The Peirce Memorial Hyperspace Bypass

In epistemology (the branch of philosophy that asks "What is knowledge and how do we know it?"), the two main theories developed during the Modern period were Rationalism (Descartes, Kant, via Plato), which says that knowledge is gained through internal reasoning and introspection, and Empiricism (Locke, Hume, via Aristotle), which says the knowledge is gained through external analysis and experimentation.

I took a course a few semesters ago on Pragmatism (taught by famed parapsychologist Stephan Braude, no less), where it was billed as a sort of 'third option' to rationalism and empiricism. It isn't, really - pragmatism is in most respects a form of empiricism, with a small twist. Still, pragmatism has a different enough approach that it's worth tackling on its own.

Pragmatism was first founded by Charles Peirce (pronounced 'purse', not 'pierce'), who defined it by way of the Pragmatic Maxim. He gives a few different formulations, but the earliest one is this:

"Consider what effects, that might conceivably have practical bearings, we conceive of the object of our conception to have. Then, our conception of these effects is the whole of our conception of the object."

Peirce was reasonably proud of this maxim, but he never got the sort of recognition for it he felt like he deserved. Instead, later pragmatists (notably William James) got most of the accolades, mainly by clarifying and expanding Peirce's ideas. No one really cared that Peirce disagreed with a lot of what James said; James was a better (and more accessible) writer, and soon Peirce was roundly ignored by the very school of thought he invented. Keep this in mind if you're ever thinking about starting your own branch of philosophy.

Anyway, the pragmatic maxim. In essence, what it says is that your understanding of an object should consist of your understanding of the effects that object has on you. If you know what effect a thing has on you, then for all practical purposes, you understand that thing. I ran into an excellent example of this principle in one of the many trashy sci-fi novels I have littering my bookshelves.

Specifically, it was an old Star Wars paperback, of the sort I read constantly through most of middle school. Luke & Han were on the Millennium Falcon, as usual. They were discussing how to fix the ship's hyperdrive. For anyone who somehow managed to not watch the most popular series of science fiction movies ever (which is more people than I'd've expected - both a friend of mine's roomate & my little brother's girlfriend had apparently never seen a Star Wars movie), the hyperdrive is the aparatus that lets the spaceship travel faster than light. For anyone who doesn't know any physics, faster-than-light travel is flatly impossible.

Which is the problem they run into, of course. No one, including the writers, including George Lucas himself, seems to understand how these hyperdrives work. It may or may not involve entering some alternate dimension, but for the most part, characters don't dwell on the technology behind it, as long as it lets them race around the galaxy visiting a variety of single-climate planets with a minimum of hassle.

Which is, shockingly, exactly what Han tells Luke. He explains that he doesn't know how the hyperdrive works, and that furthermore, even the engineers that they'll pay to fix it probably don't know how it works. Basically, only the highest-ranking scientists at whichever company makes the hyperdrives (Incom, Sienar Fleet Systems, etc.)

But to Han, it doesn't matter: He knows that, when he presses this button and pulls that lever, a hyperdrive transports him to whichever planet he specified. He knows that an Imperial Interdictor-class cruiser will stop him from entering hyperspace; he knows how to pick which course will take less time; he knows that if he drops the hyperdrive on his foot, it'll hurt. Which, for Han at least, makes an understanding of the hyperdrive's inner workings irrelevant.

I'll go ahead and point out that this example is needlessly geeky. There are plenty of things we use every day without understanding. The engine of your car is a fine example; sure, I might get that there's gas being burned in a bunch of cylinders that provide the energy that turns the wheels, but really? Car engines are reasonably complicated things, though I'm certain any auto mechanic wouldn't think its a big deal. I know I couldn't build one, and if something serious broke I wouldn't be able to fix it 95% of the time.

The same goes for Han, and of course, Luke, the Jedi, isn't exactly happy about this, but it's something he has to accept. For a pragmatist, knowing what something does isn't just as good as knowing what it is; they're the exact same thing.

The main problem I have with pragmatism is that its doesn't set very good definitions of how much you have to know about a thing's effects until you know the thing. It wouldn't make sense to claim you understand a certain small-plastic-cylinder-with-button, only to have someone else click the button in and start writing with it. At the same time, requiring that something be completely investigated not only removes much of the utility of a pragmatic approach, but sets a standard that is arguably impossible.

Also, it seems like there's something acedemically dishonest about only learning as much about something as can effect you. Its like that annoying kid in class who's always raising his hand to ask if such-and-such is going to be on the final exam.

Of course, that's also probably the guy who gets the best grade in the class. In any event, I still wouldn't want him fixing my hyperdrive.

Next Time: Father's Day