Roderick Chisholm

(1916-1999)

Roderick Chisholm studied at Harvard but was strongly opposed to behaviorist analytic
philosophers like Willard van Orman Quine. His major work was titled Person and
Object to draw the contrast with analytic language philosophy implicit in Quine's
famous Word and Object.
Chisholm was a libertarian who distinguished "agent causation" from "event-causation"
(see his Freedom and Action), which is a major distinction made by
current incompatibilist philosophers. Late in life he recanted this distinction.
"In earlier writings on this topic, I had contrasted agent causation with event causation and had
suggested that "causation by agents" could not be reduced to "causation by events." I now believe that
that suggestion was a mistake. What I had called agent causation is a subspecies of event causation. My
concern in the present study is to note the specific differences by reference to which agent causation can
be distinguished from other types of event causation."
("Agents, Causes, and Events: The Problem of Free Will," in Agents, Causes, and Events: Essays on Indeterminism and Free Will. , ed. T. O'Connor,
1995)

In his 1964 Lindley Lecture at the University of Kansas, "Human Freedom and the Self,"
Chisholm saw free will as a metaphysical problem. He asserts that a man who performs an
act is completely free and uncaused, a causa sui.
The metaphysical problem of human freedom might be summarized in the following way: "Human beings
are responsible agents; but this fact appears to conflict with a deterministic view of human action (the
view that every event that is involved in an act is caused by some other event); and it also appears to
conflict with an indeterministic view of human action (the view that the act, or some event that is essential
to the act, is not caused at all)." To solve the problem, I believe, we must make somewhat far-reaching
assumptions about the self of the agent — about the man who performs the act.

Perhaps it is needless to remark that, in all likelihood, it is impossible to say anything significant about
this ancient problem that has not been said before.

("Human freedom and the self," The Lindley Lecture, reprinted in Free Will, Gary Watson, ed., 2003)

Chisholm says the agent must be able to perform an act and also able not to perform it, he
or she could have done otherwise.
Let us consider some deed, or misdeed, that may be attributed to a responsible agent: one man, say,
shot another. If the man was responsible for what he did, then, I would urge, what was to happen at the
time of the shooting was something that was entirely up to the man himself. There was a moment at
which it was true, both that he could have fired the shot and also that he could have refrained from firing
it. And if this is so, then, even though he did fire it, he could have done something else instead. (He didn't
find himself firing the shot "against his will," as we say.) I think we can say, more generally, then, that if a
man is responsible for a certain event or a certain state of affairs (in our example, the shooting of another
man), then that event or state of affairs was brought about by some act of his, and the act was something
that was in his power either to perform or not to perform.
(ibid.)

Chisholm talks about others who might control the agent's mind, by hypnosis for example,
which anticipates Harry Frankfurt's mind controllers.
But now, if the act which he did perform was an act that was also in his power not to perform,
then it could not have been caused or determined by any event that was not itself within his power either
to bring about or not to bring about. For example, if what we say he did was really something that was
brought about by a second man, one who forced his hand upon the trigger, say, or who, by means of
hypnosis, compelled him to perform the act, then, since the act was caused by the second man, it was
nothing that was within the power of the first man to prevent. And precisely the same thing is true, I think,
if instead of referring to a second man who compelled the first one, we speak instead of the desires and
beliefs which the first man happens to have had. For if what we say he did was really something that was
brought about by his own beliefs and desires, if these beliefs and desires in the particular situation in
which he happened to have found himself caused him to do just what it was that we say he did do, then,
since they caused it, he was unable to do anything other than just what he did do. It makes no difference
whether the cause of the deed was internal or external: if the cause was some state or event for which
the man himself was not responsible, then he was not responsible for what we have been mistakenly
calling his act. If a flood caused the poorly structured dam to break, then, given the flood and the
constitution of the dam, the break, we may say, had to occur and nothing could have happened in its
place. And if the flood of desire caused the weak-willed man to give in, then he, too, had to do just what it
was that he did do and he was no more responsible than was the dam for the results that followed.
(ibid., p.27.)

Chisholm reprises the Determinism Objection and Randomness Objection in the standard

argument against free will.
the ascription of responsibility conflicts with a deterministic view of action. Perhaps there is less need to
argue that the ascription of responsibility also conflicts with an indeterministic view of action — with the
view that the act, or some event that is essential to the act, is not caused at all.
The "chance a direct cause of action" error

If the act — the firing of the shot — was not caused at all, if it was fortuitous or capricious, happening so
to speak "out of the blue," then, presumably, no one — and nothing — was responsible for the act. Our
conception of action, therefore, should be neither deterministic nor indeterministic. Is there any other
possibility?

We must not say that every event involved in the act is caused by some other event, and we must not
say that the act is something that is not caused at all. The possibility that remains, therefore, is this: We
should say that at least one of the events that are involved in the act is caused, not by any other events,
but by something else instead. And this something else can only be the agent — the man.

The origin of
"agent causation"

If there is an event that is caused, not by other events, but by the man, then there are some events
involved in the act that are not caused by other events. But if the event in question is caused by the man,
then it is caused and we are not committed to saying that there is something involved in the act that is
not caused at all.
(ibid., p.29-30.)

Parts and Wholes

At his presidential address to the twenty-fourth annual meeting of the Metaphysical Society
of America in 1973, Chisholm defined what he called "mereological essentialism," the idea
that if some object has parts then those parts are essential, metaphysically necessary, to
the particular object. Compare it to today's "mereological nihilism" and "mereological
universalism," as defined by Peter van Inwagen, in his 1990 book Material Beings.
The puzzle pertains to what I shall call the principle of mereological essentialism. The principle may be
formulated by saying that, for any whole x, if x has y as one of its parts then y is part of x in every
possible world in which x exists. The principle may also be put by saying that every whole has the parts
that it has necessarily, or by saying that if y is part of x then the property of having y as one of its parts is
essential to x. If the principle is true, then if y is ever part of x, y will be part of x as long as x exists.
("Parts as essential to their wholes. The Review of Metaphysics, 582.)

Parts may be essential to biological wholes in a slightly different way from inanimate
objects. Chisholm notes he could lose a hand without ceasing to be the person that he is.
A statue may similarly lose a hand without representing a human figure. But some parts of
organisms are vital. Their loss means a loss of life. They are vitally essential.

On Temporal Parts
Granting the existence of spatial parts, metaphysicians inspired by the special theory of
relativity extend the parts notion to different parts in time. Chisholm succinctly attacks the
idea of temporal parts with the observation that a thing can be at the same place for two
different times, but it cannot be in two different places at the same time (pace quantum
entangled particles?).
What are we to say, then, of the doctrine of "temporal parts," of the doctrine according to which, for every
period of time during which an individual thing exists, there is a temporal part of that thing which is
unique to that period of time? We can point out, as I have tried to do, that it is not adequate to the
experience we have of ourselves. We can also point out that the doctrine multiplies entities beyond
necessity. And, finally, we can criticize the case for the doctrine of temporal parts.

What is this case? It is based, presumably, upon the assumption that whatever may be said about spatial
continuity and identity may also be said, mutatis mutandis, about temporal continuity and identity. If this
assumption is correct, then the doctrine of temporal parts would seem to be true. We may say, as our
metaphysician did: "Just as an object that is extended through space at a given time has, for each
portion of space that it occupies, a spatial part that is unique to that portion of space at that time, so, too,
any object that persists through a period of time has, for each subperiod of time during which it exists, a
temporal part that is unique to that subperiod of time." But is it correct to assume that whatever may be
said about spatial continuity and identity may also be said, mutatis mutandis, about temporal continuity
and identity? I would say that there is a fundamental disanalogy between space and time.

The disanalogy may be suggested by saying simply: "One and the same thing cannot be in two different
places at one and the same time. But one and the same thing can be at two different times in one and
the same place." Let us put the*point of disanalogy, however, somewhat more precisely.

Entangles particles in quantum mechanics raise this question anew.

When we say "a thing cannot be in two different places at one and the same time," we mean that it is not
possible for all the parts of the thing to be in one of the places at that one time and also to be in the other
of the places at that same time.
("Problems of Identity," in Identity and Individuation, ed. M. Munitz, New York University Press, 1971, p.15)

Persistence (Identity through Time)

Chisholm was surprised by how many metaphysicians were pursuing ancient paradoxes
that have always been quibbles over words or trivial distinctions, for example insisting on
the perfect identity of an object over time. Otherwise, even the slightest change would end
the existence of an object. He called this "bad metaphysics."
Alteration

One of the ways in which a metaphysician can help a nonmetaphysician is to protect him from bad
metaphysics.

People are sometimes led to think that nothing persists through any period of time and hence that all
things are constantly ceasing to be and new things are constantly coming into being to replace them.
This was the view of Heraclitus who said "You cannot step into the same river twice." (One of
Heraclitus's followers, according to Aristotle, held that things are in such constant flux that you can't even
step into the same river once.) If this view is true, then it would be incorrect to say that you and I have
existed for any period of time. The things that bore our names at any given moment yesterday have
since then ceased to be and you and I are no more the same people as those people of yesterday than
we are identical with each other. This view is a disastrous beginning, if our aim is to understand coming
into being and passing away.

Why would anyone think that such a thing is true? Respectable philosophers I regret to say, have
accepted this view. When philosophers don't simply pick their theories out of the air, they arrive at them
in attempting to deal with philosophical puzzles. The kind of puzzle that has led philosophers to think that
everything is in flux, in the sense in question, may be illustrated as follows.

You say to me: "I see you have a new fence in your back yard." I say: "No, it's the same fence I've
always had." You say: "But your fence is red; the fence you used to have was white." I say: "No, it's the
same fence; I painted it, that's all." And you say: "But it couldn't be the same fence. If something A is
identical with something B, then whatever is true of A is true of B. But if today's fence is identical with
yesterday's, how can it be that the old one is red and the other is white?"

Very great philosophers, I'm afraid, have stumbled over that one. (Some have been led to conclude not
that everything is in flux, but that things can be identical with each other even though they don't have all
their properties in common.) What went wrong in the dialogue we have just imagined?

Consider the sentence: "Today's fence is red and yesterday's fence was white." One trouble with it is that
the dates are in the wrong place. For what we know is not merely that there was something that was
yesterday's fence and that was white. It is rather that there is something that is a fence and that was
white yesterday. And it's not merely that there is a thing that is today's fence and is red. It's rather that
there is a fence that is red today. The fence I have now and the fence I had yesterday have all their
properties in common. I have had just one fence — one that is red today and that was white yesterday.

If you don't see the error involved in using the expressions "today's fence" and "yesterday's fence,"
perhaps this analogy will help. Consider someone who reasons as follows: "Mr. Jones the husband is
very meek and submissive. Yet Mr. Jones the father is extremely authoritative and overbearing. But one
and the same thing can't be meek and submissive and also authoritative and overbearing. Therefore
there are two Mr. Joneses —Mr. Jones the husband and Mr. Jones the father."

Saying what went wrong in this case is like explaining a joke. But perhaps we should risk it. It's not that
Mr. Jones the husband has properties that are different from those that Mr. Jones the father has. It's
rather that Mr. Jones is such that he is meek and submissive toward his wife and overbearing and
authoritative toward his children.

All this is to spell out, once again, what ought to be obvious. But let us keep the moral in mind: The fact
that a thing has altered in a certain way does not imply that the thing has ceased to be and that some
new thing has come into being.

("Coming into Being and Passing Away," in On Metaphysics, U. Minnesota Press, 1989, p.51.)

One Case for Minds

So let us ask, then, "Why assume that there is such a thing as my mind?" This is different from asking
"Why assume that there is such a thing as me?" And it is also different from asking "Why assume that I
have various mental properties and potentialities, such as the the ability to think or to think in such
ways?" For the assumption that / have the^e mental properties and potentialities doesn't imply that I have
a mind which has them.

Why should one suppose that there is a nonmaterial thing which is the mind?

Aristotle had argued that "that in the soul which is called mind (by mind I mean that whereby the soul
thinks and judges) . . . cannot reasonably be regarded as blended with body." The mind, he said, must
be "capable of receiving the form of an object" but without thereby becoming that object. And this would
be impossible if the mind were itself a material thing.

Aristotle's reasoning was essentially this: (1) If you apprehend a thing — say, a dog — then you do it by
means of something which bears a certain intimate relation to the form or nature of a dog. But (2) a
material thing couldn't bear the requisite relation to the form or nature of a dog unless the material thing
were thereby to become itself a dog. On the other hand (3) a nonmaterial thing could bear the requisite
relation without thereby becoming a dog. Hence if you and I can apprehend dogs, and of course we can,
then it is by means of a certain nonmaterial thing which is our mind.

What are we to say of this argument? The argument requires a more specific characterization of the
relation in question—the relation that must be born to the form or nature of a dog if one is to be able to
apprehend a dog. Until we have such an account, I think we must say that both premise (1) and premise
(2) are problematic.

Perhaps the most important consideration which may make us wonder whether there is a nonmaterial
substance which is a mind is the nature of our immediate experience —our experience of what are
sometimes called "sense-data" or "appearances."

Let us consider one twentieth-century conception of appearances, for this was thought by many to
demonstrate an irreducible dualism between mind and body. I am referring to the view set forth by A. O.
Lovejoy in his book The Revolt Against Dualism (1930).

"No man doubts," Lovejoy wrote, "that when he brings to mind the look of a dog he owned when a boy,
there is something of a canine sort immediately present to and therefore compresent with his
consciousness, but that it is quite certainly not that dog in the flesh" (p. 305). The thing that is there—the
something of a canine sort that is immediately before the mind—is not itself a physical object, Lovejoy
said; it is a private, psychological object, conditioned by a series of physiological and psychological
events, reaching back to the earlier dog which it now reveals.

If the man now looks at his desk, then, according to Lovejoy, there is another series of physiological and
psychological events, this time involving the activity of sense organs, but resulting as before in a private,
psychological object—a sensation, this time something of a desk sort, a "visible desk" which in certain
respects serves to duplicate the real, external, physical desk which it makes known to us.

Both of these examples—the earlier dog and the external desk being presented by an inner visual desk
—provide us with the essentials of two philosophical theories, which Lovejoy had referred to as
"epistemological dualism" and "psychophysical dualism." According to "epistemological dualism," which
is a thesis about our knowledge, we have direct or immediate knowledge only of certain private or
subjective states; some external objects, past or present, are "duplicated" in these private or subjective
states and it is in virtue of this duplication that we know what we do about the rest of the world. Our
knowledge of external things and of past events involves a "cleavage" between the object of our knowing
and the subjective vehicle which makes that object known. And according to "psychophysical dualism,"
which is a thesis about reality, the world is constituted out of at least two fundamentally different kinds of
stuff—the physical or material things that are studied by physics, and the psychical or mental things that
are objects of our private or subjective states. When asserted in conjunction, as they were by Lovejoy,
and in the seventeenth century by Descartes and Locke, these two forms of dualism imply that our
knowledge of physical or material things is derived from our knowledge of the mental or psychical
duplicates of these things.

Our present interest is in the second of these types of dualism—psychophysical dualism, the view that
there is a set of mental or psychical entities, which are appearances or sense-data, and that these
psychical entities are housed in a psychical place, known as "the mind."