Undergrowth

March 18, 2009

Would you care to know what nearly drives me mad?

Skeptics from the way back, those Pyrrhonean sorts, had a way of undermining every assertion. It consisted of muddling the argument. When a person proposed a belief, they would propose the opposite of the belief. Take, for instance, the exterior world. A well-meaning victim would say to Pyrrho, "It is blatant that the world exists. Look here, we are interacting with it right now. Whatever it is, we are touching it, looking at it." He would pick up a book, smash it onto a nearby table and exclaim, "That noise is real! It is evidence that the outside world exists. Close your eyes, I'll prove it once more." With eyes closed, he would again slam the book down with vigor. "Did you hear that? It was the real book, which existed though we did not see it. It existed so much that it caused a sound without our seeing it."

And Pyrrho, he would be smirking all the while. He would retort, "I grant you that there are sense perceptions, that they are with us so long as we are conscious. But what of unconsciousness? What of dreams? Are they not equally assertive in the way they are when we are awake? It is nothing but brashness to assert something you have no criterion to decide between. If you can offer me no distinct method of deciding between a given dreamed and waking phenomena, then I can grant you no such reality. Perhaps it is real, independent of us. Perhaps it is not. I can make no commitment either way."

This muddling can take root everywhere. Take the proposition you are most sure of ("that your boyfriend loves you," "that you work at the Starbucks on 9th and Elm," "that you are a man,"), and they can offer you a convincing argument for the possibility of the contrary ("that he is putting on a show," "that 9th and Elm is only in your mind," "that you have no body at all"). They poke a hole, pry open a little daylight (perhaps a little darkness), and with that--they have you! And my mind has me in such a way all the time (or at least it wants to).

But here is what makes the Pyrrhonean such a fool: that the possibility does not necessitate falsity. Just because you can assert the contrary with a modicum of plausibility, does not entail that the preponderance of evidence in favor of the original position is refuted.

So, the skeptic is written off with a blank stare and a quip, "So what? I'll place my bet on the truth of my assertion. You may place your bet on yours. And, time will tell who wins."

He has already gotten a hold of you, though. And when the well-meaning victim walks away, laughing to himself, the seed is already planted. Days later, after a depressing circumstance, the sprout shoots up. "What if?" he asks himself. "How am I to tell which, if any, is right?"

"No, no. It is entirely irrational. The possibility is too outlandish to entertain." Still, it lingers in the background--it refuses to be erased from the mind's blackboard.

The strength of every "what if?" is multiplied by the force of habit. Before he knows it, he's a sick man. All the while, he can laugh at the silly skeptical objections from a certain perspective on things he can take. Still, they weigh on his heart because his mind cannot let them go.

How does he become well? Only when he makes peace with the possibility of being in error. "Hah hah! I am fallible. Thank you, Pyrrho, for teaching me about myself. Thank you for giving me the gift of humility. I will prune the plant, and not let it grow into self-loathing and fear. No, I'll let it live, but not flourish. It will be my little doubter's bonsai. It shall have a privileged place in my mind's garden, so resilient is it. But, it will be dwarfed by the oak of common-sense and the redwood of will."