F. Metaphysics: 2nd Extract

Ontology and 'thing-hood'

INQUIRY into the nature of existence has traditionally been regarded as the province of ontology. The word 'ontology' comes from the Greek: the study of onta, or things. Now one would be hard put to find a science that didn't study things of one sort or another; what the ontologist studies, however, is things in their very thing-hood, what it is in general to be a thing. Closely related questions are, What is the most basic kind of thing? i.e. what are the things of which the world is ultimately constituted?, and, What notions or 'categories', besides the notion of a thing, are needed for the most general and complete description of reality?

The reader may wonder what exactly is the relation between metaphysics qua definition of reality and ontology. As philosophers generally understand the terms, they relate to one and the same inquiry. However, they imply a subtle difference in focus which renders one, or the other term suitable in different contexts. In the simplest terms, metaphysics considers the whole. Its constant theme is the question of what can be said about the world beyond the mundane description of facts, and the related question of totality or the idea of the world 'as such'. From this perspective, ontology is a means to an end; crudely, a way of approaching the whole by considering its constituent parts. As the argument unfolds, we shall begin to see why that approach — the approach via things or objects — while yielding valuable insights, must in the end fall short of its objective.

The most basic thing that objects do is exist. From Kant onwards, philosophers have objected to the interpretation of existence as a predicate, or first-level concept applied to objects. (Frege analysed the notion of existence as a second-level concept: 'President Clinton exists', becomes the rather unwieldy sentence, 'The concept "...is President Clinton" is uniquely exemplified'.) The objections to existence as a predicate are largely spurious. But care is needed in order not to talk nonsense or fall into logical fallacies. Objects do not mysteriously acquire or lose the property of existing, when, in ordinary language, we talk of them 'coming into' or 'going out of' existence. For example, in the statement, 'Golders Green Bowling Alley no longer exists,' I am not referring to a mental bowling alley that lives on in the childhood memories of those who frequented it, an object which was once solid and real — all glass and plush red carpets and bright lights — but is now but a ghostly version of its former self. I am referring to an actual physical building that existed in the past and saying that there is no physical object existing now identical with that.

To refer to some object A is necessarily to imply that it in some sense exists. The most damning thing that can be said against regarding existence as a predicate is that, for any A, 'A exists' (in the timeless sense, i.e., 'A exists at some time') is a tautology and 'A does not exist' is a contradiction. The best response to that objection is simply to say, So what? (If the very idea of a tautology being used to convey information seems paradoxical, remember that the very use of a name implies certain facts: If I say, 'Martin Fox is ill', I have conveyed two pieces of information, namely that there is a Martin Fox, and that it is he who is ill.)

Given that objects 'exist' by definition, one thing that is immediately apparent is that some so-called objects appear more concrete or 'thingy' than others. The fictional character Sherlock Holmes is undoubtedly less thingy than Nipper of the Yard. The latter is (or was? — I don't know if he's still alive) a spatio-temporal particular, a famous Scotland Yard detective. By contrast, Sherlock Holmes only exists in virtue of the existence of certain other spatio-temporal particulars (Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, his manuscripts etc.). Sets and numbers are more abstract still.

Our concern is with a different but overlapping contrast. In addition to the range of more or less concrete, less or more abstract objects, one may distinguish between objects that actually exist and those that exist only as possibilities. Once again, care is needed to avoid falling into absurdities. The main problem with possible objects (as the American philosopher Quine famously, sneeringly, notes in his article 'On What There Is', in From a Logical Point of View Harper1953) is their individuation: how they are distinguished from one another and counted. Any non-contradictory descriptive referring expression calls up a possible object. For example, 'the rhinoceros in the doorway'. There is a possible world just like this one except for the fact that there is a rhinoceros standing in the doorway behind me. (Okay, not 'just like' — there's the logistical problem of how it got there — but let's not make complications.)

To see the problem, just ask how large the rhino is, whether it's the black or the white variety, how old it is, what zoo it came from etc. The range of variables is endless. What that means is that one cannot refer to possible objects — or indeed possible worlds — individually. They can never be uniquely picked out and named. Make your description as exact and precise as you like; there will always be some additional qualification that can be added on top, that reveals two possible objects rather than the one you thought you started with. Nor do the expressive powers of our language set any real limits: new terms can always be added to the language that divide up the range of possible objects even more finely. (As an analogy, consider that however finely you sharpen your pencil, you can never identify a single geometric point, but only a blurred or fuzzy range of points.) Possible objects, in short, cannot be identified or talked about except in general terms. The same, for very different reasons, was once true of molecules, only now we have the sophisticated equipment that enables us to track a single one. The difficult thing about recognizing the reality of 'possibilia' is that we know, simply as a matter of logic, that we could never be in such position.

As we have just seen, philosophers see a problem with possible objects. Our problem, however, is in a strange way the reverse of this. The question is, How could any object ever be actual? What does it take to make an actually existent object? What, indeed, is the difference between actuality and mere possibility? Then again, how could one ever be in a position to ask that question?

Here is a mythical picture: We are all standing together in the boat of actuality, our familiar world, sailing along quite happily yet all the while vaguely aware as the boat bobs up and down of the vast surrounding sea of possibilities. Let's say that there's some dispute about this, for the boat has no deck and no portholes. By a mental leap (I'm not saying it's easy) the metaphysician or ontologist imagines herself standing in the sea and asking how there could ever be such a thing as a boat there.

'It's not easy.' — What do you say to a philosopher who simply cannot see an intelligible question here? I would say, Nothing. If the problem is one you find gripping, that is sufficient reason for pursuing it. If others are not gripped, that's not your problem (and not theirs either). One has to resign oneself to the fact that metaphysics is like that.

Assuming that all conceivable possibilities, that is to say, possible objects or possible worlds — and myriads more beyond our limited powers of conception — exist as a matter of strict logical necessity (and therefore do not stand in need of any further explanation), the question is what the actuality of actual objects or the actual world consists in. — Notice that we didn't raise the question why our actual world exists rather than some other possibility that might have been actual. I don't see any way of answering that short of a proof of the necessary existence of an omnipotent, omnibenevolent deity who chose to create this possible world out of a pre-existing catalogue of worlds just because it is the 'best of all possible worlds'. (Just such a proof was attempted by the eighteenth-century philosopher Leibniz, though many philosophers remain unconvinced.) I am not making any judgement about whether or not that is a good line to pursue; as we shall see in a moment, the question turns out to be irrelevant.

Let us dwell on the idea of a Leibnizian deity for a moment. Even if we remain sceptical about the existence of any such being, the idea serves as a useful heuristic device for posing the problem of what actuality adds to possibility, what mystery ingredient actual objects have that merely possible objects lack. Imagine you are God, and the time is the dawn of Creation: Genesis, day zero. (Taken literally, this is a travesty of Leibniz, since we are picturing creation as an event in time. However, the force of the objection remains the same, even on a more sophisticated view of God's choice as exercised 'timelessly'.) Surrounding you, on every side, are pages from the catalogue of All Possible Worlds. You have to pick one. You are omnipotent, you have the power to make it actual; but how do you exercise this power? or, rather, on what do you exercise it? All possible worlds are already there, each completely self-contained, determinate, each in its own space and time, suspended alongside all the others in all-pervading 'logical space' . Having picked one out that you like best, what do you do now?

So far as I can see, the only answer to that question is simply, you create it. You do the business. You give one mighty heave, and pops the world into 'actual' existence. (That is of course just a picture, a metaphor, that covers up the fact that we have no answer.) Thereafter the actual world is there for you to contemplate and enjoy — or interfere with — and for philosophers and theologians to argue over endlessly whether or not you made the right choice.

Interfere with? Now there's a thought: possible worlds are timeless. As we have said, they are completely fixed, determinate. Every detail is engraved in stone, from the beginning to the end of time. That is simply a consequence of the fact that possible worlds exist as a matter of pure logical necessity. Alter one single detail and you are no longer contemplating the world you thought you were contemplating but some other possible world. (Strictly speaking, one can only contemplate a range of possible worlds: cf. above.) The actual world, actual objects, by contrast, can be 'interfered with' . The course of events can be changed — either by the guiding hand of a divine architect or indeed by ourselves — by action in time. An 'actual' object is an object that can be acted upon in real time. (On these points, it seems, we are in agreement with orthodox Christian theology.)

The actuality of objects depends upon the reality of time, the time of our actual world. What, then, does the reality of time depend upon? — It looks as though in analysing the difference between actuality and possibility in terms of time we have merely pushed the problem back one step. But that still counts as movement, and all movement in metaphysics — backwards or forwards — is progress.

We are not in a position to speculate where that move will take us — if indeed it is legitimate. Perhaps the reader can see the problem that is looming. Try stating what the so-called reality of time consists in and you will find all your words turning back on themselves and everything you say reducing to a tautology. After all, in each of the possible worlds in which self-conscious subjects exist, the subjects 'act' , they 'experience time' , they 'change the course of events'. Possible worlds are 'engraved in stone' only from an external point of view, the standpoint of our imagined divine architect. Does that mean that we could be, after all, only under the illusion that our world is unique in existing in real time? From the external viewpoint, how can the world we know as the 'actual world' be anything more than just one more possible world?

Rather than let premature doubts extinguish an important lead before we have had time to develop it properly, let us suspend judgement on that last question. Instead, consider — in the most general terms — the task we have been set by the problem of defining the actual. Ontological theories which posit an inexplicable act of creation are a dead end. If you have to fall back on miracles, that is an admission of total defeat. So what is the alternative?

So far as I can see, our only hope of rescue is to question the assumption that we have somehow to find our way back to the actual world from the starting point of the universe of all possible worlds. There is a metaphysical illusion lurking here, the illusion of detachment. By all means recognize the ontological claim of possible worlds, let them be as 'real' as you like; but remember that the starting point of all thought and discourse can only ever be the actual world. We simply cannot remove ourselves sufficiently far away from our actual world — even in thought — to be able to question its actuality in the way that the arguments given above seem to imply. The viewpoint of an omniscient deity standing outside of time is not, and can never be, even in imagination, our viewpoint.