Chapter Two
THE CONCEPT OF KNOWLEDGE
When, therefore,
anyone forms the true opinion of anything without rational explanation, you may
say that his mind is truly exercised, but he has no knowledge; for he who cannot
give and receive a reason for a thing, has no knowledge of that thing; but when
he adds rational explanation, then, he is perfected in knowledge. --Plato
1. Definitions and Word Games
Suppose that we are concerned with the question of economic justice -- the fact
that a few are ridiculously wealthy, while many are pitifully poor. We might
convene an academic conference to discuss the issue and suggest some sort of
coherent social policy. Economists might tell us about how income distribution
is empirically related to national productivity. Political scientists might
tell something about relative tax rates and the amount of government services.
Sociologists could address the social effects of long-term poverty. Historians
could give us some sense of whether the problem is better or worse than it was
a hundred years ago. It would not be at all surprising if a philosopher
contributed a paper on the meaning of economic justice. In one way such a
contribution seems necessary and foundational. After all, how can we reasonably
construct some social policy aimed at greater economic justice, if we are not
crystal clear as to what we mean by this concept? In another light, however,
the philosopher's contribution seems frivolous, and even counter-productive. If
there is wide agreement that there is a problem that needs to be solved, the
philosopher's concern with long dead thinkers like Plato, Adam Smith and Marx
may strike us as an irresponsible waste of time and intellectual energy. To
carry this example just a bit further, suppose the philosopher's paper offers a
definition of economic justice that suggests some kind of tension with other
widely held values and social policies, and goes so far as to suggest that we
will never have a concept of economic justice that everyone will feel
comfortable with. Now the philosopher's concern with theory and the definition
of terms may strike us as subversive. It may be difficult and controversial to
articulate a theory about the nature of economic justice that everyone will
agree to. Nevertheless, we know injustice when we see it. And to suggest that
we spend our time defining terms and teasing out subtle philosophical
arguments, rather than offering constructive solutions to the obvious problems
that plague our society is both dangerous and immoral. But all of this is quite
unfair. No sane philosopher is going to suggest that we spend all of our time
and energy in academic theoretical pursuits. Obviously, there are crises that
call for immediate action, and we all recognize the need to make decisions on
less than perfect information. But there is also a need for abstract
theoretical work. It does seem crazy to propose significant social changes that
will effect all of us without some kind of clear understanding of what we are
trying to bring about. Pausing to reflect on the nature of economic justice --
defining our terms, as they say -- may be worthwhile even in a time of some
urgency.
Please excuse the above digression. I have included it because I believe that
many beginning students see much of traditional epistemology in the same
uncharitable light that our philosopher was portrayed. Every reader of this
book is a mature speaker of English. The verb, 'to know', and the abstract
noun, 'knowledge', are fairly normal words within the English language.
Obviously, we must know what they mean. We will discover, however, that it
proves exceedingly difficult to articulate a clear and coherent definition, or
theory, of knowledge.
2. The Myth of Definition
This chapter discusses the prospects for offering a helpful analysis, or
definition, of the concept of knowledge. We need to take a little time
dispelling a common misunderstanding about the importance of definition in
everyday contexts, as well as philosophical contexts. It is widely believed
that people do not know the meaning of the words they use -- they do not know
what they are talking about -- unless they can provide adequate definitions for
all of those words. This is simply a mistaken view of meaning.
Someone can be an excellent athlete, a hitter in baseball, for example, yet be
a very poor coach or teacher of how to hit. Surprisingly, perhaps, others can
be mediocre hitters, but turn into outstanding hitting coaches. The reason
these things are possible is that there is all the difference in the world
between doing something, and describing or explaining how to do something.
Think for a moment about those things that you are most skilled at doing --
shooting free throws, playing a musical instrument, riding a bicycle, etc. How
confident would you be that you could teach someone else how to be skillful at
this? Could you write a manual for them on how to do it?
Speaking a language is much more like hitting a baseball than being a good
little league coach. Language is skillful activity that human beings master
with remarkable facility, in ways that philosophers, psychologists, and
linguists are only beginning to appreciate. I can safely assume that any reader
of this book is an accomplished enough user of English that he or she knows
full well the meaning of almost every word that philosophers have spent a great
deal of time and energy trying to analyze or define. You all know the meaning
of terms like 'beauty', 'justice', and 'knowledge', because you can use
sentences like the following to communicate with other English speakers.
1. That's a
beautiful painting.
2. Not to let
Sarah play would be unjust.
3. You don't
really know that the Dodgers will win the pennant, you just hope they
will.
All of this is important because it is so easy to forget in the middle of
philosophical battles. We are going to analyze the concept of knowledge in this
chapter. We will see that this task is difficult, controversial, and perhaps in
the end impossible to complete satisfactorily. This doesn't mean for a second
that you, or the great minds of western philosophy, do not know how to use
words like 'know' and 'knowledge' for the purposes of clear communication.
3. The Need for Conceptual Clarity
Although I stand one-hundred percent behind what I said above, this doesn't
mean that careful conceptual analysis is not important. People sometimes make
remarkable claims about knowledge. We have just seen how the skeptic can put
together plausible and disturbing arguments that we know next to nothing. The
arguments of the last chapter are classical examples of the sorts of
intellectual concerns that occupy the attention of professional philosophers.
Intellectual disputes about knowledge are not limited to philosophers, however.
We often hear that modern scientists do not know that evolution by natural
selection is true. Many claim that it is only a "theory." This is
sometimes backed up with an argument. Science, so this line of thinking goes,
is only concerned with what can be directly observed or proved with laboratory
experiments. But evolution cannot be directly observed, both because it is too
slow of a process, and because the most interesting observations would have
needed to take place in a time before there were human observers. Furthermore,
creationists claim that no controlled laboratory experiment can prove that
evolution is true. I am convinced that my creationist friends are serious
mistaken about all of this, but to make my case I will probably need to convince
them that science and scientific knowledge are more wide-ranging than they have
been characterized in the proposed definitions.
If we are to make any progress in understanding, let alone resolving, these
kinds of intellectual disputes, we are going to need to be much clearer in our
own minds as to what counts as knowledge. I claim to know that I am at my
computer composing this chapter. The skeptic tells me I don't know this after
all, it might only be a dream. I believe that modern biology knows that natural
selection is true. Creationists claim that they don't, and that their
"faith" in the theory is no different than religious belief. How can
we possibly hope to make progress toward resolving these disputes without some
fairly specific agreement as to what counts as genuine knowledge?
For some, the kind of conceptual analysis we are engaged in in this chapter can
be fun and exciting in its own right. Most of you, however, should see it as a
necessary means to an end. I assume most of you care about whether scientists
know what they are talking about. If you are like I am, you think they probably
do. But to really feel confident about this you need to have some answers to
the philosophical skeptic who says it might all be a dream, and the methodological
skeptic who argues from a specific model of scientific knowledge. To answer
either of these skeptics productively, you need some agreement about the nature
of knowledge.
4. Knowledge and Belief
Human beings seem to be a very credulous species, we believe an amazing variety
of things. Our ancestors believed in witches, that the earth was flat, and in
the divine right of kings. People today believe that their futures are foretold
in horoscopes, that good writing can be accomplished in first drafts, and a few
diehard fans believe that the Cubs will finally get it together. From the
perspective of history it is easy to find countless beliefs that we sincerely
held that strike us as foolish, dangerous, and immoral. But, of course, not all
beliefs fit into this category.
Other things we don't merely believe, we know. I, of course, believe
that I am a philosophy professor, an aging softball player, and a movie freak.
But, I don't just believe these things, I know them. The distinction between
belief and knowledge is not like the one between being a sibling and being an
only child -- it is not an exclusive, either/or difference. It is rather like
the distinction between an automobile and a convertible. To be a convertible is
to be a special kind of automobile. As logicians put it, being an automobile is
a necessary condition of being a convertible. Not all
automobiles are convertibles, but all convertibles are automobiles.
Traditional models, or definitions, of knowledge have attempted to articulate a
list of necessary conditions that are jointly sufficient for
having genuine knowledge. Since the abstract noun, 'knowledge,' is kind of
artificial, these models have usually been articulated using the more familiar verb.
Our observations about knowledge and belief suggest the first entry on our list
of necessary conditions.
J knows P only
if:
i. J
believes P.
There is a fairly common mode of expression that seems to call this into question.
Suppose we have a friend who is headed for heartache partly because he refuses
to take seriously the obvious evidence of his lover's infidelity. We might say,
"Jake knows that she's untrue, but he can't bring himself to believe
it." Or, perhaps, we know someone who is foolishly refusing to take heed
of medical symptoms. "Sarah knows something is wrong, but just won't
believe it." How seriously should we take the claim that both Jake and
Sarah have knowledge, but lack belief? Not very.
Jake sees the obvious signs, and has his moments of doubt. Sarah, too. If they
didn't we wouldn't be inclined to say they knew. It is, of course, possible for
people to be perversely dense. People can be totally oblivious to things that
are perfectly obvious to others. Jessica may genuinely believe that her lover
is totally faithful, despite the lame excuses and the lipstick on the collar.
But we would never be tempted to say Jessica knows, though perhaps she should.
When we use the above idiom we are getting at something interesting about Jake
and Sarah. They seem to be engaging in what philosophers call self-deception.
This is an important issue in both philosophy and psychology, but really says
nothing about how to define knowledge.
I take it to be settled that knowledge implies some kind of genuine conviction
or intellectual confidence. Thus, the first necessary condition of knowledge
turns out to be relatively secure, uncontroversial, and philosophically
straightforward. Would that we could say the same about the conditions to
follow.
5. In Search for the Truth
You are the District Attorney and you've got a great case. The defendant is the
kind of low-life that society needs to do something about. You've got the goods
on him too. Lots of physical evidence, a clear motive, and witnesses. The case
will be an easy one to try, and it will be a feather in your cap to be the one
who put him away. You know the slime ball's guilty. There's only one problem
with this scenario, the guy didn't do it. It does not matter how sincere your
belief is, nor how good the evidence seems to be -- if what you thought you
knew turns out to be false, it's back to the drawing board. Truth is an
absolute precondition for knowledge. Unfortunately, truth is also a
philosophical mess.
Here's the truth about truth, and it's not a pretty picture. Contemporary
philosophy is about as far from consensus about the nature of truth as any
issue in the field. Some believe that truth is correspondence
with reality. Others that it is coherence with other widely
held beliefs. Yet others claim that the assertion that "snow is white is
true" is just a fancy way of saying that "snow is white." All of
these theories of truth have plausible arguments in their defense, and all suffer
from serious conceptual problems. Professional philosophy doesn't know what
truth is.
In spite of all of the confusion about the nature of truth, however, the
relationship between truth and knowledge is as clear as could be. The only
beliefs that we have that are viable candidates for being knowledge are those
that are true. The surest way to defeat someone's claim that they know
something is to show that what they claim to know is false. This suggests a
workable epistemological definition of truth.
truth =df
not-false
Admittedly, this is a pretty trivial definition. It does, however, have the
advantage of separating philosophical disputes about the nature of truth from
the non-controversial connection between truth and knowledge.
Thus, truth supplies a second necessary condition for knowledge. We can expand
our evolving model of knowledge as follows.
J knows P only
if:
i. J
believes P.
ii. P is
true.
6. Epistemic Justification
Perhaps we already have all that we need. The concept of knowledge seems both
subjective and objective -- it is something that individual subjects have or
fail to have, but it is objective in the sense that the way the world is,
independent of particular subjects, also plays a huge part. Condition (i) takes
care of the subjective element, and (ii) covers the objective. What more do we
need?
I have been hoping for a raise. Unfortunately, my latest evaluation left a lot
to be desired, and the state's budget looks pretty bleak. Forever the optimist,
I continue to think the best. I woke up yesterday and as I was having my
morning coffee I glanced at my horoscope. The entry for Pisces was way
cool.
You will receive
something long overdue and well deserved. All the signs are positive.
My raise! What could
be clearer? I went to work with a smile on my face absolutely confident that I
would get the good news. And I did! The Governor decided that all state
employees should get a modest salary adjustment, and that in the afternoon we
were all formally notified.
The two conditions for knowledge are satisfied. Johnson believes that he will
get a raise, and it is true that he will get a raise. He knows he will get a
raise. Most of us would be very reluctant to say this is knowledge. What he
believes turns out to be true, but merely by coincidence or good luck. The
subjective element of belief, and the objective element of truth seem much too
tenuously connected. What seems to be missing is some reason or evidence in
support of my belief. Sure, the horoscope is a reason in the sense of providing
a psychological explanation for why I happen to have this belief. But, it's
such a poor reason -- it's unreliable -- that we attribute the belief's truth
to good fortune and not the strength of the reason.
Epistemologists have adopted the idiom of normative obligation to get at the
stronger connection between belief and truth that is required for genuine
knowledge. You are entitled to claim knowledge, according to this way of
thinking about things, only if your belief is justified. That
is, just in case you have very good reason for thinking it is true.
Thus, on the so-called standard analysis of knowledge a third
necessary condition of knowledge, one that completes the package and makes it jointly
sufficient, is the justification condition.
J knows P if
and only if:
i. J
believes P.
ii. P is
true.
iii. J is
justified in believing P.
7. What Does It Take to Be
Justified?
We have seen how skeptics can produce a formidable battery of arguments designed
to show that we are never completely justified in believing anything. The
problem concerns the connection between truth and justification. The only
standard that completely eliminates the possibility of our beliefs being held
in error is one of self-evidence or certainty. But as the Cartesian project has
convinced most of us, epistemological certainty is unattainable. This means
that whatever model of knowledge is finally endorsed will be committed to some
sort of epistemic fallibility. This is not that serious a worry for most
natural or social scientists, but does run counter to the dominant tradition in
western epistemology.
Self-evidence and certainty may have set unrealistically high standards for
knowledge, but these epistemic standards had the superficial appearance of
being clear and identifiable. Models of knowledge that substitute criteria for
epistemic justification must be prepared to state some new criterion for
distinguishing unfounded belief, from a promising theory, from established
knowledge. The contemporary literature offers many intriguing possibilities --
some highly formal, and some quite commonsensical, but, none that have won
anything approaching consensus.
I suggest that we understand the idea of epistemic justification in terms of
evidence. The things that we know are those true beliefs for
which we have very, very, very good evidence. Good evidence is something that
we are all familiar with, and something that we can learn to reliably spot. I
will be offering in the chapters to follow a model of -- or a kind of formula
for testing for -- good evidence. I hope to convince you that this model
captures everything we care about when we assess the quality of a person's
evidence, or for that matter, their claims to knowledge.
Let's transform the standard analysis of knowledge in light of
all of this into the following.
J knows P only
if:
i. J
believes P.
ii. P is
true.
iii. J
has exceedingly good evidence for P.
8. An Unsolved Problem
If you were reading very carefully, you may have noticed a slight difference in
the way I stated the standard analysis of knowledge at the end of Section 6,
and at the end of Section 7. You are all smart enough to see the obvious change
in condition (iii.), but can you find the other difference? The way the
philosophic tradition has defined knowledge is to articulate necessary and
sufficient conditions for knowing something. The standard analysis of knowledge
claims that the three necessary conditions are, taken together, sufficient for
knowing something. In my statement of a "transformed" analysis, I
wimped-out a bit. I claimed that my three conditions were all necessary --
that's what the only if signifies -- but, I left it open
whether the three conditions were sufficient. Here's why.
Consider the following little thought-experiment. My wife and I have spent the
last hour collaborating on our special spaghetti sauce. Just as we are getting
ready to serve dinner we discover that we are out of Parmesan cheese. We divide
responsibilities -- she will toss the salad and serve dinner; I'll make the
emergency run to the store. While at the store I meet a colleague doing
research in contemporary epistemology -- she wants an example of knowledge. I
suggest that I know there is a spaghetti dinner sitting on our dining room
table right now. And as luck would have it, it's true that a spaghetti dinner
is on the table. I believe it; it's true; and I'm justified in believing it.
All is well. Unfortunately not. After I left our German shepherd, Guido, got
rambunctious and knocked the pot of simmering spaghetti sauce on the dirty
kitchen floor. My wife considered violence to the dog, but before anything
could happen a neighbor arrived with a pot of left over spaghetti sauce,
announcing that she was leaving on vacation and it would surely spoil before
she returned. Thus, the spaghetti sauce that made my knowledge claim true is
unconnected to the spaghetti sauce that provided the justification for my
belief. It is odd in the extreme to claim that I had knowledge of the pot of
spaghetti sitting on my table. It is pure serendipity that my belief turned out
to be true.
Guido and his
partner in crime, Annie
A lot of contemporary epistemology has been concerned with ruling out these
kind of "Guido" cases. Many philosophers have suggested that some
fourth, or fifth, or sixth, etc., condition must be added to our analysis of
knowledge. I am not sure whether I personally agree, or not. To be on the safe
side, however, I will be content with the above transformed analysis. The
epistemic action in this little book will focus on condition (iii). What the
heck is it to have evidence, or good evidence, or exceedingly good evidence,
for something?