of mine, I could hardly retain it as an
opinion since I have no independent grounds at all for arguing the point. All I could reasonably do is lower the
subjective probability I assign to the statement that wave-particle duality
exists in light of the contrary testimony from a peer. Nevertheless, in the absence of actual peer
contradiction, I believe that wave-particle duality exists, just in that it
forms a part, however poorly integrated, of my probabilized model of the
world. So, if I had to bet for or
against the proposition that there is such a thing as wave-particle duality, I
would bet for it – which is really all that believing something in this way
amounts to. For want of a better single
word, let me label all such beliefs perceptions.
Perceptions
and opinions are best
understood things of the same intrinsic type, differing proximately in their
being derived from unrestricted and restricted sets of evidence, respectively,
and ultimately on their serving different epistemic functions.[14] They
should not be seen as mutually exclusive classes. In fact, in most cases most of the time, there
is no concrete difference at all between what we perceive and what we hold as
an opinion. The two ways of believing
only tend to come apart under the stress of peer disagreement, when we need to
separate the probable from the productive and well-understood. Otherwise, beliefs are just beliefs.
For
clarity's sake, here is an outline of a theory about peer disagreement that
connects this distinction between types of belief to our original distinction
between principles of rational belief.
(1)
There are two principles of rational belief: the principle of probability and
the principle of autonomy.
(2)
In ordinary reasoning, these two principles produce the same beliefs.
(3)
In cases of peer disagreement, however, the two principles tend to conflict,
producing what seem to be contradictory beliefs.
(4)
But there are also two kinds of beliefs: perceptions, which are rationally
governed by the principle of probability, and opinions, which are rationally
governed by the principle of autonomy.
(5)
In ordinary reasoning, there is only one relevant kind of belief, since the two
governing principles produce the same results.
That is, perceptions and opinions are ordinarily the same things, which
we simply call beliefs.
(6)
In cases of peer disagreement, however, the two sorts of belief come
apart. We perceive one thing according
to the principle of probability, and we hold something else according to the principle of autonomy.
(7)
In such cases there is no one thing that we believe simpliciter. Rather, we
believe two different things in different senses of the word 'believe'.
(8)
There is no reason to favour one principle or one sort of belief over the other
as uniquely rational in situations of
peer disagreement.
I
believe that this points to a satisfactory solution to the problem of
reconciling the two principles of rational belief in situations of peer
disagreement, hence to the problem of peer disagreement itself. It should be obvious that it works
technically, that is, that it provides at least a superficially coherent way of
structuring the necessary concepts. It
also seems to me that it can serve to validate both of our contrary intuitions
in peer disagreements without doing too much damage to the ordinary meanings of
the words involved, and without forcing unnecessary choices about what to
believe. It allows us to make sense of
why we tend to suspend belief when faced with disagreement in matters like the
accuracy of square root calculations, since there is nothing at stake for us
here in the relevant sense: we have no reason to persist in working out or
testing or asserting a personal position on which number is correct, hence no
actual opinion on the matter. At the same
time, we can understand why we tend to stick to our guns in things like
philosophical disagreements, for here we do have a personal epistemic interest
in constructing an integrated understanding of the point in question, and a
further social interest in contributing autonomous ideas and arguments to the
more general discussion. Thus, we can
acknowledge in an abstract way that we are likely to be wrong, all things
considered, while still sincerely urging that our own opinion is correct. As to which of these things we believe, the
answer is that we believe both things in different ways. As to which one we really believe, there is no answer and no need for one.
Note that this theory resolves the
problem with saying that we can believe what I am now calling opinions despite
their likelihood of being wrong, namely that by definition, to believe
something entails believing that it is at least probably true. In this theory, both types of belief conform
to that principle: if we perceive something then we perceive that it is
probably true, and if we hold something then we hold that it is probably
true. The problematic inference from
believing (in the sense of holding) something to believing (in the sense of
perceiving) that it is probably true is now blocked.
The
theory also suggests a neat
solution to the problem of believing that we are right in each case of peer
disagreement separately, but wrong in many of these cases when they are viewed
as a group. Considering our
disagreements with our peers in general, we tend to agree that we are just as
likely to be wrong as they are, for this is a simple statistical perception
governed by the principle of probability.
At the same time, though, when each particular disagreement occurs we
tend to insist that we are right about the point in question, for these are
matters of opinion governed by the principle of autonomy. Both attitudes are rational; no paradox
results as long as we discriminate between the two types of belief.
There
is an intuitive cost to all of this, of course, in that it makes the concept of
belief equivocal, permitting more than one doxastic attitude towards a single
proposition. Do we really want to say
that someone can both believe and not believe the same thing at the same time at all, let alone rationally? On balance, yes, I think we do. But does this not entail abandoning the
epistemic principle of non-contradiction?
I don't think so. If our beliefs
do form two overlapping sets or systems, and neither one contains internal
inconsistencies, then this should suffice to satisfy the principle. It is, admittedly, intuitively odd to say
that each of us has two sets of beliefs that sometimes conflict. But if we fully appreciate the different
functions of perceptions and opinions in our individual and social epistemic
lives, and if we value a clean-cut solution to the problem of peer
disagreement, then we can probably accept this as a price worth paying. This is, at any rate, what I believe at
present. If I discover that peers
disagree with me on this, then I'll perceive that I am likely to be wrong – but
I will need to be shown how I am
wrong before I give up my opinion.[15]
State
University of New York at Geneseo
References
Cohen, S. 2013. A Defense of the (Almost) Equal Weight View, in The Epistemology of Disagreement: New Essays, ed. D. Christensen and J. Lackey,
Oxford: Oxford University Press: 98-120.
Elga, A. 2007. Reflection and Disagreement, Nous 41/3: 478-502.
Elgin, C. 2010. Persistent Disagreement, in Disagreement, ed. R. Feldman and T. Warfield, Oxford: Oxford
University Press: 53-68.
Enoch, D. 2010. Not Just a Truthometer: Taking Oneself Seriously (but
not Too Seriously) in Cases of Peer Disagreement, Mind 119/476: 953-997.
Feldman, R. 2006. Epistemological
Puzzles about Disagreement, in Epistemology Futures, ed. S. Hetherington, Oxford: Oxford University Press: 216-36.
Fumerton, R. 2010. You Can’t
Trust a Philosopher, in
Disagreement, ed. R. Feldman and T.
Warfield, Oxford: Oxford University Press: 91-110.
Kelly, T. 2005. The Epistemic
Significance of Disagreement, in Oxford Studies in Epistemology, Volume 1,
ed. J. Hawthorne and T. Gendler Szabo,
Oxford: Oxford University Press:167-196.
Kelly, T. 2010. Peer Disagreement and
Higher Order Evidence, in
Disagreement, ed. R. Feldman and T.
Warfield, Oxford: Oxford University Press: 111-174.
Kitcher, P. 1990. The Division of
Epistemic Labor, Journal of Philosophy
87: 5-22.
Lackey, J. 2008. What Should We
Do When We Disagree?, in Oxford Studies in Epistemology, Volume 3, ed. J. Hawthorne and T. Gendler Szabo, Oxford: Oxford University Press: 274-293.
Van Inwagen, P. 2010. We're
right. They're wrong, in
Disagreement, ed. R. Feldman and T.
Warfield, Oxford: Oxford University Press: 10-28.
[1] Here I am following Elga [2007] and
Enoch [2010] as opposed to most of the current literature, where epistemic
peerage is defined to include not just equal overall reliability, but also
possession of the same evidence and the same epistemic virtues.
[2]
For arguments that we are rationally bound to give a disagreeing peer's
position equal weight with our own, see Feldman [2006] and Elga [2007]. For an argument that we are rationally bound
to ignore such evidence, see Kelly [2005]. For arguments that it should be considered
but not given equal probabilistic weight with our own prior beliefs, see Lackey
[2008], Kelly [2010] and Enoch [2010].
For an argument that it should be given almost equal weight, see Cohen [2013]. Here I am taking
the intuitive appeal of what is generally called the Equal Weight View for granted
(on the model of simple disagreements in arithmetic) in the interests of
developing a new, broader analysis of peer disagreement, not pretending to have refuted these or
any other well-elaborated positions. For
what it is worth, it seems to me that there are two good reasons for departing
somewhat from the Equal Weight View: first, that we know our own immediate
state of mind better than that of our peer opponent, so we should discount his
testimony by the (typically small) differential probability that his is lying
or somehow impaired [Lackey 2008]; and second, that rational equilibrium
requires us to reduce his prior status as a peer (typically only slightly) once
we discover that he disagrees with our prior position on the issue in question
[Kelly 2010]. In
any case, my argument here does not depend on weighting the views of peers
absolutely equally with our own. A
weaker principle would do, to the effect that a peer's disagreement carries some epistemic weight all by itself,
regardless of whether it seems right or makes sense to the believer.
[3]
For simplicity’s sake I am leaving this vague.
There is no single general threshold of likelihood of error that ought
to trigger categorical suspension of belief, though clearly, the more likely
you are to be wrong, the more reason you have to suspend belief. On the roughly Bayesian sort of approach I
actually favour, our degrees of confidence should be adjusted continuously
according to our total evidence at any moment, so there is no sharp distinction
between suspending and not suspending belief.
[4] Other
senses of the word 'ought' have no special label, but they are just as
useful. In fact, any sort of goal or
interest can define its own sense of the word 'ought'. For a few examples, we might say that hot
cocoa ought to have a little cinnamon in it, meaning that it tastes better that
way; that a hockey puck ought to be three inches in diameter, meaning that this
meets official standards; or that Keyser Söse ought to murder his own family,
meaning that this makes The Usual
Suspects a more interesting movie.
[5] In case this isn't obvious, I do not mean to
imply that there are no moral arguments for soldiers to run away or prudential
arguments for them to stand their ground.
I am just assuming a traditional view of such things in order to make my
point.
[6]
Van Inwagen [2010: 28] goes so far as to claim that he incapable of accepting that his confidence in being right in his
disputes with peers is irrational.
[7] Even television's Doctor House typically
allows his staff to follow protocol until all of the likely diagnoses have been
tested and failed, at which point he intervenes and saves the day with
brilliant hunches.
[8] Elgin [2010], citing Kitcher
[1990], raises this point in defence of retaining belief in cases of peer
disagreement.
[9] Interestingly, prior to his
condemnation Galileo had long been encouraged by Church authorities to pursue
his heterodox researches in a hypothetical vein, subject to ultimate approval
by his friend the Pope. But he could
never bring himself to say that he was only 'saving the appearances' with his
model of the universe. What propelled
him in his work, and what ultimately got him into so much trouble, was that he believed in it.
[10] My position is intended to be
consistent with the 'Uniqueness Thesis' that there is only one rational
conclusion to draw from any set of evidence.
But this depends on what we take to be the pool of evidence that
matters. On my view, we can in fact
rationally draw different conclusions from a given pool of evidence, but only
in the sense that it is sometimes (i.e. under the principle of autonomy)
epistemically proper to ignore some of that evidence.
[11] Some philosophers do argue that
rationality itself favours one or the other preference, say Kant for morality
and Nietzsche for a kind of prudence. I
am just pointing out the way that things intuitively seem.
[12] It is, of course, rationally
possible for peers to have different subjective
probabilities for the same proposition, at least initially. The intuitive problem is that each of them
should also be able to view their disagreement from a shared, objective point of view, and this would
seem to wipe out each of their preferences for their own prior beliefs, on pain
of contradiction. Enoch [2010] argues
that the first-person point of view is nevertheless dominant for purposes of
rational belief revision.
[13]
Some philosophers do appear to think and act this way, as if they believed that
they were literally peerless in their areas of interest, though few are so
ungracious as to admit it. Among those decently troubled by their
tendency to take the fourth approach while not really believing that they are
smarter than everybody else is Fumerton [2010: 103-105], who wonders whether
his well-known tenacity in philosophical discussions makes him seem like a
'jerk' or 'egomaniac'. It does not, but
he is right to be puzzled by this fact.
[14]
Elgin [2010], following Cohen [1992], distinguishes for different reasons
between 'belief' as an involuntary feeling
that something is so, and 'acceptance' as a voluntary, action-guiding sort of assent. She argues that the problem of rational
belief in cases of peer disagreement is really about acceptance rather
than what she calls belief, since a claim that we ought to believe something implies that we can believe it, and we cannot always change our beliefs when we
discover that they are irrational. It seems to me that the purely epistemic
'ought' does in fact always imply the epistemic 'can' – just not the psychological 'can'. For analogy, the fact that someone ought to
castle at a certain point during a game of chess clearly implies that he can
castle, that is, consistently with the rules of chess. Perhaps he oughtn't to castle as a moral or
prudential matter (say, his family's lives are hostage to his losing the game),
and perhaps he cannot physically move his king and rook (say, he is
incapacitated by a stroke). But he still
can castle in the same restricted,
formal realm in which he ought to
castle, i.e. the game qua game. Similarly, if a person ought to believe
something (say, that his spouse is cheating on him) in the restricted, purely
epistemic sense that it is rationally necessary for him to believe it in light
of the available evidence, this implies that he can believe it in the
corresponding sense that it is rationally possible for him to believe it, but
it does not imply that he either can or ought to believe it in the practical
world.
[15] Thanks for helpful comments to
David James Barnett, Alan Sidelle, audiences at SUNY Geneseo and the Creighton
Club, and two anonymous reviewers for the Australasian
Journal of Philosophy.