|
pnrj
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Patrick Country: United States State: Michigan Metro: Ann Arbor Gender: Male
Interests: Friendship, love, writing, psychology, physics, philosophy, ethics, science, photography, art, gaming, technology, computing Expertise: My skills are primarily in writing, science, and mathematics, though I have a knack for Latin, I'm pretty good at painting and photography, and I'm not atrocious at drawing, singing, or composing. Not much of an athlete, nor do I care to be, though I do try to stay fit and eat right. I'm still working on that whole relationship business. Love is hard to find. Occupation: Student, Researcher, Author Industry: Literature, Science, Education
Message: message meEmail: email me Website: visit my website
Member Since:
5/3/2005
True
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| First of all, we must all admit the
intuitive force of this argument; we all know that Searle doesn't
understand Chinese, and by stipulation the system does everything
that could be done by a Chinese speaker; hence we must either say
that Searle understands Chinese but doesn't realize it, that the
system can mysteriously know Chinese even though Searle does not, or
that there is something more to understanding Chinese than simply
doing everything that a Chinese speaker could do.
Moreover, the presumptions here really
are only those of computationalism—we already know that any
computation can be performed by a wide variety of hardware, and
indeed that any finite computation can be reduced to lookup tables
(if A, do B and goto C). So doesn't it follow that if understanding
Chinese is just computation, then Searle with his lookup tables must
understand Chinese?
Scale arguments seem to miss the
point. Unless Churchland can explain why computing in sub-second time
makes consciousness but computing over several billion years doesn't
(in the same way that indeed moving a magnet 10 times per second
makes weak radio waves and moving it 1 billion times per second makes
light), her "luminous room" counterargument can't work.
Yet it's important to understand what
role scale does play here. Searle's argument cannot be
used to undermine the Turing Test. This is because any entity which
can pass a Turing Test must pass that test in real time—at
the same rate of computation and response that a human being would.
Given that the lookup tables for all possible 30-minute human
interactions, written in 12-point font, would take up more space than
the observable universe and require up to 90 billion years between
steps, Searle's room of file cabinets can't possibly pass a real
Turing Test. At best it could pass a highly-structured form of the
Turing Test in which all the questions were known in
advance—something I could make a Python script to do. And if we
were to encode the full set of lookup rules more efficiently, say on
a neural-network architecture of billions of microchips, saying the
resulting entity—the resulting AI—wouldn't be conscious simply
begs the question. Even with the Chinese Room notwithstanding, it's
fair to say that any entity which passes a real Turing Test is
conscious. (In fact, most people when asked agree that fictional AIs
like Data from Star Trek: TNG or
Romi from Andromeda
would be, if real, conscious; I think this is precisely because these
AIs pass a real-time Turing Test with flying colors.)
Inversely,
this also explains why Dennett's evolutionary argument against
zombies doesn't work. It could well be that zombies are possible,
they're just so inefficient
that they would never evolve. In
his argument, Dennett presumes that zombies are "a bit
simpler"—but in fact there is every reason to think that they
would be vastly more complicated. A conscious human brain can do
things in seconds which would take lookup tables billions of years.
It could be that we have a choice between making real consciousness
and simulating it—and it's easier to make it for real. I'm not
committed to the idea that zombies are possible; in fact I don't
think they are—but you can't prove this with evolutionary
arguments. Evolutionary arguments merely prove that zombies are, if
possible, inefficient.
As
for the Turing Test, it's important to note that we aren't
saying that anything which can't
pass isn't conscious; the Turing Test was always meant to be a test
of sufficiency for
conciousness, not necessity;
even Turing would have agreed that dogs and people with severe
aphasia are conscious despite being unable to pass any kind of verbal
test. And because of this I do think that Searle's argument does
something to undermine computationalism, since it at the very least
seems very counter-intuitive to say that the 90 billion light-year
file cabinet system is conscious, but
just a very slow, inefficient sort of consciousness that isn't smart
enough to pass a Turing Test. I'm not sure whether that's true or
false, but I agree it's very counter-intuitive.
So, I
ask Searle: What else would be needed? What are these "causal
powers" that neurons have which allow them to make
consciousness?
Searle
never answers this question, probably because he knows how trivial it
makes his argument. Whatever the "causal powers" are, they
are either physical or non-physical.
If
they are non-physical, then despite all his claims to the contrary
Searle is committed to substance dualism—and all the problems that
substance dualism entails. This cannot be seriously considered
credible in an age of neuropsychology; the brain and mind are too
closely connected for us to posit any kind of non-physical "soul".
Otherwise,
the "causal powers" must be physical. If they are physical,
then we could create an artificial system capable of replicating
them. Searle is right to say that a computer simulation of rain isn't
rain—but surely we can't say that a machine which pours drops of
water from the sky isn't making rain? Now, it could be that the
"causal powers" are so closely tied to brain chemistry that
we will end up synthesizing serotonin and
making synthetic neurons that
are actually alive. The resulting artificial brain would be
indistinguishable from a natural brain—and hence our AI would be
more like an artificial human. But how plausible is this really?
Other biological functions are not so closely tied to their
chemistry. An entity which intakes and outputs air is respirating,
whether it has lungs and a
diaphragm or an electronic pump. An entity which takes in light and
carbon dioxide and makes sugar is photosynthesizing,
regardless of whether it uses
chlorophyll or photovoltaics. An entity which copies itself is
reproducing, whether
it uses sperm and ova or an electronic blueprint and construction
apparatus. Biology happens to work well under carbon chemsitry—but
carbon chemistry is not necessary for biological function.
Indeed,
even within the human brain there are differences in neural structure
and chemical composition—some neurons are serotonergic, others
dopaminergic, still others GABAergic, and so on. Different animals
have different chemicals in their brains—human serotonin receptors
aren't the same as dog serotonin receptors. If nothing else, we ought
to be able to construct an AI brain that has significant differences
in chemical composition from any animal brain, even if for some
reason it must in fact be pink and squishy. But is it really such a
stretch to think that it need not be
pink and squishy, that a network of silicon chips could work just as
well?
Perhaps
there is something more to consciousness than mere computation; but
whatever else is required, that is surely something we could
replicate in an artificial entity. Searle's "strong AI" is
a straw man—artificial intelligence of even the Data and Romi sort
remains possible under any physical account of consciousness.
| | |
| [JD 2455154]
It is often alleged that
utilitarianism, even in its most nuanced variants, is "cold"
or "heartless" in some way---that the rational calculation
of consequences entails a sort of devaluing of human life. (In this
post I will be using the word "utilitarianism" broadly to
describe any theory of consequentialism that considers all
consequences to be ultimately commensurable, such that it would be
justified to commit any evil act given that it was the only
way to achieve some sufficiently great good. There are a few kinds of
consequentialism that don't operate this way, but they are the
minority.)
This is a common intuition, and I
don't think it is completely without foundation; but I am convinced
that it is ultimately mistaken. While it might seem unconscionable to
allow (e.g.) rape, murder, genocide in order to achieve some greater
good, ultimately this revulsion comes from a failure of imagination
regarding just how great that
greater good would need to be. To justify a genocide, it would not be
enough that the world would be better off without the targeted group;
rather, it would have to be that without the genocide a far more
terrible outcome would have occurred, like the total destruction of
human civilization. Further, there must have been no other way to
prevent such a terrible outcome---otherwise we ought to take that
other path.
There
is a kind of utilitarianism that is cold; the most naive Benthamite
act-utilitarianism seems quite cold. If all we are measuring is
subjective pleasure versus subjective pain, we ignore not only
aesthetics and honesty, but indeed autonomy and
death! To a Benthamite
utilitarian, a painless death is morally neutral, and there is
nothing wrong with benevolent slavery. Indeed, under such a
philosophy something like the Matrix---a false but pleasant reality
imposed upon us through delusion---is not only permissible, but good;
it may even be obligatory. This seems quite cold indeed, but it is
dangerously close to a straw man; no serious modern utilitarian would
defend these notions. Indeed, nearly all utilitarians today agree
with John Stuart Mill, and adopt a system of consequences that
includes not only pleasure and pain simpliciter, but
also the "pleasure" of aesthetics, the "pain" of
fearing death, the "pleasure" of autonomy, the "pain"
of dishonesty. One could argue that these experiences aren't really
pleasure and pain, but in fact something broader, like attractive and
aversive emotions generally (in fact, I would argue precisely this);
but the point remains that serious utilitarianism today considers
this broad range of experiences and not a simplistic calculation of
subjective pleasure versus subjective pain. If the sense of coldness
came from Benthamite utilitarianism, basically the argument is one of
guilt by association.
Moreover,
it seems to me that the other moral theories on offer are not only
just as cold---they are in fact significantly colder. They
value the wrong things, and turn a blind eye to suffering when
preventing it would require us to sacrifice our moral righteousness.
In
the first case, virtue theory values something like "human
flourishing" or a "completeness of character" above
all else. As such, a virtue theorist is committed to saying that if I
must allow a million people to suffer and die in order to preserve my
completeness of character, I not only may do
so, in fact I ought to
do so---it would be wrong of
me to sacrifice my character to save that million people. What could
be colder than that?
In
the second case, deontology demands that we obey moral rules under
all circumstances, without exception or hesitation. A deontologist is
committed to saying that we must never break the rules---never kill
an innocent person, or in Kant's infamous case, never even tell
a lie---regardless of how many
people must suffer as a result. Pacifism is a particularly extreme
deontology in which the rule is literally "thou shalt not kill";
killing human beings is absolutely forbidden regardless of the
circumstances. It's not hard to see how a nation of pacifists would
be rapidly invaded and exploited by foreign powers.In essence,
deontology values clean hands over
all else: Regardless of whom it hurts, I must never dirty my hands
with evil actions. This doesn't seem as cold as virtue theory, but it
still seems quite cold!
On
the other hand, one could devise a virtue theory or deontology that
didn't have such terrible consequences; the most obvious way would be
to define the virtues and rules such that they are based upon the
predicted consequences. But once we've done this, aren't we really
talking about utilitarianism anyway? If "virtue" is that
which will make one likely to do good, and the "rules" are
heuristics that are likely to produce good outcomes---that's
utilitarianism! It's a nuanced Millian sort of utilitarianism, but
that's what utilitarians have been advocating anyway.
| | |
| This has not been a good semester for
me. I suffered H1N1 influenza, I experienced a relapse in my
depression and migraines; I have been getting mediocre grades (Bs and
Cs instead of As); I've done basically nothing on my honors thesis
after being completely discouraged by a lack of support from
professors.
It could just be luck: The infection
and subsequent recovery triggered my depression, which triggered my
migraines; the combination of the three and the resulting loss of
attendance and focus has damaged my academic success. I have
ambitious research plans that are difficult to achieve, and I
reasonably expected better support in my research than I actually
received; thereby I became discouraged.
But it could also be subconscious or
semi-conscious intentions on my part. I stand before a crossroads in
my life, with many options laid out before me. I could go on to
graduate school; I could join the Peace Corps; I could seek a
teaching fellowship; I could combine these things through Peace Corps
Master's International; I could take a year off to finish my book;
and there are thousands of other options I might sometimes be tempted
to consider but would generally consider less viable.
And in the face of all these options,
I am afraid, or anxious,or
some similar aversive emotion. I fear that I will make the wrong
choice, or that I won't be given the opportunity I deserve. I feel as
a tiny kayak on a fast and forking river, trying desperately to
choose my course as I am swept ahead. I feel that I need time to
consider these options, time to reflect upon my true goals and
aspirations, time to plan my future. And yet I am not being given
this time; the hours and days and months carry me relentlessly closer
to graduation.
"Life
is what happens when you're busy making other plans" said John
Lennon, and a month later he'd been murdered. I am continually
reminded of this thought, because it is so troubling to me. I don't
want my life to be so random, so far beyond my control.
I
want time to think about what I want to do in my life; I want time to
develop deeper theories of the Hard Problem; I want time to write my
books. I want to shunt a log across the river so that I can plan my
course.
I'm
not sure this is a reasonable desire; life goes on regardless of what
we want. Yet at the same time, I see so many people around me with no
plans, no dreams, simply carried forth into lives in which they will
ultimately be unhappy and unfulfilled. Worse, even if they are happy,
they are unlikely to achieve great good in the world; some might be
satisfied with helping only those near to them, but I feel a deep
drive to achieve something great, something lasting. In order to do
that I need to seriously reflect upon the best path for myself.
Perhaps
I should take the next semester off? That's the closest I can see to
shunting the river. I could spend the winter of 2010 reflecting, then
come back in 2010-2011 to finish my degree. This feels unappealing to
me... I think this is primarily because it seems "weak" or
like "surrender". I feel as if I am giving in to my
anxiety—or even to my depression. I am "losing" some sort
of "battle".
Alternatively,
with significant effort I could psych myself back to full potential,
finish my degree in time. This latter plan raises additional
questions: Should I cancel my honors thesis? What should I do after
graduation—and shouldn't I be applying to these things now?
Increasingly
I'm thinking time off is warranted. I'd need to make sure that I use
the time—that it isn't just
wasted—but I think I could do that. The sense of "weakness"
or "surrender" increasingly seems a poor reason for
choosing a particular direction in my life. Indeed, I feel a sense of
relief simply from proposing the option: Even if I ultimately decide
not to do so, I have found a way to shunt the river. Will my parents
be disappointed? Will others think less of me? Possibly—though not
necessarily. And even if I make the wrong choice, there will be time
to change that decision—many people change careers well into middle
age. I could stay on this path now and change later.
Yet
this is my life, and my life's direction that I am trying to decide.
I want to do it right the first time. My autonomy here is not
negotiable. In the absence of some foolish fantasy of divine destiny,
autonomy in planning our lives is essential to fulfillment. Achieving
what I want means knowing what
I want and planning appropriately. I should not sacrifice that
autonomy for the sake of some mild and transient disapproval.
| | |
| First, it proved that the local chapter of the Center For Inquiry has odd taste in events---why a political scientist to dissect New Atheism, and a miniscule promotion campaign that only attracted CFI members and a few from the SSA?
Second, it reprised much about what I despise about criticism of the New Atheists. "You're too angry! You're too strident! Why can't you be nicer?" The speaker even began by accusing the New Atheists of being the "New Dogmatists"---he in fact proceeded to use the word "dogmatic" to describe at least three separate phenomena: first, angry dismissal of obviously false beliefs ("New Dogmatists"), second, strongly held belief without sufficient evidence (the usual definition), and third, violent militancy for ideological causes (Marxist, Islamist, Maoist dogma; what we'd usually call "fanaticism"). The third is obviously terrible, and the whole point of the New Atheists is to point out that the second is almost as bad; but to then place us in the same category, simply because we're a little "aggressive"? This is an inversion of morality that rightly angered me.
But speaking of my anger, Ewan pointed out to me that I may have become too angry in the discussion. My raised voice (though I note I never used profanity, name-calling, or really anything but logical argument delivered with vocal emphasis) may have been off-putting to some, in this case and perhaps in others as well. For all the absurdity of comparing Richard Dawkins to a suicide bomber, there was a kernel of truth in the speaker's argument---namely that perhaps our anger, however justified, might be hurting our ability to persuade. In my own case I know I anger easily when faced with foolishness, and I think this probably describes the "stridence" of Dawkins and Hitchens as well.
It's not that I get angry at those who disagree with me: Propose a competing theory of the Hard Problem, or disagree about the best approach for resolving global warming, or even debate with me about the proper time in gestation to allow abortion, and I will be civil and rational. But try to claim that there is an invisible immortal soul, or that global warming is a myth, or that zygotes deserve full human rights, and yes, I'll raise my voice at you. Some ideas are just wrong, and like Dawkins and Harris and Hitchens, I am sick of stupid ideas being respected and considered on equal terms with obvious facts.
On the other hand, it may not be working. Perhaps a calmer approach would be better. Then again, when have calm logical arguments changed history? Maybe outrage is precisely the proper response, both in principle and in practice.
I certainly don't see a lot of evidence to the contrary.
| | |
| I couldn't have said it better myself, so read it there: it's the God Conundrum.
| | |
|