Gate One: What Is a Human Being? The Body-Soul Problem

From the book Like Grass by Rabbi Michael Avraham. Translated from Hebrew using gpt-5.4 (reasoning_effort=high, batch API).

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What Is a Human Being: The Problem of Body and Soul¹

Introduction

The Problem of Vitalism

In the course of the second book of the quartet, we touched, among other things, on the question of vitalism. The dispute in biology over the vital “substance,” or life-substance, revolves around the question whether living organisms contain some non-physical component. This question can be discussed in a scientific context: is it necessary to assume the existence of some vital component in order to describe scientifically how organisms function? Or, alternatively, can one construct a complete biology without assuming the existence of some non-material, vitalistic component? It can also be discussed in a philosophical-ontological context: does such a component in fact exist in reality? These are two different questions, although many tend to confuse them. Clearly, if no vital substance exists in reality at all, it is unlikely that biology would be unable to describe the human being and life without reference to such a substance. On the other hand, even if such a substance does exist in reality, biology does not necessarily have to use it in order to be a complete scientific theory. And even if reference to a vital substance is necessary, there is no guarantee that biology will in fact succeed in offering such a complete description.

In the present gate we will deal with a similar, though not necessarily identical, problem. A vital substance, even if it exists, is a component in the biology of life; that is, it is part of the body.² The discussion in this gate concerns the existence of a spiritual component, that is, a component not connected at all to the life sciences in their ordinary sense—the sciences that deal with the physiology of the living body.³

The impression is that although these are two different questions, there is some connection between them. The existence of a spiritual component does not belong to biology, but it can certainly belong to the very phenomenon of life. Therefore, the existence of such a component can indeed affect the plausibility of assuming a vital component in the physical body.

The Question of Materialism and the Psychophysical Problem

Throughout history, various philosophical conceptions have been proposed regarding the existence of a non-material stratum in human beings.⁴ This component has been called by various names, such as “soul,” “spirit,” or “psyche.” The very existence of terminology in language for such entities indicates that our simple intuition probably recognizes the existence of such layers.⁵ Yet among philosophers in every generation there have also been adherents of materialist views. These deny the existence of such a layer altogether. Conversely, adherents of the opposing view, called “idealism,” do not necessarily believe in the existence of the material layer at all—not only in the human being, but in the world generally. In their eyes only spirit exists, not matter. Common intuition does not accept either of these extreme positions. It generally maintains that both of these layers exist together in every person. This is the dualist approach.

If we accept the dualist position, there is still room to discuss the nature of the relation between matter and spirit. Are these two parallel layers that do not affect one another at all? Perhaps one affects the other, but not vice versa? And so on. Different approaches address these questions in different ways.

Our discussion here will focus on what philosophical jargon calls “the psychophysical problem,” or “the problem of body and soul.” This problem concerns the character of the connection, if any such connection exists, between these two planes. It is important to understand that this discussion takes place entirely within the framework of dualism. For one who does not accept the reality of one of these two planes—that is, for one who is not a dualist—the psychophysical problem does not arise at all.

In this gate we will try to examine the various positions on these issues. We will begin with a discussion of materialism, idealism, and dualism; only after we succeed in vindicating the dualist intuition can we move on to examine the psychophysical problem. Thus, first and foremost, what follows is intended to vindicate the common-sense position that claims there are two such planes of being, and that they affect one another. The accepted name for this position within the dualist world is “interactionism,” or “interactionist dualism.”⁶

Arguments in Favor of Materialism

As noted, the simple intuitive tendency is to regard a human being’s soul as something separate from the body and different from it in kind. The main reason that nevertheless leads many people toward materialism—that is, toward abandoning this intuition—is the feeling that matter is well understood and clearly defined, and therefore represents an existing entity, whereas spirit or soul are metaphysical notions that cannot be clearly defined or understood. Many therefore conclude that these are fictive concepts, which do not represent any entities at all.

In fact, all the arguments in favor of materialism known to me are based, in one way or another, on considerations belonging to one of the following three types, presented here in schematic and abstract form:

1. The argument from definition (logical positivism): the concepts “spirit” or “soul” are not sharply defined, and therefore they reflect a meaningless metaphysical fiction. They are a kind of “myth.” On the various meanings of the term “myth,” and on myths generally, see the second book.
2. The argument from experience (empiricism): spiritual entities cannot be observed, and therefore they do not exist.
3. The argument from logic (Occam’s razor): the existence of spiritual entities is not required in order to explain the phenomena of life, or any other phenomenon that we observe through our senses. Therefore there is no need to assume such existence. The razor principle of the Christian scholar William of Ockham states that one should not posit assumptions beyond what is necessary.⁷

We should note that in principle it is very difficult to prove the non-existence of something. Claims of non-existence are generally based on considerations of one of these three kinds. A good example is the question of the existence of God. There too, I know of not even one positive argument that purports to prove His non-existence. There are arguments that refute, or attempt to refute, the proofs advanced by those who affirm His existence. There are also arguments in favor of His non-existence, but it seems to me that almost all of them belong to one of the three types listed above.

We should also note that there are additional relevant considerations, but these concern fundamentally the question of body and soul rather than the issue of materialism as such. For example: can any interaction between a material entity and a mental-spiritual entity be possible, and does such a relation accord with the laws of nature known to us? A consideration of this sort could at most lead to the conclusion that spirit is not connected to the body, but not to the conclusion that it does not exist—unless one adds to it the argument based on Occam’s razor, which will be discussed below. These considerations will be examined in the next chapter, where we will deal with the psychophysical problem.

The Analytic Basis of These Arguments

Anyone who examines the general schemes of arguments of this sort will immediately see the positivist-analytic assumption hidden at their foundation. An argument of this kind assumes that concepts which are not well defined, not completely clear, or not observable—that is, not perceptible by the senses—do not represent existing entities. Those who hold this view will generally say that such notions are linguistic fictions, inventions of our imagination, devoid of meaning and devoid of ostension.⁸ As we saw in the first book, this is the essence of the positivist-analytic outlook.⁹ Positivism is thus the natural logical ground—though not the only possible one—for the development of a materialist worldview.

In the earlier books we saw that positivism is merely the sharpest and crudest expression of the analytic worldview. Our conclusion, then, is that materialism is a natural outgrowth of an analytic worldview or stance.

By contrast, in the earlier books we also pointed out that those who hold a synthetic stance tend to adopt their basic intuitions unless something compels them to abandon them. As we already mentioned, the existence of spirit is a basic human intuition. Therefore one may also say the reverse: dualism is a view that generally characterizes those who hold synthetic positions.

This is the first connection by which the present issue is related to the analytic-synthetic course described in the earlier books. As can already be seen here, the issue of body and soul, as well as the questions to be discussed in the later gates, form further links in this fundamental and ongoing confrontation. By the end of the book we will see that these links are not merely a continuation of the discussion, but in fact lie at its basis—as in a loop with its tail in its mouth.

In the first chapter of this gate we will see an additional consideration, “the argument from syntheticity,” which clearly supports the identification presented here between materialism and analytic positions.

The Reason for Conducting This Discussion

Many readers will probably not understand what the point of this entire discussion is, since they place full trust in their interactionist intuition. And indeed, at the principled level, there really is no need for it. But anyone even slightly familiar with scholarly and popular discussions of this subject understands that in practice some conceptual clarification and analysis of the basic positions is nevertheless required.

Many people do possess an interactionist intuition, but they think that this is a mistaken or irrational feeling, perhaps even a primitive one, and that they should therefore ignore it. Most of the literature written on this topic starts from an interactionist point of departure, but a substantial part of it ends by recommending that this intuition be abandoned. All agree that this is the simple intuitive starting point of human beings, or at least of the overwhelming majority of them.

In the earlier books we pointed out that basic human intuitions are shared by almost everyone. The difference between the analytic and synthetic approaches lies in the question whether, in a case of apparent contradiction, we should prefer the analytic considerations and abandon the intuition, or prefer the intuition to the analytic considerations—or the seemingly analytic considerations. In the end, even those who adopt synthetic positions must justify their intuitive stance, since they too cannot live with contradictions or paradoxes.

To understand this point, one must notice that many scientists, as well as laymen, commonly assume that there are results of studies in various fields—physiology and genetics, brain research, physics, psychology, philosophy, and others—that bring us to hold a certain position, and perhaps even “prove” it. It should be noted that such claims usually arise in support of positions that do not accord with simple intuition. The aura of “science” and “progress” is enlisted in order to attack those simple and widespread intuitions, presenting them as “primitive.”

In the third chapter of this gate we will see why there are no scientific results, and probably cannot be any, that compel any position on these questions. On the face of it, this is a question that cannot be decided by scientific tools—at least by those currently known to me.

The Different Lines of Argument That Will Appear in This Gate

If indeed there is no room for scientific decision on these questions, and no decisive philosophical considerations in favor of materialism either, then it is enough for us to show that there is no real reason to abandon the interactionist stance that emerges from our simple intuitions.

Once we reject the three principal types of argument presented above, it would seem that there is no need to proceed to a further stage of argument aimed at refuting materialism. And yet, in the second part of the chapter we will try to show that interactionist dualism is the more rational approach, while all other approaches are nothing but esoteric mysticisms. The main purpose of the system of arguments to be presented below is to counterbalance the intensive, systematic, and sometimes tendentious blurring of our basic intuitions, carried out through use of the three arguments mentioned above.

In what follows we will not present in detail arguments that support materialism. Rather, we will attack these three types of argument at the most general level, and we will do so from several angles and on several planes.

First, we will examine the three types of argument themselves. With respect to the first, the positivist argument, we will ask whether the concept “matter” is in fact well defined and self-evident. We will also ask whether “spirit” is really a concept that is less well defined or less well understood. Then we will examine the question of observability, namely the empiricist argument. Finally, we will also examine the necessity of the dualist assumption, that is, the argument from Occam’s razor.

After examining the three types of argument in themselves, we will go on to examine the plausibility of the positivist-analytic assumption that underlies them. In other words, we will ask whether it is justified to assume that even if arguments of these three kinds were to pass all the previous tests successfully, they would thereby become persuasive arguments. At that stage we need only pull out of the hat the entire array of arguments developed in the previous two books in support of the synthetic stance and against the analytic stance as such.

The conclusion of this final stage is that the analytic assumption or stance that underlies these three types of consideration is false. Consequently, even if the concept of “matter” were indeed better defined and better understood, even if it were fully observable, and even if materialism passed the test of Occam’s razor more successfully, that still would not suffice to reject our basic intuitions.

In the second part of the chapter we will deal with arguments that positively support dualism and reject the materialist stance itself—not merely one of the three types of argument advanced in its favor. As stated, this part is something of a “luxury”: even without it, the materialist stance is rejected by force of the arguments presented in the first part of the chapter.

The discussion of materialism along the lines described up to this point will take place in the first chapter. As stated, that chapter is devoted to rejecting the materialist position. In the second chapter we will continue with the psychophysical issue, which, as explained above, can be discussed only after a dualist conclusion has been reached.

Within that framework we will see several different models that have been proposed as alternatives to materialism, of which interactionist dualism is only one. We will try to clarify why precisely this model seems the most plausible. Here too we will rely, among other things, on the fact that this model accords more than any other with our primary intuitions, and that no real reason appears to have been presented for rejecting them.

A substantial part of what will appear here, in one formulation or another, is already found in the literature; see the bibliography on the title page. Therefore not every point will be elaborated in full. The later gates of the book will deal with the implications of the arguments raised in the present gate, at a higher resolution than will be presented here.

Two Remarks

In the first book, especially note 25, we distinguished between two kinds of argument: “theological” and “philosophical.”¹⁰ “Theological” arguments aim to point out to the reader that he already holds, sometimes implicitly, the position they defend. By contrast, “philosophical” arguments aim to persuade the reader to change his position.

As is clear from what was said above, the main lines of argument we will adopt below are “theological” in character. These arguments are not intended to persuade the reader to convert from his materialist religion to interactionist dualism. They are meant to point out that the reader already holds this position, even if he is not always aware of it. At the same time, philosophical arguments will also arise here—arguments that have persuasive force even for one who, after clarification, still regards himself as a materialist. For the reader’s convenience, we will try to note at the end of each argument below to which of these two types it belongs.

Finally, it should be noted that clarification of the issues of body and soul is also required as background for what follows later in this gate. These issues have important implications for questions such as determinism and free will, among others, which will also be discussed below.

Chapter One: Materialism, Idealism, and Dualism – Basic Arguments

In this chapter we will discuss briefly several planes of analysis, nearly all of which lead to a dualist conception. The principal kinds of argument in favor of materialism were mentioned briefly in the introduction, and they form the background for the discussion here.

The first type of argument in favor of materialism mentioned above is of the analytic-positivist kind; that is, it operates on the semantic plane. We will therefore begin the discussion here on that plane as well.

The Semantic Plane: Rejecting the First Type of Argument

As noted, the accepted terminology in human languages points to a dualist intuition. The very fact that language contains terms such as “soul,” “spirit,” or “psyche” indicates belief that there are entities designated by them. The claim that these are fictive notions without any ontological root—that is, without any realization in reality—is implausible.¹¹ At the very least, the common terminology clearly indicates that the burden of proof rests on the materialist. Let us sharpen this point with several concrete examples.

When a materialist says that there is only a body, and thereby denies the existence of any spiritual part in a human being, he finds himself compelled to adopt statements such as: “My body longs to eat ice cream,” or “My body wants to meet with you tomorrow.” And beyond that: “My body deserves moral blame or praise for a certain act that it performed.” The same applies to statements such as “My body loves someone,” or “My body is sad,” and the like.

This distinction becomes sharper when one turns to understanding and the attribution of meaning. When a person understands some phenomenon or event, does this process occur in his body? Is it the collection of molecules that constitutes his body that understands the matter? In general, when speaking of material bodies, it is not customary to attribute to them mental predicates—such as emotions, desire, experience, understanding, consciousness, or thought.¹²

The conclusion that emerges from this is that it is implausible to claim that we conceive of a human being as a purely material object, like a stone. It is difficult to imagine anyone willing to attribute such functions to a stone. At least with respect to some of these functions, it is not customary to attribute them even to animals.

It should be noted that this semantic evidence is “theological,” not “philosophical.” The terminology we use in language points to implicit assumptions. One who truly does not accept this terminology, or claims that it is nothing but a fiction, can continue to hold his position.

The positivist argument, the first type mentioned above, maintains that there is a feeling that the concept “matter” is better defined than the concept “spirit,” which is inherently vague. As we noted, this is a fundamental basis for anyone who decides not to accept the terminology used in language.

However, if we examine this argument in itself, it seems not to withstand criticism. The concept “matter” is no more amenable to definition than the concept “spirit” or “soul.” None of us has ever seen matter in its abstract sense. We see material objects, and by abstraction we try to arrive at the abstract concept “matter.” This consideration led some thinkers to claim that materialists are greater mystics than idealists.¹³ An abstraction of this kind can also be made with respect to the concepts “spirit” and “soul.” We see bodies that act as though they contain something that stones do not; that very understanding lies at the basis of idealist and dualist terminology. Is this fundamentally different from the insights that underlie the concept “matter”? True, conceptualizing the term “spirit” does not in itself testify to the ontological dimension—that is, to the actual existence of such a substance. But here the anthropological argument mentioned above enters: if a term exists in language, it is not plausible to say that it is mere fiction. The simpler assumption is that it points to some entity.

Admittedly, matter itself—not the concept “matter”—has more measurable properties and is more readily observed in the laboratory. But that already belongs to the empiricist type of argument, which will be discussed below.

We should also note that in the first book we already pointed out that all our most basic concepts cannot be defined in the analytic sense. On the contrary: they are the concepts used to define more complex concepts. They are the building blocks of our conceptual system, and therefore cannot themselves be built from more basic stones. The most basic concepts are thus the best understood, and require no definition. It seems that both “matter” and “spirit” belong to this basic conceptual system.¹⁴

To sum up: understanding a concept does not necessarily depend on our ability to define it explicitly. This understanding exists within us, since if it did not, no definition could fill the gap. See the first book, Gate Eleven, chapter 2. Beyond this, the very fact that the linguistic community uses these terms and that its members understand one another already indicates that these concepts are understood by all of them. The analyst will be forced to claim that in fact there is only use of identical words, whereas the meaning for each speaker—if such a meaning exists at all—is different. If that is so, then there is no apparent reason why he should not say the same about the concept “red,” or about many additional everyday concepts that cannot be defined. Here we arrive once again at conventionalism, which characterizes those who adopt the analytic stance. See the discussion in the second gate of the first book.

In the final analysis, one can also raise here a simple logical argument. Let us define, for purposes of the discussion, the concept “spirit” as follows: an entity that is not “matter.” According to this definition, if the concept “matter” is well defined, then the concept “spirit” is no less well defined. And conversely, if the concept “spirit” is not well defined, then the concept “matter” cannot be defined either. This is enough to reject the positivist argument advanced in favor of the materialist approach, that is, the argument from definition.

The Essential Plane: Rejecting the Second Type of Argument

This section presents a line of argument parallel to the previous one, but this time against the positivist-empiricist argument. The parallel appears on two levels:

1. In the previous section we dealt with the linguistic plane. There we saw that human languages do not ordinarily attribute mental predicates to material bodies, or to the material aspects of living bodies. In the present section we will focus on the essential plane, showing that such attribution is not only linguistically uncommon, but philosophically implausible.
2. In the previous section we argued that it is hard to say that the concepts “spirit” or “soul” are less well defined than the concept “matter.” Here we will make the same point on the essential-empirical plane: it is also difficult to accept the substantial claim that these concepts are less observable—the second type of argument, namely the empiricist one.

In the background of this discussion, it is important to distinguish between a description of the way a mental activity is carried out and the fact of its occurrence. It may be that a complete scientific description of thinking, remembering, or other mental activities will use only physiological concepts, such as neurons and the like. But that would not be a description of thinking itself; it would be a description of the physiological manner in which thinking is carried out. The same applies to other mental acts.¹⁵

A clear formulation of this distinction appears in Appendix A by Yeshayahu Leibowitz to Campbell’s book, Body and Soul. Leibowitz points out there that after the recent developments in cybernetics, reflected in the production of “thinking machines”—that is, computers—some people feel that human thought can be described in purely physical terms. According to this view, the brain is nothing but a sophisticated computer. Functionally, it consists of memory, a central processing unit, input-output units, and the like, connected by various physiological-electrical means. Biologically, it consists of nerve cells and neurons connected by synapses and the like.

Leibowitz explains there that this claim is based on a fundamental misunderstanding. The problem of thinking does not deal with the question of how the brain works, which is a physiological-cybernetic question and has nothing to do with the experience of thinking or with any psychic reality. The question posed by the problem of thinking is how the person who has the brain functions, not how the brain itself functions. That is, how a mental event takes place alongside the physiological processes occurring in the physical brain.

Leibowitz goes on to explain that with respect to a computer there is no such problem. The computer itself performs only a physical action: the production of electrical tensions that cause physical processes, such as the movement of electrons. The meaning of thinking or calculation is obtained only when a human being with intellect and consciousness interprets these results and gives them logical meaning. That meaning exists solely in the mind of the observer, and has no meaning from the standpoint of the computer that performs the operations.

The computer, as a mechanism made of metal and other inanimate materials, is logically on the same plane as the brain, which is a mechanism made of protoplasm. The computer does not deal with contents of thought, but with tangible objects, whose relations represent logical relations for the observer or user. Yet these logical relations exist only in the consciousness of the thinking human being.

In the same way, a sheet of paper on which a mathematical equation or a scientific article is written does not think what is written upon it. It is merely a form of physical reality. The meanings exist only in the mind of the one who reads what is written on the page. The fact that a computer can also write on the page changes nothing essential. When an ape, or a mechanical device, writes something on a page randomly or without awareness, there is still no thought and no calculation involved.

Thus, the mechanical-physiological description does not answer the question of thought. It explains only how thought is expressed and how it is carried out in the brain. The person who has the brain uses it in order to think, but the brain itself does not think. Similarly, the person who has the brain uses his legs in order to walk, but the legs are not what walk.

Leibowitz then compares the relation between psychic reality and the brain to the relation between the musical essence of a melody and the physical-acoustic reality of the sounds. Clearly, a collection of sounds is not a melody.¹⁶ The melody exists only in the consciousness of the person whose eardrum is struck by these acoustic waves. The same applies to the notes of a melody written on a page: as a melody, they exist only in the consciousness of the person who reads the page—though there too they “exist” in a somewhat different sense from the acoustic sense.

Within this discussion Leibowitz also explains that the analogy between the brain and a computer leads, paradoxically, precisely to dualism, not to materialism. As we saw, the computer itself does not think, and the logical meaning of its operations arises only in the mind of the user. Thus, if the thinking brain is indeed analogous to a computer, then within the brain itself there must be some additional component, beyond the mechanical component that resembles the computer. The existence of such a conscious-psychic component in addition to the physiological component is the essence of the dualist claim.

We should note that other mental states, such as various emotions, cannot be described at all within the model of a thinking machine, even though they too are somehow connected with the brain. This fact makes it even harder to accept the claim that the human being is nothing but a calculating machine.

It is important to note that the problem described here is essential, and does not stem merely from a temporary deficiency in scientific knowledge. Scientific knowledge, at least in its present sense, deals only with the mechanical mode of operation that underlies the psychic occurrences, whereas the psyche is the totality of the occurrences themselves—or the locus in which they occur.

We may distinguish between two kinds of claim here. First, the physiological occurrences in the brain are not the mental phenomena themselves, but only their cause or their physiological expression. Second, the physiological occurrences are different in kind from the mental occurrences.

In other words, we reject the brain as an explanation of mental phenomena on two levels:
a. The brain may perhaps be their cause, but it is not the thing itself.
b. The brain is a physical-physiological object, whereas mental occurrences take place in a different medium and are of a different nature.

The second formulation is the essential level underlying the semantic level discussed above. This is the reason that we do not ascribe mental predicates to material bodies.

It should be noted that this is a “philosophical” argument, not a “theological” one like the previous argument.

Let us now return to the second type of argument in favor of materialism. The empiricist argument hangs on the claim that we do not observe spiritual entities and activities, but only material entities and occurrences. But as we have seen here, that is simply not true. We do indeed observe such activities, although not by means of the senses. Our awareness that we ourselves think and feel is itself a mental process. Although it too is probably mediated by the brain, the senses do not participate in it.¹⁷ This very observation is the basis for the fact that the problem of thought occupies us so much. Were there no such observation, we would not be dealing with the problem of materialism at all, and the materialist would not invest so much energy in denying a position that had no logical or experiential root.¹⁸

The two differences one might perhaps propose, on the empirical plane, between observation of spirit and observation of matter concern quantification and measurability, and the ability to point physically to the entity in question. Matter can usually be measured, and it can be characterized more quantitatively and precisely. One can also point at it with a finger. But quantities and measurements are not indications that some entity exists; they concern certain features of it. Existence itself, which is the issue with which we are concerned here, is not necessarily connected with measurement or quantification. We are directly aware of the existence of spirit no less than of the existence of matter. This point will also be of great importance later, when we deal with the logical argument based on Occam’s razor. Nor is pointing the exclusive means of observation and description,¹⁹ and therefore this difference too is irrelevant to the question of the existence of non-material entities. Moreover, in the second gate of the first book we saw that observations of material objects also do not deal with the objects themselves, in themselves, but with certain of their properties. In this sense there is no difference between material objects and spiritual entities.

Thus the second type of argument—the empiricist argument—is rejected.

In fact, one can generalize the distinction presented here and say that the brain is responsible for the physical operations of thought. The intellect performs the mental operations that accompany, or are attached to, them. In the second book²⁰ we discussed the distinction between semantics and syntax. Semantics is meaning, and syntax is formal structure. As we saw there, events and processes can be described on these two planes in parallel. In those terms, one may say that the brain deals with syntax: it performs the mechanics of thought. The intellect, by contrast, deals with semantics: the meanings and contents of thought. Science studies the syntax of mental and cognitive acts, whereas their semantics resides in the intellect.²¹ In the next section we will sharpen this distinction somewhat further.

Up to this point we have dealt with the impossibility of offering a materialist explanation for the semantics of mental activity in general, and of thought in particular. We have seen that materialism can at most offer an explanation for the syntax of thought, and no more. Below, in the section devoted to the “argument from syntheticity,” we will see that materialism fails even on that level. The essence of the argument is that materialism can offer an account only of the analytic part of thought. The very existence of a synthetic component in thought is itself a refutation of the materialist worldview.

Semantics and Syntax: Model and Explanation

In note 12 of the first book we presented John Searle’s parable of the Chinese room.²² There it was brought in order to clarify another point, but here we will return to it briefly and discuss it in the original context in which Searle himself used it, namely with respect to the problem of body and soul. And this is what Searle writes:

Imagine that you are locked in a room in which there are several boxes full of Chinese symbols. Imagine that you do not understand a word of Chinese, but that you have with you a rule book in English for manipulating these Chinese symbols. The rules specify how to manipulate the symbols in a wholly formal way, in terms of their syntax and not their semantics. A rule might say, for example: take a symbol from box number one and place it next to a symbol from box number two. Suppose that more Chinese symbols are passed into the room, and that you are given further instructions for passing Chinese symbols out of the room. Suppose that, unknown to you, the people outside the room call the symbols sent into the room “questions,” and the symbols sent out of the room “answers to the questions.” Suppose also that the programmers are very good at constructing the programs and that you are very good at manipulating the symbols, so good that before long it is impossible to distinguish your answers from those of a speaker of Chinese. You are locked in the room, moving your Chinese symbols back and forth and passing out Chinese symbols in response to incoming Chinese symbols.

At first glance, this appears to describe the brain of a person who speaks Chinese. In terms of input and output, it performs the same operation that the brain of a Chinese speaker would perform, since it receives sentences written in Chinese and answers them with other Chinese sentences. Nevertheless, as Searle himself concludes:

In the situation described here, in which your activity is limited to the manipulation of such formal symbols, there is no possibility that you would learn even one word of Chinese.

There is no doubt that the person inside the Chinese room is not engaged in thought, nor in understanding. He is simply performing a mechanical-physical manipulation of symbols. Brain science describes the activity of thought in this way. It deals with its mechanics, not with its mental-conscious essence.

In the second book, Gate Four, we dealt with the question of parallel explanatory planes. Here too we see two such planes. In our view, there is an explanation of the act of thinking on the mechanical-physical plane, and there is an explanation in the sense of meaning.

Using the terms we defined there, one may raise an even more far-reaching question: even on the mechanical plane, do we really have an explanation of the brain’s activity here, or merely a model that serves to describe it? As we saw there, there are scientific theories that constitute an explanation of the phenomenon under study, but there are also theories that offer a phenomenological model, which is not an “explanation” in the usual sense. A model is a system whose operation is analogous in some sense to the system under discussion, but it does not represent its details. For example, the Chinese room is a model for thinking and speaking Chinese in the sense of the relation between input and output. In principle, any input received by a Chinese speaker and by the occupant of the Chinese room will receive a similar response, that is, a similar output. That is the analogy between speaking Chinese and the activity of the occupant of the Chinese room. And yet, the action of the person in the Chinese room is a model for speaking Chinese, not an explanation of it. The relation between output and input is similar, but the entire essence is different.

The same applies to the relation between a computer’s activity and the brain’s activity during thinking—not with respect to thought itself, which takes place in the intellect and not in the brain. That itself cannot be explained mechanically or in terms of a mechanism, at least not with the tools currently known.²³ It is interesting to note that despite the still limited knowledge of the brain, it is already clear today that the cybernetic structure of a computer is no more than a model for human thought. At most, one has here a system that can describe the same relation between output and input, but the essence is completely different. For example, in the human brain there are kinds of activity that are not located in a single, defined geographic region—that is, the brain is not constructed in a local fashion. There is no sharp and clearly defined division in the brain into functional units situated in distinct geographic areas, as there is in a computer—memory, input, output, processing unit, and the like. Different brain activities are carried out by the same geographic units, and these are dispersed throughout the space of the brain.

To conclude the discussion in this section, it should be emphasized that this problem in the materialist approach does not lie in comparing a human being to a stone. As we saw, a computer, which is a more active entity than a stone, suffers from the same defect in relation to a human being. And beyond that: in the example of the Chinese room we learn that even different kinds of activity performed by an ordinary human being, who is alive, breathing, and thinking, under certain circumstances cannot constitute an explanation—and not even a full model—for the phenomenon of thought.²⁴

In the first two sections the argument was that one must not compare a person to inanimate matter. Here we take one step further: within the human being himself there are components that function like inanimate matter. The question is what exists in him beyond those components. What is it that makes his other activities—psychic, mental, and cognitive activities—possess a unique character that cannot be described in materialist terms? This is an indication of the existence of an additional, non-material component. This component is called “spirit” or “soul.”

It seems that the evidence discussed in this section is “philosophical,” not “theological.” And yet the reader still has room to think about it.

The Third Type of Argument: Occam’s Razor – Parasitism, or Begging the Question

The third type of argument in favor of materialism is based on Occam’s razor. According to this claim, we ought not posit assumptions beyond what is required to explain the data available to us. For example, if geometry can be based on four axioms, then clearly we should not needlessly construct a system of five axioms. The same applies in every domain of thought.

One may challenge the principle of Occam itself. Why assume that the simplicity of a system is a relevant criterion, let alone a guarantee, of truth? It may be that truth is found specifically in a system with more assumptions.

As we saw in the second book, especially in chapter 2 of the second gate, Occam’s razor is enthusiastically embraced by those who hold the analytic stance, yet they have no justification for it. As we saw there, the reason is that they do not need a justification, since they do not believe that logical principles lead them to the discovery of any objective truth about the world itself. There is no dispute that the razor principle is a convenient logical tool, and therefore they adopt it. Their only criterion of truth is convenience. But in that discussion we showed that those who hold the synthetic stance can use this very principle against the analytic position. On the other hand, those who hold the synthetic stance also use this principle, since in their view Occam’s razor reflects some truth.

In the second book we saw that for all of us—including those who deny this, whom Bechler calls “actualists” and whom we call “analysts”—Occam’s razor in fact functions in just that way. It serves as a criterion of truth, not merely of convenience. Thus, at least on the “theological” plane, one may say that Occam’s razor is a tool for truth. But when we move to seek explanations on the essential plane—what justifies our use of this principle as a criterion of truth—it seems that there is no possible explanation other than the action of a higher power that governs and supervises creation.

We must therefore examine the implications of this principle for our subject. In other words, in order to support the dualist claim—to reject materialism—we must point to facts and data that require additional assumptions, thereby showing that these additional assumptions are not superfluous. The facts that will show this are precisely those facts that cannot be explained by materialist tools.

Science explains only the totality of measurable and quantifiable phenomena. Yet, as we already mentioned in the previous section, we certainly do “observe,” not necessarily through the senses, additional phenomena as well. I refer to psychic, mental, and cognitive phenomena. As explained above, the fact that it is very difficult to quantify and measure the features of these phenomena has absolutely nothing to do with the conclusion that they do not exist.

Thus, Occam’s razor does not constitute a consideration for rejecting the existence of spirit. Materialist explanations do not succeed in describing, and certainly not in explaining, what we call “spiritual” or “mental” phenomena. It therefore seems that we certainly do require additional assumptions in order to explain the full range of the data and phenomena.

The denial of the existence of things that cannot be measured, in the manner of the materialists, is nothing but an evasion of the fact of their existence—a fact that is very hard to undermine, certainly no less so than the existence of matter, as we saw above and will see again below—and of the difficulty of describing them in quantitative and scientific fashion. But it is hard to treat such an approach as more rational than the approach that accepts the given facts, even if we do not yet possess a quantitative description of them.

Thus, the argument based on Occam’s razor cannot stand on its own. In order for it to constitute an argument against dualism—or idealism—we must assume that we are not faced with any facts that cannot be described by materialist means, and only then infer that the additional assumptions, concerning the existence of spirit, are unnecessary. But, as noted, this additional assumption is false, as we saw in the previous sections, and therefore the third type of argument is also invalid.

More generally, one may say that the third type of argument is valid only if the second type is valid. The hidden assumption at the basis of the third type is itself just another argument of the second type. One should notice that this assumption is nothing but concealed materialism, and therefore there is here a significant measure of begging the question. In fact, an argument of the third type is always parasitic upon arguments of the second type. Therefore, once we have rejected the first two types of argument, the third is rejected as well.

Critique of the Analytic Stance

Up to this point we have dealt with rejecting the explicit assumptions and conclusions of the three basic types of argument that might be advanced in favor of materialism. We must now move to the next plane, namely, an examination of the analytic stance itself.

As noted, all three types of argument assume that if we cannot define a concept or observe an object through the senses, then this is an argument in favor of its non-existence. Up to this point we have assumed that the logic at the basis of these arguments is correct in itself, but we have shown that because the assumptions that materialists place at their foundation are false, the conclusions that arise from them are not necessarily materialist.

However, as we have already noted, an analytic stance is implicitly embedded at the basis of all three of these arguments. There is therefore another way to reject the materialist conception: we can attack analyticity itself, and then these types of argument collapse on their own.

The analytic stance was the subject of the first book, and therefore we are exempt here from contending with it in detail. Briefly, analyticity is tied to conceptual conventionalism, whereas syntheticity is bound up with conceptual essentialism. The first type of argument discussed above implicitly assumes conventionalism. The second assumes analyticity, namely, that what one cannot see or prove analytically from observations does not exist. These are therefore arguments analytic in character. As stated, we attacked analyticity throughout the first book, especially in the seventh through ninth gates, and the reader who wants more detail is referred there.

Of course, one could also formulate the second type of argument in an even blunter analytic fashion, and say that an entity whose existence cannot be proved does not exist.²⁵ But, as we showed in the first book in the most general way, proof is not a necessary condition for the existence of things, nor even a necessary condition for knowledge about them. We saw there that it is not even a necessary condition for the truth of mathematical propositions. See the discussion of Gödel’s theorem in the ninth gate of the first book.²⁶

Summary So Far

In effect, the first part of the argumentative path against materialism ends here. The discussion has been brief, but it is sufficient for our purposes. In this part we attacked the three basic types of argument that support materialism. As we already mentioned above, since dualism is the intuitive position, it is enough to show that the materialist arguments are not compelling in order to reject the materialist position outright.

However, as we also added there, we will continue and present considerations that directly support the dualist position itself. Thus, in the second part of the argument we change direction. Here we will briefly present several additional aspects that do not attack one of the three arguments for materialism, but constitute independent and positive arguments—in the terms of the introduction, both “philosophical” and “theological”—in favor of dualism.

Morality, Sanctity, and the Fear of Cloning

In the wake of technological progress, many people today are worried about the possibility of cloning human beings, or of controlling by genetic means the form and traits of the human beings who will be born—and perhaps even of human beings who already exist. More generally, there is concern about the application of genetic engineering to human beings, not necessarily by means of cloning.

This concern is based on the belief that one can control the human spirit by genetic means. In fact, there is an assumption here that the human being is nothing but a natural product of a certain DNA, and no more. Only from such a belief does the conclusion follow that if the genetic structure of two creatures is identical, then they too will be identical. There are common claims among biologists that the human being is a kind of ape because of the almost complete identity of their genetic structure.

Even if this assumption were correct, the concern itself still seems somewhat strange. This concern must itself arise entirely from the feeling that the human being is a special creature, and therefore must not be cloned. If the human being is indeed nothing but a complex physicochemical structure, and no more, then it is not clear what the moral problem really is in duplicating such a structure. Is there any problem in cloning a table, apart from copyright, or a stone, or even a cat?

Thus, on the one hand, if we accept the materialist conception, then this fear seems ridiculous and paradoxical, and devoid of any moral significance. On the other hand, if the human being is not merely a physicochemical structure—that is, if we are dualists rather than materialists—then it is clear that cloning by copying DNA will not duplicate the essential parts of the human being, namely his spirit. If so, then it is not clear what the terrible fear of cloning is.²⁷

Various technical explanations can be proposed for this fear, such as a fear of producing perfect human beings who will take over the world and humanity, or of creating a world in which everyone will be blond with blue eyes. But it seems that this is not a full explanation for the intensity of the moral emotions—and not technical emotions at all—or for the moral pathos that accompanies discussion of this issue.

If the human being is indeed composed of two components, then even if human beings are genetically cloned, they will not turn out identical. Control over their traits will not be complete, since genetics does not exclusively determine a person’s character, talents, and traits—though it certainly influences them; see below in chapter 3—because genetics deals only with his material part. It is highly plausible that the human spirit is no less important in this regard, and as far as we know there is no way to clone spirit. This claim is certainly true if spirit does not exist at all.

We should note here that the strange paradox hidden in the so widespread moralistic fear of genetic cloning is merely a reflection of the general paradox that exists in modern Western culture: on the one hand, it has a scientific-materialist conception, according to which the human being is nothing but an evolutionary product of physics and chemistry; on the other hand, his life, liberty, rights, and dignity are assigned great value. The reader is referred to the first book, especially the second cluster in Gate Five, for a broader treatment of this paradox. This is one of the roots of the paradox there called “Bokononism.”

Returning to our point, more specifically one may say that genetic means can determine the physiological structure of the brain, but not the spiritual structure of the intellect that uses the brain, or of the will. As we saw, a human being does not think in the brain but in the intellect. The intellect merely uses the brain, or operates through the brain, in order to communicate with the body and through it with the material world. Intellect is a spiritual concept, whereas the brain is a bodily organ that in principle is no different from the legs and hands, or any other organ.²⁸ For this reason there is no need to fear the cloning of the brain, since that has no dramatic significance; nor is there any reason to fear the cloning of the intellect, because that cannot be carried out by genetic means.

It should be noted that specifically from a dualist standpoint one can indeed understand various fears about human cloning, even if according to such a view cloning can be carried out only partially.²⁹ The paradox to which we have pointed is that this fear exists today alongside the dominance of the materialist stance.

In any case, it must be clarified that one should not regard the fact that the dualist stance has an advantage with respect to its moral implications as evidence, or even as an indication, of its truth. A pattern of argument of this kind, though very widespread, is invalid. If the materialist stance is true, then one should infer from it the moral conclusions that follow. If the conclusion is that we have no moral obligation to human beings beyond our obligation to animals, then even if this conclusion seems undesirable to someone, it is not clear why he should assume that it is therefore false. There is no reason to assume any real connection between the desirable and the actual, and using the desirable in order to know the actual is nothing but a fallacy.

For that reason, the consideration presented here works in the opposite direction. It relies on the fact that moral rules appear to us as binding and valid, and therefore one may derive from them, in a “theological” way, the assumptions that lead to them. These rules are the “conclusion” from which the dualist “premise” may be inferred.

Arguments from morality are very common in our culture,³⁰ and they usually stem from the absurd conception called “pragmatism,” which chooses principles—values, and even truths—according to the benefit they bring us. See the discussion in the sixth gate of the first book.

Thus, the argument raised here is “theological,” not “philosophical.” It does not prove dualism, nor does it refute materialism; rather, it goes in the opposite direction: it shows that the views commonly held among us are covertly based on dualism rather than materialism.

It is interesting to ask why so many people are genuinely worried about the possibility of genetic control over birth, despite their declared belonging to a world with a materialist worldview. Perhaps they do not really believe in it, or perhaps their minds have been washed by those who do. Many people engage in constant brainwashing in these directions. Ironically, this foolish brainwashing is carried out also by materialists, precisely from a desire to fight “religious-primitive conceptions.”³¹

Teleology³²

In the second book we dealt with the question of teleology, that is, purposiveness. We presented there two forms of explanation for various phenomena: a causal form and a teleological form. Causal explanations offer the cause of an event that occurred, whereas teleological explanations offer the purpose for which that event occurred. We saw there that in the domain of inanimate matter it is customary to explain occurrences causally, since it is difficult to assume that a stone, like any other inanimate object, has desires and goals. By contrast, with respect to occurrences that involve a human being, explanations tend to take on a more teleological character. A human act will usually be explained in terms of what he seeks to achieve by that act. Even the presence of organs in the human body, which as such is a material object, is explained through their purpose or the function they serve in the body.

In human activity there are undoubtedly actions of a purposive character. A person telephones a friend in order to arrange a meeting for tomorrow. This is an action whose cause lies in the future. A human being acts in order to achieve future goals. All planning, in every field, has this character: taking the future into account in order to shape the present. If the human being is indeed just a collection of molecules, mere matter, then it is not clear how he can produce activity of a purposive kind—an activity grounded in the conduct of the human being as a whole—and not merely causal activity, rooted in the description of the behavior of his molecules. How can a collection of molecules plan the present in accordance with the future? Here it is specifically the materialists who are forced into statements like those of Aristotle and the like, according to which a material body “wants,” or “intends,” some goal—statements that would usually be defined, especially by them, as foolishness.

We see that there can be no reduction of human activity to the physical world. According to the materialist position, molecules cannot act in a non-causal fashion, whereas the human being, who according to those views is made up solely of molecules, can act in that way. Similarly, one may ask whether a material body can possess self-awareness. Is there matter that can be aware of its desires and its actions? Can matter possess a will at all, or act? These capacities too cannot be reduced to a purely material structure.

The basic conception of the human being as an autonomous agent who bears responsibility for his acts also does not fit materialism, even though we often find both of these conceptions together at the heart of the Western-liberal consensus. It is somewhat strange to think that a collection of molecules is responsible for the consequences of its actions, or for anything else. Of course, one can continue to give up the demand of responsibility, or alternatively believe that this feeling itself, of moral responsibility, is forced upon us by the same material determinism. In any event, it is clear that one cannot hold the rope at both ends. This is another aspect of the Bokononian paradox underlying the Western worldview, described in the previous section as well.

We see a family of human capacities and characteristics that cannot be reduced to the physical world. For that reason, it does not seem plausible to construe the human being as a creature composed only of physical components. We see that there must be in the human being an additional component; this component is called the spiritual or psychic part. In what follows we will focus chiefly on the argument that deals with the transition from causal modes of action at the molecular level to purposive modes of action at the overall human level.

This very phenomenon—the transition from occurrences of a causal character at the molecular level to occurrences of a teleological character at the human level—points to a rupture between different planes of occurrence. If the human being were entirely a material object, then explanations of his actions should be given in causal terms, drawn from the physicochemical world, and not in teleological terms.

There is a dispute among philosophers and scientists concerning reductionism, that is, whether fields that belong to a “higher” plane—that is, a more comprehensive one, closer to the human being as a whole and as psyche—can be reduced to occurrences on more basic planes of analysis. For example: can biology be reduced to physics and chemistry; psychology to biology; sociology to psychology; and so on?

The most significant dispute concerns the relation between levels that belong to science itself, for example between biology and physics and chemistry. As biology advances, it employs more and more causal explanations, and fewer and fewer teleological ones. But on the plane of human or social behavior, there is not even a hint of the possibility of such a reduction.

This is therefore, at least apparently, an indication that there is something in the human being and in human society that is essentially different from what exists in inanimate matter. Causal explanations cannot describe the human being in all his aspects, because there is in him something non-material, and therefore something not subject to physicochemical description.

Admittedly, in the previous book we pointed out that even inanimate matter can also be described in teleological fashion, despite the widespread, and superstitious, belief that we have already rid ourselves of such explanations. In fact, as we showed there, modern science makes increasing use of teleological explanations for inanimate matter.

Thus we have here a convergence of the planes of analysis. The inanimate parts become more teleological, while the human planes become more causal.

This phenomenon indicates that one can in principle conceive a reduction of the laws governing a system that is teleological in its essence to systems of causal laws. One can even find systems of causal laws and teleological laws that describe the same totality of phenomena.

On the one hand, this picture undermines the evidence we have brought here in favor of dualism and against materialism. For the fact that explanations in the human sphere are teleological in character does not compel the conclusion that they cannot also be described causally. And the same is true of the causal character of the sciences of inanimate matter.

But by the same token it is also evidence that negates the arguments for materialism, which are based on the causal character of the laws of nature. If the use of causal laws or teleological laws is merely the result of an arbitrary choice, then there is no compelling significance to the character of the laws we have chosen in describing the phenomena we observe.

However, at this point another distinction enters the picture, and we must attend to it. In the previous book, see note 22 there, we saw that the teleological explanations proposed for occurrences in the inanimate domain are not really teleological in the ordinary sense of the word. For example, we saw there that the behavior of light in geometric optics can be described in causal terms through Snell’s laws and the like, and in “teleological” terms through Fermat’s principle of minima—in geometric optics, that light always travels along the path that takes the least time. Likewise, the laws of gravity can describe the fall of a stone in causal terms through Newton’s laws of gravitation, or in “teleological” terms through the search for minimum potential energy: the body “strives” to reach the place at which the potential is minimal. This last formulation is positively Aristotelian in character. Aristotle described the stone’s tendency to descend because of its origin in the earth. In his view, the stone is made of earth, which strives to return to its source.

We saw there that the accusation directed at the Aristotelian description—that it is “primitive” because it attributes “aspirations” to a stone—has no basis and arises from misunderstanding. Aristotle never imagined that the stone had the option not to “strive” downward. According to Aristotle, can a stone also decide to go upward? Of course not.

Thus, the seemingly teleological description that Aristotle offers for the fall of stones to the ground is not really teleological. There is no striving toward a goal here, and certainly not a striving on the part of the stone itself. Perhaps the founder of the laws of nature strives for something in setting such laws—and if so, that itself is evidence of Him as a non-material being—but Aristotle was far from proposing that a stone truly has “aspirations.”

The teleological explanations used today in the sciences of inanimate matter, often without the users themselves noticing this, are not really teleological. These are fully deterministic laws; they can simply be described in two different languages: one causal in character, and the other only apparently teleological. In one language one offers the causes of the occurrence, and in the other the goal toward which the occurrence leads. But both languages describe fully deterministic laws.

It is therefore no surprise that one can find a perfect correspondence between these two kinds of description, and describe the same totality of phenomena in these two different languages.

A genuinely teleological theory would be one that explained in terms of the aspirations and desires of the stone or inanimate object. In other words, it would attribute to it decision, determination, or choice. As far as I know, an occurrence that describes genuine free choice cannot be described at all in a language that uses only causal terms.

Therefore, the argument above remains in force. The teleological description of human actions—not the biology of the living body, but human psychology—uses a genuinely teleological explanatory system. There is not, and in my opinion will not be, any causal system capable of describing the full range of the phenomena of human behavior, will, and thought. Here there is a dimension of the human being that cannot be described in causal terms, nor even in “teleological” terms in the sense of biology or Fermat’s principle.

In any case, if someone should come and claim that such explanations can nevertheless be offered for human behavior,³³ then the burden of proof lies on him. Without doubt, the dualist position is the simpler and more plausible one, and the materialist position is the one on the defensive. There are philosophers, such as John Searle in the book mentioned above, who maintain that the human being has free choice and yet are not dualists. In light of what has been said here, it is clear that this is a puzzling view, arising apparently from confusion and misunderstanding.

In this formulation, the argument that relies on the teleological character of human behavior, as opposed to the deterministic-causal character of inanimate matter, does indeed seem to constitute a valid proof of the existence of a spiritual dimension in the human being—a dimension not subject to the deterministic explanations of physics.

One can think of several principled objections that might be raised against the consideration presented here, namely the transition from causality to teleology.

The first type of objection would claim that the description above is simply incorrect. Human purposive action, such as the telephone call, does have a cause in the ordinary material sense, and is not truly motivated teleologically. For example, when a person telephones his friend in order to arrange a meeting, there is indeed in his consciousness a future situation that is the goal of the action. But the true cause of the action is an instruction from the brain, which itself results from other stimuli. In other words, my present lack of this meeting—something I feel now, and which stems from causes existing now—is the true cause of my action. Here we will only say that perhaps this is possible, but the burden of proof lies on the one who claims it, since after all our clear experience is of purposive action, and without a real reason there is no point in abandoning it.

Beyond this, there is another level of response to this objection, namely the anthropological-linguistic argument. See the discussion in the first book, chapter 2 of Gate Eleven. We will now elaborate it.

In the first book, following the anthropological proof of Descartes, we saw that anyone who claims that some concept is fictive is exposed to attack: how did this concept arise, and how can all of us understand others when they use such a concept? We saw there that concepts without any basis, whether in the psyche or in reality, cannot be understood by us.

In light of that, whoever raises this objection must explain how the concept “purpose” came into being. From where, and how, was it drawn? More than that: how do we all use it with full understanding? According to the materialist objector, there is no purposiveness in nature at all; all occurrences are only deterministic-causal. Do all of us have exactly the same illusion, even though it arose accidentally and has no root or source in reality itself? Do we all, by sheer accident, suffer from the same hallucinations?

Clearly it is far more plausible to say that if we all understand the concept “purpose,” and all use it successfully in discourse with one another—even when the use occurs within an argument whose aim is to deny the existence of that very concept, as the materialist objector does—then it is clear that we also experience it, in some way, in the world around us and within ourselves.³⁴

To put it differently: it would not be possible to define and explain the concept “purpose” to a creature that was causal in its essence and that lived wholly within a deterministic-causal world. In such a definition we would have to explain that a purposive action is an action “for” some end, or “toward” some goal. This entire cluster of words would be utterly foreign to purely causal creatures, and would therefore be of no help at all in explaining the term “purpose” to them. There is no way—or even a starting point for a way—to explain the concept “purpose” to a causal creature.

This argument gains special force when we note that ordinarily no one around us even bothers to teach or explain this concept at all. Its use develops naturally. Everyone knows it from what happens around them. This phenomenon clearly indicates that the concept is known to us both from observation of the world and as something somehow rooted in our own consciousness.

We should note that an argument similar to the one raised here could also concern the concept “spirit” itself. Each of us uses this term with some understanding of its meaning. There is not only a negative understanding—spirit equals non-matter—but also a positive understanding, admittedly a somewhat vague one. Here too the reader should ask himself: where did the concept “spirit” come from? According to the materialist, its source is fictive, and yet one must admit that all of us use it in our discourse with a rather impressive degree of mutual understanding.

Thus, the objection that our use of teleological terms is accompanied by an illusion is rejected out of hand. This objection is based on a mystical and esoteric proposal, according to which all of us developed the same fictive conceptual system in the same way, and all of us use the same fictive concept in the same way. In any case, it is clear that at the very least the burden of proof here lies on the objector, not on the dualist.

There is also another type of objection, one that attacks the interactionist claim itself. According to the description proposed here, the physical act of lifting the telephone receiver is caused by a future event—the meeting—or by a non-material, spiritual entity—the desire to arrange the meeting. In other words: if spirit truly affects matter, then there must be at least one physical event, namely the one at the beginning of the causal chain, that has no physical cause but only a spiritual-mental cause.

But this contradicts our basic understanding of causality in the physical world. When I stretch out my hand to the telephone receiver in order to make such a call, this happens as the result of a complex causal chain. This chain includes instructions from the brain, passage through the nervous system, and complex muscular action, until the receiver reaches a position near my mouth. Each such stage is itself made up of thousands of smaller actions linked by cause and effect, in which an enormous number of molecules and smaller particles move and affect one another.

Ultimately, if I claim that what set this vast system of causal chains into motion was the desire to arrange a meeting, then the movement of the first particle in the brain occurred without a physical cause; my will caused it. And here the question arises: how does my will, which is a spiritual-mental creature or state, manage to create interaction with material particles at specific places, or move them from one place to another?

This difficulty is particularly severe if one understands that spiritual things are not described in terms of place. My will, which is a spiritual-mental entity, is not located in my head; rather, it acts on and through my head. It is nowhere, because only material objects occupy specific places in space.

This topic, sometimes called “the psychophysical problem,” is the main subject of the next chapter, where we will discuss it from additional perspectives as well.

The argument described here touches both the question of interactionism and the question of materialism. It has been brought here in order to prove dualism on the basis of the transition from causality to substantial teleology. Teleological processes are associated by us with spiritual entities. Physics, by contrast, is causal in character, or at least we describe it that way. See note 22 in the second book. In the later gates we will continue to develop this argument, and with its help we will try to discuss and define more clearly what free choice is and what human will is. Once these points are sharpened, we will be able to return and understand more fully why causal reduction to occurrences of this sort is impossible. There we will return to this argument, and to the conceptual confusions that underlie the objections to it.

It should be noted that the evidence brought here from the teleological character of human acts and behavior is “philosophical” in character, not “theological.” By contrast, the anthropological argument that rejected the objection based on illusion was “theological” in character.

An Evolutionary Note

In the fourth gate of the second book we pointed out that several parallel descriptions may exist for the same phenomenon. For example, a description on the metaphysical-spiritual plane may accompany a parallel description on the scientific-material plane. We argued there at length that there is not necessarily any contradiction in adopting both of these explanatory or descriptive planes. In the previous section we saw that the concept of choice is the exception: it has a description on the metaphysical plane, but not on the scientific plane. As we will see in the later gates, choice, by its very nature, is action without a cause. A phenomenon of this sort cannot be explained within a method in which “explanation” means finding a cause from which the result unfolds.

In such contexts the theory of evolution naturally arises. Evolutionary theory creates a framework for understanding the development of bodies made only of matter. If spirit truly acts in those bodies, then this places a question mark over whether evolution is a sufficient theory for the origin and development of the human being. In the previous book, in chapter 1 of Gate Six and elsewhere, we saw that in any case this is not a sufficient alternative to metaphysical explanation. Here we claim more than that: if spirit indeed exists, then even on the plane of historical development we still have not reached an exhaustive explanation. How did the human spirit develop? Did it too emerge from the big bang? Does this not compel us to think of someone who created it and implanted it within us? Perhaps that is the true reason so many people flee into such fantastic theories, as we will also see below, instead of remaining rational and trusting their common sense.

It is worth noticing that evolution itself does not fit the laws of physics under a materialist worldview. Evolution assumes that the fittest survives, but the laws of physics seemingly determine a different picture. In the world of physics everything is the result of blind forces acting upon physical objects. How, then, does such a microscopically characterized world lead, at the macroscopic level, to processes characterized by the laws of evolution? And conversely, if the laws of evolution can indeed be reduced to the laws of physics, then it seems we have “gained” nothing from evolutionary theory. What can be explained by it can apparently also be explained without it.³⁵

In light of this, it follows that one who believes in evolution ought, seemingly, to believe in the existence of a layer of laws in reality that is not physical, a layer that affects the macroscopic laws in addition to the laws of physics. If so, the question returns: how did this layer develop from the big bang? From this angle as well, materialism and evolution do not go together. On the other hand, if such dimensions of being do indeed exist, then evolution by itself does not provide a sufficient and full explanation of their coming into being. Evolution is not a sufficient explanation even for its own existence.³⁶

In this connection it is interesting to examine the way different researchers relate to the problem of body and soul in its evolutionary context.

For example, in Zvi Yanai’s The Endless Search,³⁷ in the conversation with Professor Terkel, beginning on page 89, the question is raised whether the existence of consciousness grants us, and animals generally, some evolutionary advantage. Often a hidden assumption lurks here, as though if consciousness did provide such an advantage, this would be a sufficient explanation for the emergence of conscious creatures.³⁸

But this is simply not true. If consciousness indeed occurs in a non-material medium—in spirit or in soul—then the fact that it grants an evolutionary advantage would not explain its coming into being. There are things whose chance of accidental emergence is not merely very small, but zero. Evolution operates only in relation to processes that have low probability, not zero probability. No evolutionary process can allow an occurrence that is impossible.

Incidentally, in this connection one should notice Yanai’s remark there, on page 91, that consciousness does not always confer a survival advantage. He gives as an example Jane Goodall’s description of a baby chimpanzee that died of a broken heart after its mother’s death. A similar example concerning elephants is brought there as well.

Professor Terkel, in that same conversation, infers from this the existence of emotion in animals. If we sharpen the point, we may say that his claim is that if there is behavior that cannot be explained in terms of evolutionary advantage, then it is plausible that it has another source. If certain animals possess traits that cannot be the product of evolution, then it follows that there exists within them an additional component, a spiritual component, that is not the product of evolution.

Thus evolution cannot explain some mental occurrences, and in certain respects it specifically constitutes an argument against the materialist position.³⁹

The Argument from Syntheticity

In the section above dealing with the essential plane, we saw that materialism offers no explanation at all for the semantics of thought and for other mental activities. At most, it describes the syntax of thought. In this section we will see that there is a substantial problem even in the materialist description of the syntax of thought.

The fact that human thought contains a synthetic component, and that all our knowledge is based upon it, as we saw at length in the previous two books, is itself evidence against materialism. The reason is that synthetic thought includes a non-computational, that is, non-analytic, element, and as such it seems unable to be nourished by a merely mechanical system.

In this context it is important to note two aspects that we encountered in the previous books. In the ninth gate of the first book we discussed Gödel’s theorem, which undermined the common analytic identification between provability and truth. We noted there that the proof of the theorem is based on a kind of ability that no computer will ever possess: the ability to step outside its own system of fundamental assumptions. This is the basis of syntheticity. Syntheticity is the capacity to extract information that is not fully contained in the assumptions already known to us. There is here a movement beyond a defined system of premises, and an examination of that system “from outside.” Such a capacity can never exist in a computer.⁴⁰

How can mechanical creatures perform acts of thought that succeed in going beyond the system of their own assumptions? How can such a creature arrive at conclusions that do not follow from its premises? All this indicates that there is in the human being a dimension that is not mechanical-material, but rather of a character not subject merely to the mechanical processes of deriving logical conclusions from premises.

Finally, we should note that the argument from syntheticity also provides an additional context supporting the essential identification we made above between materialism and analyticity. In fact, what we see here is that materialism is based on rejecting syntheticity, that is, on an analytic position, and vice versa.

When we ask whether the argument here is “theological” or “philosophical,” it may seem at first sight to be “theological.” Apparently, whoever affirms syntheticity must discover within himself a dualist stance. But that is not the case.

One should notice that this evidence is not based on accepting the synthetic position as such. The premise at the basis of this evidence is simply the fact that such a mode of thought exists in us, even if it is not correct or valid. Even one who holds an analytic position and denies the validity of the conclusions arising from use of this capacity must admit that it exists in us. The mere fact that such a mechanism of thought appears in us, even if it is fundamentally mistaken, raises the question: where did we derive it from? This is similar to the anthropological argument we encountered above, but it is properly a “philosophical,” not a “theological,” argument. Indeed, it is almost empirical, since it is derived from the very facts of life even before any interpretation of them is attempted.

The Possibility of Interaction

The next argument that ought to be discussed in this context is the argument from psychophysics. As we already noted in the introduction, the discussion of the psychophysical problem is based on a dualist stance. In the materialist picture there is no room to discuss the relation between matter and spirit.

The very fact that there are non-material factors that affect our behavior and our decisions is usually brought within the framework of an argument for materialism. But as we shall see in the next chapter, which will deal with the psychophysical problem, this very fact—and especially the fact that many people are troubled by this idea—constitutes evidence that such factors exist.

Rejecting Other Models

Up to this point, for the sake of simplicity, we have dealt with two opposing models: materialism and dualism. In fact, the main thrust of the discussion has concerned materialism and its rejection, without regard to the nature of the alternative picture—whether it is dualist or something else. The alternative is derived from our intuition itself, not necessarily from the arguments presented here, whose main force lies in the rejection of materialism.

However, in some contexts it is important to enter more sharply into the distinctions proposed among the alternative pictures to materialism. The principal alternatives that arise in philosophical discourse are these:

1. Dualism – a picture of reality that contains a material component and a non-material, spiritual component.

Dualism itself splits into several shades: interactionist dualism, which recognizes the possibility of interaction between the components; parallelist dualism, which does not recognize such interaction; and others.

2. Idealism – a picture of reality that contains only a spiritual component. According to it, all matter is nothing but an illusion that exists only in the cognizing spirit—of what, exactly?

3. Epiphenomenalism – a picture that claims the dilemma is only apparent, because the spiritual functions are merely properties of the physical whole.

The discussion of dualism in its various forms depends essentially on the psychophysical problem, and we will therefore leave it to the next chapter.

Idealism is based, in essence, on Descartes’ principle of the cogito, though Descartes himself was not an idealist. The cogito principle is Descartes’ famous proof that he himself exists. In rough formulation, the proof runs as follows: if I doubt the fact of my own existence, then clearly there must be someone who is casting this doubt. If I do not doubt it, then my conclusion is that I exist. Therefore there is no possibility of denying existence, and thus existence is proven necessary. In the better-known formulation: “I think, therefore I am.”⁴¹

This proof, even if valid, refers to the spirit of the human being, not to his body. What emerges from it is that the existence of spirit is better proved than the existence of matter. Therefore, in accordance with Occam’s razor, which leads many people to materialism, we ought to infer that the assumption of the existence of matter is what requires proof; and as long as we are not forced to accept it, we should not do so.

The cogito principle is only one example. Even if Descartes’ proof is not valid, it is clear that we are aware of our spirit much more certainly than of our body. The conclusion that matter exists is a conclusion reached by the spirit. Therefore, idealists claim, doubting the existence of spirit while accepting the existence of matter is an absurd conclusion.

Epiphenomenalism is the name of a group of approaches that advocate a one-way dualism: the body affects the spirit, but there is no reverse effect. The basis of this strange approach is an assumption that will be discussed in the next chapter, namely that every material occurrence must have a material cause. This is a position so absurd, in terms of its fit with intuition, that there is no apparent advantage in adopting it over the simple and intuitive dualism. See, for example, the book by Taylor mentioned above, Metaphysics, chapter four. This issue will be discussed in the next chapter. Similar to this approach is Searle’s theory—the dual-aspect theory, according to which spirit is a function of the body—which we will also discuss in the next chapter.

Zeitlin: Materialism and Analyticity as Speculative Metaphysics

The embarrassment of the materialist, when confronted with the dualist intuitions that naturally exist in him as well, leads him to reject those intuitions. But this rejection gives rise to problems far graver than dualism itself, so that his intellectual gain turns out to be a loss.

In the issue of body and soul as well, the analyst continues his flight from the intuitive to the formal. He departs from rejecting the metaphysics involved in believing in the existence of spirit, only to arrive at a metaphysics far stranger and more bewildering still—in the spirit of the phrase, “From you to you I shall flee.”

For descriptions of the abundance of strange and mystical theories that have come to defend the “rational” position according to which spiritual influence on the material is impossible, see also the above-mentioned books of Taylor, Searle, and Dennett.

This phenomenon is another example of the analyst’s basic attitude, preferring his unfounded assumptions to simple intuitions. An analytic stance accepts only things that are proved, logically or empirically, and that can be sharply and precisely defined. As in several earlier contexts, we see here again that usually, if one succeeds in ignoring a few discomforts—which generally stem from philosophical errors transmitted with great force by the mechanisms of modern brainwashing—our intuition leads us to the most complete, simple, and best theory.

Another aspect of the connection between the problem of body and soul and the analytic-synthetic dispute is the connection to essentialism and conventionalism. In the second gate of the first book we pointed out that analyticity is generally connected to conventionalism, while syntheticity is generally connected to essentialism. The soul and the spiritual dimensions of the human being are in fact his essence, whereas the human being’s matter is his outward appearance—his form. The analyst, true to his habit, tends to adopt the existence of form without “matter,” in the sense used in the first book. Here that stance takes on a materialist coloring.

In fact, Schopenhauer made just this point when he said that the only entity whose essence a person can observe and discern directly, not through the mediation of its form, is his own spirit or soul.⁴²

Note 1: Body and Soul in Halakha (Jewish law)

In halakha, although those who engage in it generally hold an interactionist-dualist conception, there are nevertheless sometimes confusions between the human body and the human soul or spirit. The conception of the body in halakha also differs from the ordinary one. I would like to illustrate this briefly.

In halakha there is a concept of agency. A person can appoint an agent to perform various halakhic acts for him, such as separating terumah from his produce or effecting betrothal on his behalf. Some commentators—see Tosafot Ri”d on Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 42b, s.v. “Shani”—wonder why a person cannot appoint an agent to put on tefillin (phylacteries) on his behalf, or fulfill other commandments for him, such as prayer, blessings, and the like.

There are various nuances in the answer to this question, and here I will present one of them, which I once heard from Rabbi Shlomo Fischer of Jerusalem. It is quite possible that this is precisely what Tosafot Ri”d itself intends in his answer. When a person appoints an agent, the agent’s soul serves as a substitute for the principal’s soul. Instead of the principal effecting the betrothal, the act of betrothal is performed by the agent, and that act is attributed to the principal as though he himself had performed it. But when a person appoints an agent to put on tefillin on his behalf, we would have to regard the act of placing them as though it had been done on the principal’s body. Yet the principal’s body cannot be replaced by the agent’s body. The Torah’s innovation, that such representation or substitution can be performed, was stated only with regard to the souls of the actors, not with regard to their bodies.

The matter may also be viewed in another way. In putting on tefillin, the person is both the performer of the act—the gavra, in yeshiva terminology—and the object upon which the act is performed—the hefza. In such a case one cannot appoint an agent to perform the act in his place. The agent can be the performer of the act in place of the principal, but he cannot replace the body upon which the act is performed. In the betrothal of a woman, by contrast, the man is only the actor, and the acted-upon object is the woman who becomes betrothed. The actor is the person himself, that is, his soul, and therefore in betrothal he can indeed be replaced by the soul of another. The agent cannot replace the human being as the object acted upon.⁴³

In his book of responsa Beit Yishai, in the section dealing with a person who causes damage, Rabbi Shlomo Fischer shows additional implications of the distinction between the human body and the human soul. For example, with respect to a person who causes damage, there are cases in which, when the damaging act is carried out only by the person’s body, we treat it as though the person caused damage by means of something else, that is, by means of something that is his property, like his ox that caused damage.

Here we move to the second aspect we wanted to discuss, namely the halakhic conception of the human body. According to the halakhic conception, the person himself is the soul, and the body is only a periphery of the soul, one that stands in an intimate relation to it. Accordingly, there is room to conceive even more distant peripheries in a similar way. There are several halakhot that indicate a conception of a person’s property as an extension of his body.⁴⁴ Property too, like the body, is a periphery of the human being himself. It is admittedly less essential than the body—property can be replaced, whereas it is harder to replace a body, though in principle even that is possible—but it is still an extension or periphery of the soul.⁴⁵

With respect to the owner’s liability for damage caused by his property, there is a famous inquiry among the commentators: does this liability arise from the fact that the owner was negligent in guarding it—that he did not guard it properly—or, as most commentators understand it, from the mere fact that his property caused damage, except that if he guarded it properly he is exempt from payment? At first glance, the second conception is very puzzling. How can liability for compensation arise merely from the fact that my property caused damage? After all, it was not I who caused the damage. If my body caused damage, it seems clear that I myself caused the damage, and I am therefore liable. But when my property caused damage, why should I be liable for compensation irrespective of negligence in guarding it?

The Rogatchover, in his Tzofnat Pa’aneach on Babylonian Talmud, Bava Kamma 17, explains that this follows from the fact that a person’s property too, like his body, is part of himself. The example he brings is the prohibition that one’s animal do labor on Shabbat. A person may not allow his animal to work on Shabbat in a way that would constitute a forbidden labor were a human being to do it. There too, the Rogatchover argues, the matter indicates that property is part of the person himself.⁴⁶

This principle appears even more clearly in the ruling of the Raavad, cited in the Rosh on Babylonian Talmud, Makkot 7a—see there, chapter 1, section 13—regarding the issue of splitting testimony. This principle states that if Shimon testifies in court that Reuven lent him money with interest—which is a Torah prohibition for both lender and borrower—in that case we split his statement. That is, we believe his claim regarding the lender but not regarding himself, since a person is not believed when incriminating himself. The Raavad rules there that this principle applies only when the invalid part of the testimony concerns the witness himself, meaning that he is disqualified by the rule that a litigant is not a witness. When a person testifies about his relative—for example, if he says that Reuven lent his relative, who is related to the witness, with interest—then we invalidate the entire testimony, and do not accept even half of it. The reason is that since one part of the testimony is invalid, the whole testimony is invalidated. This is the rule that if part of it is void, all of it is void. When a person testifies about himself, as opposed to testifying about his relative, the part of the testimony that concerns himself is not considered testimony at all, since testimony is given by a witness, whereas he is not a witness in relation to himself but a litigant. Therefore that part is not considered invalid testimony that would invalidate the second part as well. We treat it as though it had never been said.

The commentators—see Birkat Avraham on that passage, among others⁴⁷—raise an objection to the Raavad from the discussion in Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 10a, where the Gemara raises the possibility that when a person testifies about his ox, in that case too we split his statement, meaning that the part of the testimony concerning his ox is not accepted, while the other half is. At first glance, this passage does not fit the Raavad’s conception, since according to him this principle applies only when a person testifies about himself, but not when he testifies about others, even when the other is his relative.

Apparently we see here once again the conception according to which a person’s testimony about his property—his ox—is regarded as testimony about himself. This is because property is an extension of the person himself, and not merely something close to him, as in the case of his relatives.⁴⁸

In note 23 below we will see that this is probably the metaphysical basis for greed, the lust for money, and we will broaden this picture with respect to the other drives as well.

A beautiful and sharp formulation of the absurdity of materialism, one that summarizes several of the points raised above, is found in Zeitlin’s On the Boundary of Two Worlds. We will conclude the chapter with a quotation from his words there, pages 81-82:

But scientific materialism arrives at the very place from which it fled in such great panic. It fled from metaphysics and returned to metaphysics—and indeed to dogmatic metaphysics, that very metaphysics which cannot withstand even the most ordinary critical spirit. “The foundation of all things is matter.” But who has seen or heard this matter, or these matters, that are the foundation and essence of all things? What we see and hear, and what in general reaches our senses, are only different bodies in different manifestations and garments—that is, many appearances, and not the essential realities of things: not matter, or the matters themselves. And if you say that the foundation, matter or the matters, is something whose existence is grasped by the intellect and not by the senses, then it is an abstraction like all metaphysical abstractions, and it has no more reality or concreteness than the “I,” or the “world-intellect,” the “world-will,” the “unknowable,” and the like. Indeed, the latter enjoy a great advantage over matter as the foundation of the world, in that they—the “I,” the “intellect,” the “will,” and the like—are known and felt in our spirit immediately, whereas matter or the matters, as they are in themselves, apart from outward appearances and manifestations, are not known or felt by us at all. In this sense, matter, or the matters, as the foundation of all reality, is precisely the abstraction furthest from us and strangest to us.

Materialism is refuted from its very root—as Schopenhauer already noted—also because of the great contradiction that lies in its logical foundation. What does materialism really teach us? It teaches us that all our intellect, with all its richness and wonder, is the offspring of matter. But matter itself, as substance and foundation—from where does it come? How do we know at all that it exists? We take all the things that appear to us in images, visions, and manifestations, strip away by means of our intellect all those features that we see as material accidents, and form for ourselves matter abstracted from all these. Matter, then, is only our abstraction. The intellect is therefore the maker and begetter of matter. So how could matter be the maker and begetter of the intellect? Matter as the begetter of intellect—when without intellect matter itself has no foothold or standing—is like Baron Munchausen, who was drowning in a river and saved himself by pulling on the hair of his own head.

And this too—and this is the main point: materialism has no power to explain for us the existence of the spiritual world within us. For all its gyrations, we still do not know how material forces, which are blind, dim, heavy, and dark forces, produce sensation. How do they produce life, and especially the feeling of life? How do they produce our sensory awareness? How do they produce imagination? How do they produce intellect, even in its lowest manifestations, and especially in its higher and more exalted manifestations? Above all—how do they produce our self-consciousness? It is easy for the materialist to say that matter, through its parts, combinations, and combinations of combinations, gives birth to all these. But how, and in what manner, does this strange leap occur? Who will uncover for us the face of the veil covering that moment in which dark matter suddenly passes over into feeling itself, and especially into reflective awareness of itself? Moreover, when we think not about things outside us, and not even about those within us that we learn to know as though they stood outside us, but rather when we wish to grasp our thought itself—that is, its very being, its being within itself and not in its outward manifestations—then we feel with all force and know with complete clarity that this thought of ours is no chemical process, nor any physiological-biological process. What we recognize in our inwardness as spirituality may in some respect depend, in our earthly life, on various bodily processes, insofar as those processes accompany the spiritual manifestations within us; but by no means are they the offspring of those manifestations, because the essence and nature of the spiritual, as it is felt by us in the very apprehension of our thought, is absolutely different from them.

Summary

In this chapter we dealt with the question whether there exists in reality a dimension that is not material. We saw that the materialist approach opposes this, mainly for reasons stemming from its view that belief in the existence of the spiritual is a kind of unnecessary metaphysics. We summarized the materialist arguments under three headings, brought arguments against each of them, and then presented direct arguments in favor of the existence of a spiritual component.

We have already pointed out that, in fact, rejecting the materialist arguments is enough to justify adopting dualism, since dualism accords with the intuition of all of us, including that of the materialists themselves. After the additional arguments, it seems that there is no room at all for a strange and esoteric approach such as materialism. The fact that after so many years it still persists indicates the power of the hidden motives that lead people to hold it.

Belief in the existence of a non-material component in creation may “lead” to the conclusion that it has a source, and that this source cannot be merely evolutionary—namely, God. It seems that this is the only explanation for the attachment to such fanciful and unfounded theories as those repeatedly advanced against dualism.

Yet anyone who examines the matter in an unbiased way reaches the conclusion that all these are nothing but futile attempts. Materialism is nothing but dogmatic and speculative metaphysics, and a tendentious one at that. The reliance upon science is mere demagoguery; this point will be treated in greater detail in the third chapter below.

The point left for clarification is the question of interaction between the two components whose very existence occupied us in this chapter. We have already noted that the question of interaction also reflects back upon the discussion of materialism itself. These questions are the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter Two: The Psychophysical Problem

Introduction

In the previous chapter we saw that there is no escaping the conclusion, which also accords with simple intuition, that in reality there exist two kinds of substances: material and non-material, that is, “spiritual.” In this chapter we deal with the question of the relation between these two components of existence. In current terminology this question is called “the problem of body and soul,” or “the psychophysical problem.”

It should be noted that beyond the three types of argument in favor of materialism that we encountered in the previous chapter, there is another argument in its favor, no less common, and this one will open the discussion in the present chapter. This argument is based on the principle of causality. There is a simple intuition that a material event cannot occur without a cause. In addition, many adopt the assumption that a spiritual cause is irrelevant in this connection, and therefore a situation in which a spiritual cause brings about a material result is equivalent to a situation in which there is no cause at all.

From these two assumptions, of course, it is very easy to derive a materialist conclusion. If indeed all material occurrences are caused by material causes, then there is no reason to posit the existence of non-material entities, since those entities have no expression in the real world. The reasons usually advanced for rejecting materialism arise from our encounter, in one way or another, with phenomena that cannot be explained within its framework. Dualism is adopted in order to offer an explanation for those phenomena. But if a spiritual cause does not provide an explanation for a physical-material occurrence, then we have gained nothing from dualism. This leaves the argument for materialism based on Occam’s razor standing in full force.

A more specific version of this argument begins with denying the connection that we tend to find between our mental events and physical results. Such denial leads to identifying those mental events as fictions, which in fact are nothing but material occurrences. Let us emphasize that the point is not merely to infer from these arguments the conclusion that these “mental” occurrences are caused by material causes. The main thrust of these arguments is to establish the claim that these occurrences themselves are material.

These are ridiculous claims, to put it mildly. At the very least, they are devoid of meaning. The great question is: who is this factor that “mistakenly identifies” these mental events as spirit, when in fact they are nothing but matter? Can a material entity “identify” anything at all? Can it be in a state of “illusion”? Can it “err,” or be liable to error? Descartes’ cogito argument, together with its extension, which were presented briefly in the previous chapter, reject such claims out of hand.

These are additional examples of the absurdities to which materialists are prepared to go in their continuing flight from reality.

And yet we must examine this argument in itself. Even if the materialist alternative, which cannot even be formulated, certainly cannot be inferred from it. The assumption that a material event is always caused only by a material cause sounds very intuitive and obvious. The question we must discuss is: how does this assumption fit with the clear fact, established by the discussion in the previous chapter, that spirit exists? This is the subject of the present chapter.

An important assumption that we must keep in the background throughout the discussion is that in light of the conclusions of the previous chapter, materialism is an absurd approach. Therefore, as a basic fact, we clearly assume that some spiritual component does indeed exist in reality. This conclusion still does not explain the psychophysical question, which concerns the possibility and nature of the connection between these two kinds of substance, material and spiritual.

The Psychophysical Problem: Presentation of the Problem

At the first stage, we must describe the initial intuition. In the simple conception, there seems to be mutual influence of body and soul upon one another. When I am frightened, sad, or depressed, bodily phenomena may appear—sweating, loss of weight, and the like. This is an influence from the soul to the body. Conversely, when I have a wound or some other bodily illness, that can affect my mental state. For example, a wound, which is a bodily event, causes pain, which is a mental state, or a tendency to focus on myself, accompanied by an inability to relate to others; and likewise fear, irritability, and the like.

Clearly, then, our primary intuition identifies with interactionist dualism—that is, with the view that there are bodies and there are also souls, and that they act upon one another.

There are materialists who maintain that pain is not a mental state but a state of the nervous system, or of the brain. As we saw in the previous chapter, this is an absurd claim, just like the claim that light is an electromagnetic wave, discussed in the second gate of the first book—see there the quotation from Russell. There we saw that light is a state of awareness caused by the encounter of a physical state of the world—the thing we call an “electromagnetic wave”—with the eyes. In exactly the same way, pain is a mental state caused by the wound, carried by the nervous system to the brain, and from there to the intellect, that is, consciousness or spirit. It is a result of the state of the nervous system, or of some activity of it, but not a state of the nervous system itself.

Thus, apparently, the matter is simple. There are material bodies and there are souls, or spiritual entities. What, then, is the problem? It seems to lie in the assumption introduced in the beginning: the assumption of causality.

A basic assumption of every one of us, and one that also underlies all scientific activity, is that every event has a cause. When we suddenly hear a loud sound behind us, we will immediately turn our heads. Turning the head is intended to search for the cause that made that sound occur. Why do we assume that there was such a cause? Why not say that the sound may have occurred without a cause? Clearly, none of us is prepared to accept such a claim.⁴⁹

The principle of causality is an axiom for every person. Science deals mainly with searching for causes of various occurrences, and therefore, as a basic assumption—methodological but also substantial—it does not accept the claim that some occurrence happened without any cause whatsoever.

However, the principle of causality is not enough to understand the psychophysical problem. For this to become a real problem, we must add another layer. Let us imagine a situation in which we see an object suddenly begin to move, without any apparent cause. We would be quite surprised, and would immediately look for the hidden cause of this motion. Even if our search failed to find such a cause, we would still assume with certainty that it exists; we simply have not found it. Why should we not say that perhaps there was a cause, but one we cannot observe? Perhaps some spiritual cause acted here.

For example, the law of gravitation, which scientifically is the cause that makes bodies fall toward the earth, is not itself something observable. Why is that cause accepted by us as a legitimate cause?⁵⁰ The answer is probably because the object that exerts that force—namely, the earth—is observable.

Electrical and magnetic force are likewise entities that are not observable. In these cases, even the entities that exert those forces—electrons or electric currents—are not directly observable.

Indeed, these theories are regarded as highly abstract, and without strong empirical evidence we would not accept the existence of the tiny entities involved in them. But in the final analysis, even here we are dealing with entities that can be observed in some way. We use instruments for that purpose, and by means of them we infer, in various ways, the existence of electrons or electric currents.

The concept of “observation” has indeed undergone a metamorphosis throughout history, yet it seems that in every case in which we speak of causes there must be some way to observe those causes. Without some realistic avenue of this kind, we generally do not accept an explanation that uses those “causes.”

Let us take a concrete example that will clarify the matter further. We should notice that the object that suddenly began to move was, at the moment motion began, accelerating. It changed its velocity from rest to motion. Newton’s second law states that acceleration is caused by a physical force, whose numerical value is the product of the object’s mass and its acceleration. Now, since we did not find any apparent cause that brought about the motion of the object in question, we infer that some spiritual cause was at work here.

The problem that arises here is scientific in essence. Newton’s second law states that motion is caused only by a physical force. To suggest another cause, one that is not a physical force, would contradict Newton’s second law. An acceleration has arisen without any application of force.

The only intuitive way out of this problem is to adopt the claim that there is a spiritual cause that exerts upon the object a physical force of the same magnitude as that required by Newton’s laws, and therefore the object begins to accelerate and move.

But then a second-order problem arises: can a non-physical entity exert a physical force? If indeed that is so, then Newton’s laws seem to lose much of their meaning. The statement that acceleration is caused by a force becomes more of a definition than a law of nature.⁵¹ Every time some body begins to move, we will infer that a force was present. Sometimes the entity exerting it will have been material, and sometimes it will have been spiritual. If so, it is unclear whether Newton’s law can ever be refuted. For every time a body moves without any force having acted upon it, we can simply say that there was a force caused by a spiritual entity that cannot be seen. Newton’s second law ceases to have any real empirical content.

Let us now translate this picture into the problem of body and soul. On Thursday, a person decides that he wants to meet a friend on the following Sunday. To do so, he decides to call him on the telephone in order to arrange the meeting. In the previous chapter we discussed the teleological character of this description. There is here a future cause—the meeting, which will take place on Sunday—that causes a present act—the telephone call, which takes place on Thursday. The solution we proposed was that the cause of the act of calling is not the meeting itself, but the desire to meet. The desire already exists now, in the present.

But making the telephone call is a physical act of the human body. It involves raising the hand, stretching it toward the receiver, lifting the receiver, and speaking with the mouth. All these actions are caused by very complex actions of the muscular system, which are caused by actions of the nervous system. These are caused by instructions from the brain, and these are caused by… what? It seems that they are caused by the desire to arrange the meeting, which leads to the wish, or the decision, to call the friend.

But desire is a non-material entity, and a specific content that arises in a person’s desire at some moment is a mental occurrence. It takes place only in the spirit, and not in the brain or in any other bodily organ. As we will explain later in the book, this occurrence also takes place without any cause that precedes it in time; it is something like creation out of nothing. True, the desire itself causes a brain event, and this sends instructions to the bodily organs, opening a chain of physical occurrences. But who moved the first electron in that process? Apparently, the desire.

The movement of an electron, however small it may be, is a physical occurrence, like every movement of a material object. As such, it is subject to Newton’s laws, which determine that it cannot occur without the prior action of some force upon the moving electron.

Even if we find something physical that preceded the movement of the electron, the problem still remains. It will merely shift back to the cause of the event or entity that caused the electron to move. What caused it to move, or to occur?

To formulate the matter differently: there is here the creation of energy out of nothing. Motion involves the appearance of energy—kinetic energy, in this case—but that cannot arise out of nothing. Conservation of energy is also a fundamental law of nature, and we find it very difficult to believe that it is not valid. In fact, this electron is precisely the object that began to move without any apparent cause, in the example with which we opened the present discussion.

This is the heart of the problem. Interaction between body and soul is carried out at some point in time and space. At this point of contact between body and soul, we have a situation in which a mental act causes a physical result. This is a conclusion that we find difficult to accept. It seems like a kind of magic or mysticism. Things happen without any physical cause, and this seems to stand in contradiction to the laws of nature known to us.

Another way to formulate the point is this: scientific experience suggests that with respect to every phenomenon we observe, one can ultimately arrive at a scientific diagnosis of the cause that produced it, and this is always a material occurrence. Every phenomenon or occurrence in the body occurs because of a cause that is itself another bodily occurrence, and the same is true of that occurrence in turn. Can we imagine, even theoretically, that a time might come when we will understand the entire process all the way to its end, and at the endpoint there will occur an event with no material-bodily cause at all? Apparently it is at precisely that point—if such a point exists at all—that the will acts upon the body.

Is there some particular physiological event that constitutes the beginning of these chains? Does the will always act upon the same organ or particle, and that begins all the chains of physiological activity? It is somewhat hard to believe that there is a kind of particle acted upon by will, and not by any physical force, while it itself does exert physical force upon other material-physical entities and causes them to move and act.

Some formulate the problem in terms of the location of spiritual entities. According to such formulations, since spiritual entities do not have a defined location in space—the soul is not found in any particular organ of the body, and all that can be said is that it stands in some sort of interaction with this particular body—a problem arises in explaining how one particular soul fuses with one body alone, the body that “belongs” to it, even though it is not necessarily located where the soul is.⁵²

This formulation is not all that problematic, since we are familiar also with physical entities that are not located at definite points in space. For example, electromagnetic waves or acoustic waves are not located at any one point in space, and yet they act upon objects that have mass and location, and can also cause them to move.⁵³ The soul, like these entities, is simply not described in terms of place—just as virtues, or intellect, are not found in any place. They exist, but not in some place.

A solution that defines spiritual entities as part of the physical world concerning which insufficient knowledge has as yet been accumulated will also not remedy the problem. In essence, this is precisely the materialist claim. Entities that can be incorporated into physical description cannot count as spiritual. They may be massless or locationless, but not spiritual. It is plausible that spiritual entities, essentially and unchangeably spiritual, cannot be described within the framework of physics, and perhaps not even within the framework of science in general. Present ignorance is irrelevant to this claim. Whatever enters as a factor in a physical equation interacts with the other physical factors. Therefore it is, in essence, a physical entity. Energy, waves, and the like are such material entities.

By the same token, many argue that a solution that simply states that spirit can indeed act upon material bodies will not remedy the problem either. Such a solution would be viewed more as an evasion of the scientific search for the cause of some event. A scientist would never be satisfied with such a statement, but would continue to seek the cause of the event he is investigating. Beyond that, can such a statement even be imagined? Does it really tell us anything? Can anything be said about the question of how such interaction is carried out? Is this not just a heap of empty words?

At the same time, one should note that in saying all this, we are apparently ruling out a priori the principled possibility of solving the problem of body and soul. We will return to this point later.

Is the Problem Scientific?

In light of the description presented in the previous section, we can now ask: is the psychophysical problem a scientific problem? On the face of it, one can distinguish at this point between two different levels of the problem: one belongs to common sense and everyday life, and the other has a scientific character. One is logical in essence, because it contradicts simple human reason; the other depends on specific content, because it contradicts scientific results. That is, it is empirical-scientific in essence.⁵⁴

We saw that the basic principle underlying the psychophysical problem is the principle of causality. We already pointed out that this principle belongs to common sense, and not necessarily to science. In every area of life we assume the principle of causality, and therefore we also use it in science. Hence a fundamental violation of this principle is not only a blow to science, but also to common sense itself—to intuition.

By contrast, the assumption that spirit does not constitute a relevant cause for physical occurrences is an assumption of science. True, this too seems like an a priori assumption, and not necessarily a result of science; but it is certainly not forced upon us at the logical level.

Therefore, in the final analysis, what raises and sharpens the psychophysical problem is the laws of nature themselves—in the examples above, Newton’s second law, which ties acceleration to force. The claim that spiritual influences cause accelerations, or physical phenomena in general, contradicts the specific laws of nature—in our example, Newton’s second law—and not necessarily intuition or common sense. These laws are scientific, a posteriori results, based on generalization from experience. But precisely because they are such, they have a defined scope of application, and one must take care not to exceed it.

This distinction is important on several levels. First, there is a tendency to regard an apparent clash with scientific principles as more serious than a clash with principles of common sense. That stems from the aura science enjoys in our age (see the beginning of the second book). But a clash with principles of common sense may in fact be more serious, since science itself is based on those principles. The principle of causality is an excellent example. Science does not determine that every event has a cause; simple intuition imposes that on science. It is a presupposition of science, not a conclusion it arrived at. Undermining that presupposition would also undermine the foundations of science, because science is only another form of human rational activity, and as such it is subject to common sense and intuition. In the end, a considerable part of the foundations of science is nothing more than a more precise and sophisticated expression of the principles of common sense.

The second level on which this distinction matters is the practical one. The question is how one should look for a solution to the psychophysical problem. Must we give up one of the principles of common sense we assumed, or rather abandon a scientific result that conflicts with interactionist dualism? Alternatively, one may ask whether we need to give up anything at all. If the problem lies on the plane of common sense, then it seems we really must surrender some of our intuitive principles. But if the problem is only on the scientific plane, then we must ask ourselves whether the contradictory result really does follow necessarily from the scientific data we possess.

For example, if we assume that the results of science concerning matter are irrelevant to the relation between matter and spirit, then we need not give up anything we currently assume: neither principles of common sense nor scientific results in the domain of matter. We would have to give up only the extension of those results to another domain in which they were never examined at all, namely the relations between spirit and matter.

Additional Models Proposed for Solving the Problem⁵⁵

1. Materialism. The simplest model proposed as an escape from the psychophysical problem is materialism itself. If there is in fact no spiritual component in reality, then there is no question at all about how it interacts with the material component.

Yet this is a Pyrrhic victory, because we give up all the intuitions that accompany us merely in order to solve one specific problem that we do not understand. The intuitive price of this concession is far higher than the price we would pay if we simply remained with the psychophysical problem itself. We would have to assume that our concepts, teleological concepts and mental concepts generally, were generated fictitiously, which we have already seen is implausible.

Beyond that, we would have to explain psychophysical effects such as those described at the beginning of the chapter as an illusion. But, as noted, it is unclear who exactly is caught in that illusion; a body cannot be subject to illusions.

I will not repeat here all the problems in materialist theory, which were discussed in the previous chapter. I will point only to the gravest problem of all: in fact the materialist proposal does not solve the problem at all. That is, we pay all the costs and gain nothing.

The fact that the materialist position does not solve the problem can be seen in several ways. For example, if the whole notion of “spirit” is fictitious and does not exist in reality, then even the assumption that it cannot interact with matter, which is the focal point of the psychophysical problem, cannot be formulated. Physical assumptions cannot concern entities that do not exist at all.

One might say that the difficulty concerning the possibility of interaction between body and soul, or matter and spirit, is raised only within the terms of the dualist approach, which accepts the existence of spiritual entities. The materialist himself is not troubled by the problem, and indeed assumes nothing about psychophysical interaction. But this does not save the materialist from the failure already noted. The reason is that the materialist himself, on his own view, cannot understand such a concept at all, since it is not drawn from the real world; it is nothing but a fiction. If so, it is unclear how he can raise difficulties about it or make assumptions concerning it. The basis on which we ought to examine the issue is not the dualist’s premises, but reality itself. Incidentally, for precisely this same reason, the materialist ought to claim that the dualist should not be able to understand the concept of spirit either, since it is a fictitious concept drawn from nowhere real. This is the anthropological proof discussed above.

In addition, if spiritual entities really do not exist in reality, it is still unclear how the causal chains described above begin. When I decide, or rather according to the materialist, live under the illusion that I decide, to meet a friend, a chain of physical actions begins. If there is truly no spiritual component in us, then this chain literally begins from nothing, not material being out of spiritual being, but being out of nothing. Is that really a more plausible description than the dualist one? Why is it preferable to assume that an event has no cause at all rather than that a spiritual cause brought it about?

Because of this difficulty, the materialist proposes the hypothesis that there was something in the material world that caused this “desire,” that is, the material phenomena we mistakenly call “desire,” to occur. We interpret this as the awakening of a desire, but in reality it is merely a physical-mechanical result of a previous physical event. The problem is that it is difficult to identify any physical event that occurred in the moment before the desire. It is not at all clear what caused such a desire to arise. Our clear and intuitive sense is that there is no prior cause for the emergence of desire, and the claim that such a cause exists is at best an ad hoc addition.

But even more problematic circumstances may be imagined (see Taylor, Metaphysics, p. 38 and onward). Suppose Reuven is sitting in an armchair and imagines that he is standing at the edge of a deep and terrifying abyss. The sweating that accompanies that state cannot be caused by any objective circumstances, since Shimon, sitting in the very same situation and in the very same chair, experiences nothing of the kind. Are there physical circumstances that can explain this phenomenon?

Again, one might perhaps offer one “mystical” excuse or another, for example that there was some common factor that caused both the hallucinations and the sweating. But it is very hard to pin the difference on something physiological, such as some brain state, because one may immediately ask what caused those states to arise. All of these are ad hoc assumptions, which in the philosophy of science count as a severe defect in any explanation.

In the end, after all is said and done, the simplest description, even if it is not entirely free of problems, is the dualist one. Materialism is a mystical-esoteric position that forces us to depart in a grave and dramatic way from a great many principles of common sense. At the same time, this heavy price is paid for a position that solves nothing in the psychophysical problem from which we began, and for whose sake materialism was created in the first place. This is over and above all the problems materialism raises in its own right, which were discussed in the previous chapter.

The materialist “solution” is a symptomatic example of the analytic approach, which tries to reject simple intuition and employ formalistic theories in order, unsuccessfully, to solve bothersome philosophical problems. In the first book we saw several examples of this; see, for example, Russell’s formal solution to the problem of reference mentioned at the end of the second gate, and also the discussion there in chapter 4 of the eighth gate, note 19 and note 24, among many others.

2. Idealism. The opposite position, which can apparently solve the problem in a similar way, is idealism. This is a “solution” like the previous one, because here too reality contains no two different components, and therefore the question of the nature and possibility of interaction between them does not arise at all.

This solution is no less drastic than its predecessor, and like its predecessor it does not heal our difficulties. Here we must ignore strong intuitions regarding the existence of material elements in the world. Is our consciousness set in motion with no external factor acting on it? If the external world is merely an illusion, how are our constantly restless states of consciousness generated at all times without any real cause?⁵⁶

If we truly abandon the principle of causality and decide that our spirit is active in various ways, all of it occurring without any genuine cause, then the psychophysical problem also ceases to be a problem. After all, the whole problem arose because we decided that spirit cannot be a cause of a material occurrence. So what exactly have we gained through this strange and esoteric maneuver?

3. Parallelism. This strange approach was already proposed by Leibniz. Leibniz offered a theory according to which matter and spirit were coordinated and synchronized in advance.⁵⁷ Each of the two systems operates independently, according to its own causal laws, and both proceed in parallel. The coordination between them, according to Leibniz, is entirely coincidental. They appear to influence one another and to be influenced by one another, but this is merely an illusion. This theory is called “monadology,” and it is based on a pre-established harmony between matter and spirit.

Leibniz himself illustrates this with a parable of two people who “converse with one another,” while neither sees the other nor even thinks that anyone is in contact with him at all. Each produces a sequence of words according to a fixed pre-set program, and only to an outside observer, whoever that might be, does it appear that there is a conversation here, or any connection at all, between the two. Incredible.⁵⁸

There is no real point in discussing such an absurd theory. It is mentioned here only so that the reader may appreciate the distress of analytic thinkers,⁵⁹ and the level of fantasy to which their headlong flight from the problem can lead, supposedly for the sake of saving rationality and science.

4. Epiphenomenalism. This is a more common approach in the contemporary world. It acknowledges the existence of matter and spirit, but according to it the interaction between them exists in only one direction. Matter influences spirit, but spirit does not influence matter.⁶⁰

At first glance, this is an elegant solution to the psychophysical problem, because, as noted, the laws of nature forbid a spiritual cause for a physical occurrence, but they do not forbid the reverse. It should be noted that the two previous approaches are proposed in various contexts and only afterward applied to the psychophysical problem. By contrast, this approach is usually presented as a direct solution to the psychophysical problem itself.

Yet despite the apparent elegance of this solution, the elegance is illusory. There are several reasons for this. First, even if we have solved the scientific problems, since there is no spiritual factor violating Newton’s second law, we have not solved the principle of common sense that forbids interaction between entities of different character and essence. The same intuition that forbids a causal connection from spirit to matter should also forbid the reverse connection, from matter to spirit. This theory contradicts no law of nature only because we have not yet discovered laws of nature that deal with spirit. But if it is clear to us that spirit cannot move matter because they are two entities of different essence, then why is it more plausible to say that matter can move spirit?

If the reason for making that claim is empirical, because we know that matter affects spirit, as when a wound causes a sensation of pain, then it is obvious that there are similar and no less good reasons on the other side as well, that is, for the influence of spirit on matter. See the examples of sadness and emaciation and the like at the beginning of the chapter.

One should notice that according to this approach, a person’s thoughts and desires do not affect his behavior at all. He would behave exactly the same way even without any mental component. The soul is acted upon by the body, but not the other way around. More than that, all our actions are determined by physical-material causes external to us, which carry us along absolutely, with no control on our part over what occurs. For some reason, alongside these mechanical processes, we feel as though we have some control over what is happening. But according to epiphenomenalism this is an illusion, for the opposite is true: the physical occurrences are what set in motion the mental and psychic processes that occur within us.

There is no doubt that this is a strange and plainly implausible approach. In essence it is not different from the fantastic parallelism we encountered in the previous section. One should note that according to this approach, a person decides to set a meeting with his friend because his hands moved toward the telephone, or because both events are caused by a common cause, rather than the other way around. It is important to understand that this solution too does not provide adequate theoretical return for the heavy “price” it demands. See Taylor on this as well, in chapter 4.

5. The double-aspect theory.⁶¹ Taylor and Searle, in the books mentioned above, both arrive at the conclusion that our psychic or mental functions are nothing more than properties of the material whole. In other words, they are simply another aspect of matter itself. One should notice that this too is merely a sophisticated materialism. What exists is only matter, and the human being’s mental properties are nothing more than properties of matter.

Taylor’s arguments in favor of this approach all suffer from one basic defect, in addition to several more specific problems. He examines the various theories solely in light of the plausibility of the solution they offer to the psychophysical problem. But as we saw in the previous chapter, materialism is implausible not only because it fails to answer the psychophysical problem, but also in itself. As we saw, it contradicts our most basic intuitions. The claim that a material object can think, be conscious, remember, act teleologically, and so on, is implausible in its own right, not only because it does not solve the psychophysical problem. If one examines the different proposals on all the levels we have presented, and not only with regard to the psychophysical question, there is no doubt that dualism is the most plausible position. As we shall see below, even with respect to the psychophysical problem itself, the dualist proposal is the most fitting one.

Beyond all this, the argument made above, according to which materialism does not answer the psychophysical problem, applies to this theory as well. The fact that no spiritual being exists in reality prevents the assumption that the spiritual cannot act on material entities. As already noted, there are no valid physical assumptions concerning beings or substances that do not exist. But if there is no problem at all in the psychophysical question, then it is unclear why we should not simply return to the dualist intuition, which Taylor himself writes seems most consonant with all our initial sense.

Searle argues for a very similar approach, though in a somewhat different way. He shows that there are properties that do not exist in the components and yet can characterize the whole. For example, liquidity is a property of water, but not of any single molecule that makes up the liquid whole. A state may be democratic, even though none of its citizens is democratic in its very being, as opposed to in its opinions. That is, there are properties that characterize the whole even though they are not found in the individual parts that compose it.

From this Searle concludes that there is no obstacle to thinking that all mental functions are simply properties of the material whole called “a human being.” True, no material particle can have properties such as consciousness, thought, or will, but the whole composed of such particles certainly can.

But this argument too is entirely implausible, and the examples Searle brings are not comparable to our case. First, try to imagine someone making a similar claim about a table. True, its legs have no consciousness, nor does its tabletop, but the whole does. This is absurd, senseless talk.

The examples Searle offers are not indicative at all. The property of liquidity is a simple relation among the parts of the liquid. We understand perfectly well why the molecule itself lacks that property, and yet how the property of liquidity arises in the whole. There is no qualitative change here between the part and the whole, and the way the global property emerges from the micro-level is entirely clear to us. The specific relation among the molecules dictates the liquid behavior of the whole. The same is true of democracy.

An analogy would be the case of gravitational force between two bodies. Each simple body by itself, a pointlike atom, does not possess the property that there is gravitational force between its parts, and yet the two-particle system does possess this property. Is there any leap here? The move from the single object to a system of two objects is clear and continuous, and contains no mystery.

Mental properties, however, are of a different essence, indeed an essence contrary to the properties of the material particulars that compose the whole called “human being,” on the materialist assumption. One striking example is the teleological mode of behavior of the whole. It is not clear how the causal character of the laws governing the micro-level turns into teleological behavior at the macro-level. More than that: does it really sound plausible that if we took a collection of molecules and built from them a completely perfect human being, atom after atom, like a puzzle, then a spirit of life would enter him, whatever that phrase may mean? Would he begin to live? Or speak? Or perhaps study? This is absurd. A dead person is, in principle, a material whole identical to the material whole of a living person, just as he himself was a moment before his death. The essential difference between them is that he no longer has a “spirit of life.”

At present we have not the faintest idea how mental functions could be described as a composition of physical particulars, and therefore the theory of Searle and Taylor is only one more piece of esoteric mysticism in the ongoing analytic flight from the simple dualist intuition.

Beyond all this, in physics it is known that a dramatic transition between micro and macro properties, a phase transition, can arise only if the macro-level is composed of infinitely many micro-particles. The infinity of particulars can create an essence utterly different from that of the particulars themselves. But in the human being, even if we divide him into three parts, it is obvious that no single part would have consciousness, will, or intellect. If so, how can a composition of three parts that are devoid of mental characteristics produce something that does have such properties? Let us try to assemble a human being, not from molecules and atoms as in the previous example, but from complete and healthy organs. If we gather organ after organ and attach them to one another, will a living, breathing human being emerge, able to study, feel, understand, desire, and love?

All this seems to be among the rotten fruits of analytic thinking as it takes over modern, or postmodern, human thought. In an analytic world, the mere formal possibility of formulating something like a whole having properties that do not exist in its components is enough for people to believe that this is indeed a plausible theory. The ever weaker protests of neglected intuition and common sense are unable to halt the analytic march of folly represented by these bizarre and fictional theories.

And again, all this in order to remain “rational.” It is hard to believe that intelligent people formulate theories on so low an intellectual level, and that many today present this as the model of pure rationality.

The Body and Soul of the Barber of Seville: A Short Catharsis, Just So We Can Go On

In the first book, see chapter 4 of the eighth gate, we presented the paradox of the barber of Seville, the barber who shaves all the residents of Seville who do not shave themselves. The question is: does he shave himself, or not? If we answer that he does shave himself, the conclusion will be that he belongs to the group of people whom he does not shave, and vice versa.

According to the analytic method described above, this paradox can be solved very easily. For example, the materialist solution to the paradox of the barber of Seville is that in fact there is no barber in Seville at all. To make the point more persuasive, one can even add a logical rationale by means of some general theory, such as: barbers exist only in places whose names do not begin with the letter samekh. One may also deny the very possibility that barbers exist anywhere in the world, or perhaps the existence of professions in general.

Even if someone clearly saw a man wearing a white apron and holding scissors in his hand, using them to shorten the hair of an unfortunate customer, and in addition there was a sign over the door reading “Barbershop,” this is nothing but a naive illusion. In fact, it is Puss in Boots, now devouring the terrible sorcerer who has turned into a mouse with the help of evil Dementors from the world of Harry Potter. We must not forget: the concept “barber” cannot be defined sharply at all, and therefore it plainly does not exist. This is just a simple application of Ockham’s razor.

Does that sound bizarre and detached? That is exactly how analytic philosophers “solve” the problem of body and soul. If there is a problem in understanding the possibility of interaction between body and soul, we solve it with the elegant claim that in reality there are no souls at all, or no bodies. And the “proof” of this is that their essence cannot be sharply and clearly defined. Hence anyone who perceives their existence clearly and beyond all doubt lives under a grave “metaphysical” illusion. In fact, souls, consciousness, will, intellect, and the like are merely overall characterizations of the body itself, as in the double-aspect theory, which is a more sophisticated version of materialism.

By contrast, anyone dissatisfied with the previous solution can adopt the idealist solution to the paradox of the barber of Seville. It would presumably claim that in Seville there is indeed a barber, but there are no residents there, including the barber himself. The poor barber diligently shaves the empty set.

To broaden the reader’s horizons, let us add the parallelist solution, which claims that the barber and the residents cannot meet and shave one another at all. The residents sit on the chair, and the barber snips hairs floating in the air beneath his scissors, but there is no connection whatsoever between the two.

The epiphenomenalist solution, by contrast, further teaches us that only ordinary residents who do not shave themselves can shave the barbers who shave all those who do not shave themselves, and not vice versa. True, this does not solve the paradox, but so what? Who said an absurd theory must also produce results? None of the previous solutions solved it either.

The Dualistic Picture

After venting a bit, we can now return, toward the end of the discussion, to the dualistic picture. As noted, the basic fact is that everyone agrees it is the approach most fitting to our initial intuition. If so, even if we found in it no remedy for the psychophysical problem, it would still remain the preferable approach, since the other bizarre theories do not offer a plausible solution either. But here I want to go further and argue that interactionist dualism is in fact the most plausible exit from the psychophysical problem as well.

As background, let us cite what Yeshayahu Leibowitz wrote at the end of Appendix B to Campbell’s book:

Finally, it should also be noted that interactionist dualism, considered by most scientists and philosophers in the modern era to be an unscientific “metaphysical” theory, has in recent years had important supporters in the persons of Karl Popper, one of the greatest thinkers in the philosophy of science, and John Eccles, one of the foremost brain researchers of our generation.⁶²

In this section we will try briefly to reexamine the “metaphysical” theory in which, apparently, all human beings naturally and clearly believe, as against the “rational” positions of those eccentrics who deal in philosophy and various fields of science, as described in the previous sections.

According to interactionist dualism, there is mutual interaction between spirit and matter. Everything we know immediately supports this. As noted, we feel these processes of influence at every moment; see the examples in both directions at the beginning of the chapter.

True, at present we do not possess a detailed and precise description of the manner of interaction. More than that, it is hard for us to accept that there is a simple physical influence between these two kinds of reality. But what is not understood need not automatically be diagnosed as a paradox. The electromagnetic field too was neither known nor understood until the nineteenth century. Is that sufficient basis for claiming that it did not exist?

Therefore, the most plausible way to organize the totality of our knowledge and experience so far is interactionist dualism. We need only be aware that the scientific assumption unwilling to accept the influence of matter on spirit and vice versa is probably not valid in every situation. We have scientific experience only with respect to material objects. There it seems plausible that there is no acceleration without a physical force acting on the object. But we have no experience of situations in which spiritual entities are involved as well.

In fact, we do have such experience. Every one of our actions as human beings is such an experience, and it shows us that there is such interaction. True, we do not yet have a mathematical equation describing it, and perhaps never will, but there is no genuine reason to abandon this clear experience.

To sharpen the point, I would further propose that it is entirely possible for human will to create a physical force, and for that force to move particles according to Newtonian mechanics. The fact that there are situations in which a will, which is a nonmaterial entity, creates a force does not seem especially difficult. On the contrary, it accords very well with our everyday experience. We have already seen that if we trace our actions backward, from result to cause, we will probably eventually stop at some point where there is motion not preceded by a physical cause. That stopping point can occur in one of two ways: either a particle moves without the action of a physical force, under the influence of a spiritual entity, or a spiritual entity, such as a will, creates such a force or field, and that moves the particle.⁶³

The first possibility contradicts Newton’s laws. It should nevertheless be noted that it does not contradict the principle of causality itself, since the particle’s motion does have a cause, only a spiritual one. We give up only the assumption that a particle’s motion can be caused only by a physical factor. Even so, the second possibility seems simpler. The fact that a spiritual entity creates a physical force does not necessarily contradict the laws of physics. Even conservation of energy is not necessarily broken, since perhaps the will is nourished by physical energy, from food we eat and the like. That is, the will is a kind of transformer that converts the energy of food into the physical action of the human body. It is entirely possible that energy is conserved in that process.

Again, the point is not to claim that this is the solution, but only to show that dualist theory can offer a fairly convenient possible exit from the psychophysical difficulty, certainly a better exit than any of the competing proposals. In the following excursus we will see an example of a scientific problem whose accepted solution in the scientific and philosophical world in fact makes a similar claim to the one proposed here.

Excursus 2: Maxwell’s Demon: Entropy and Information Theory

The second law of thermodynamics states that in any spontaneous process in a closed system, the amount of entropy will not decrease. In ordinary language, this means that without purposeful intervention from outside, disorder in a system can only increase.⁶⁴ For example, if a flowerpot falls from a rooftop, it will usually shatter and the fragments will scatter; but if we drop shards from a rooftop, they will never gather and reconnect into a complete flowerpot. The same is true of a small child left alone in the house. Even if he has no special intention to scatter things, the house will always end up less orderly, unless he is supervised, or in the language of physics, unless an external force or intervention is applied.

In a physical system, the standard example of such a process is gas molecules inside a sealed container. If we place a cluster of molecules in one corner of the container, then leave everything alone and seal it, there is no doubt that after a short time we will find the molecules evenly dispersed throughout the container. But if we place evenly dispersed molecules in the container, then at no future time will we find a concentrated cluster in one corner.

This phenomenon is the result of a simple statistical consideration at the microscopic level; see the second book, chapter 2 of the fifth gate, in the discussion of entropy. But it raises a number of difficult problems that will not concern us here.⁶⁵ What concerns us here is the well-known thermodynamic paradox called “Maxwell’s demon,” as distinct from “Schrödinger’s cat”; the twentieth century is more rationalistic.

Maxwell, a nineteenth-century physicist, asked the following question. Imagine a container divided in the middle by an opaque partition, with an opening at its center. At the opening stands a demon, or a mechanical robot, responsible for opening and closing it according to rules set either by itself or by someone else. Now suppose the rule by which the demon operates is this: every time a molecule arrives from the right, open the partition and close it again immediately afterward. If a molecule arrives from the left, keep it closed and do not let it pass. Clearly, after enough time, all the particles will accumulate on one side of the partition. In that process order increases, that is, entropy decreases. But the process is entirely mechanical, with no outside control or intervention, and it takes place within a sealed system. According to the second law, entropy should not have decreased.

If a living creature were involved, we might perhaps attribute the solution to the creature’s choice. The factor controlling the process, its soul, is outside the mechanical system and acts upon it, deciding whether to open or close the partition. But such a system can be implemented in a much simpler way, without demons or spirits, for example by means of a door that opens when struck by a molecule, but only in one direction, from right to left. Here it is already quite clear that, according to the second law, entropy ought to have increased rather than decreased.

One solution proposed for this paradox is that the information invested in the process, in its execution or in its prior design, is equivalent to the missing amount of entropy. By chance there is no possibility that such an asymmetry would arise, and therefore it is clear that there is prior design here. A mathematical formulation of this claim defines the information required for such planning or execution in terms of entropy.⁶⁶

But in fact this solution itself takes us back to the living creature and its will. Planning is done only by an intelligent being. Planning contains, or requires, a quantum of information, and that is added to the entropy of the process. If so, even when the mechanism is entirely mechanical, the missing entropy lies outside physics. It lies within a spiritual being, as information stored in the mind of an intelligent creature.

The conclusion is that we cover gaps in the laws of nature by means of the intervention of spiritual entities that do not belong to physics. Earlier we saw that will is involved, and now we see that in the Maxwellian process intellect is involved. So here we have spiritual influence on physics.

Even if we define, as some have proposed, entropy as a quantity characterizing the operation of the mechanical partition itself, that would still be an artificial description. The way we would measure and quantify the entropy of the partition would do so through the information required by an intelligent being to design such a mechanical mechanism. If so, it is only a matter of changing the definition, or fleeing from the “uncomfortable” conclusion that spiritual entities influence matter and physics.

The proposal that will creates a physical force field capable of moving particles has implications for the subject of determinism, which will be discussed in the following gates when we examine the meaning and essence of human will. Briefly: if we persist in a conception that refuses to accept the possibility of interaction between spirit and matter, then we are necessarily led to determinism. That is to say, the condition of every particular in the world at every future time is fully determined from the very moment of the world’s formation, and is therefore in principle fixed from the time of creation. As noted, determinism will be discussed in more detail within the framework of the discussion of will.

Taylor’s Critiques

Taylor, in the third and fourth chapters of his book, rejects the dualist position. His main claim is that interactionist dualism does not solve the psychophysical problem, at least not better than the alternative theories. The heart of the argument is that even if we say that spirit moves the body, this is an empty statement. First, because the concept of spirit cannot be positively characterized, except for the fact that it is not a body. Second, because the interaction between body and spirit cannot be described or imagined, and therefore is nothing but a combination of words.

We have already noted that this is only a partial examination. Taylor evaluates the alternatives only from the standpoint of the quality of the solution they offer to the psychophysical problem. But the entire previous chapter was devoted to additional problems in non-dualist theories that are not necessarily connected to the psychophysical problem. Those theories are implausible not only because they solve nothing in relation to the psychophysical problem, but also because of the picture they themselves present. In this chapter we have seen the crude absurdities to which these approaches lead.

Beyond that, as already noted, the fact that the interaction between matter and spirit, or body and soul, cannot be positively described, and perhaps cannot even be imagined, does not refute the claim that such an interaction exists. True, this would not be a scientific claim, since it is not open to empirical test. But as we have seen, the other claims are no more scientific.

Therefore, the only conclusion one can draw from Taylor’s arguments is that the psychophysical question, at least for now, is not a scientific question but a philosophical one. And as such, criticism of the lack of scientificity in the answers given to it does not necessarily harm them. We have already seen that not understanding how a certain thing works is no proof that it does not exist.

Indeed, interactionist dualism does not offer a scientific explanation of psychophysical interaction, but it does claim that such interaction exists. In the next chapter we will see that the claim that this interaction does not exist is likewise not scientific and is not empirically testable.

If one could empirically test the claim that such interaction does not exist, that very same test would also serve to test the opposing claim that such interaction does exist.⁶⁷ Therefore both claims are equally scientific or unscientific, and the decision must be transferred to the philosophical arena.

Admission Against Interest

Let us conclude this section with several passages from Taylor’s book. At the beginning of the third chapter he writes as follows, on p. 35:

The simplest and most accepted way of expressing the relation between body and spirit, such that together they constitute a human being, is to say that they act upon one another. That is, each acts as a cause upon the other…

And two pages later he writes:

The conception of man as a system of two entirely separate things, body and spirit, is indeed a fairly natural conception, but despite that it is impossible…

In the fourth chapter, when discussing the source of dualist doctrines, he writes as follows on p. 50:

Why, then, does the dualist’s argument have this kind of initial plausibility, whereas the other argument lacks it? Why do so many philosophers embrace a dualist metaphysics on the basis of arguments that do not seem more well grounded than other arguments whose conclusions are simpler and yet are hardly discussed at all?

Indeed, why? It seems we could not hope to find a better admission than this, and so we may end the discussion with it.

Conclusion

To conclude the chapter, let us quote the closing sentence of Leibowitz’s summary to Campbell’s book:

Epistemologically, the dual vision of body and soul cannot be undermined. Ontologically, it is a metaphysical problem, one that cannot be decided either positively or negatively by our rational modes of thought, because it entangles us in antinomies and paralogisms.

Indeed, in the realm of the relation between body and soul there are several problems whose solution is unclear. And it is truly difficult to describe our conclusion as a scientific conclusion, as we have seen; the alternative proposals are far harder to describe in that way. One may also accept the description of interactionist dualism as a position metaphysical in character. It is indeed not a scientific claim, since spiritual reality, by its very nature, is probably not a fitting object for ordinary scientific inquiry. For that reason it is probably not really open to empirical testing either; see also the next chapter. But as we have seen, the other proposals are certainly not worthy even of the title “metaphysical.” Interactionist dualism is the most plausible conclusion, even if it is not scientific. The human being is probably built from two kinds of components, spiritual and material, and some sort of interaction exists between them. At this moment, we truly do not know how to describe that interaction in precise scientific terms.

The question whether in the future it will be possible to solve the scientific problem of describing the interaction between body and soul remains open. The soul itself, however, will probably never be describable on the scientific level, for reasons that will be clarified later, when we discuss choice and freedom of the will.

After the Conclusion: The Root of the Repression

To conclude the discussion, we cannot avoid a brief examination of the puzzling phenomenon presented in this chapter. Why do prominent thinkers and scientists in their fields, at least some of whom possess unquestionable intelligence, arrive at positions as absurd as those presented here? How do rationalist motivations lead such people to such strange, esoteric, and mystical formulations? What repression does this process express?

There is almost no escaping the conclusion that a tendency is at work here that systematically tries to prevent us from embracing the simple intuitive approach according to which spiritual components are part of reality. The reason is probably that this fact points toward a spiritual source of reality, since such components could not have arisen in a simple evolutionary process. As we saw above, spirit is not a property of a material whole, and therefore it is also implausible to think it arises from matter in a random process. Spirit comes from spirit and returns to spirit, and apparently that recognition is uncomfortable for quite a few thinkers in our age. See how far they are willing to go in order to flee this simple and rational conclusion.

As I have already noted more than once, this is not a dispute between religious faith and secularity, or unbelief. The deeper root of the disagreement lies on the analytic-synthetic plane. There is a large intellectual current willing to adopt any thesis that can be formulated, at least seemingly. If the thesis is defined and consistent, even if only in a formal way far removed from intuition, it is considered legitimate, no less than intuitive theses, which are usually no less consistent. As we already saw in the first gate of the first book, in an analytic world possibility, or coherence, replaces plausibility, and pragmatism and agenda replace intuition. There is no way to determine the plausibility of a system of axioms, and therefore the choice between systems appears arbitrary, or a matter of feeling or interests. See the following gates for a fuller discussion.

In the first book, see note 19 and elsewhere, we already saw that an analytic solution to a philosophical problem is usually based on forbidding the problem from becoming present through language. Often the analytic thinker simply creates an alternative language in which the problem does not appear, and takes that as a solution to the substantive problem as well. As we have already seen, materialism is an excellent example of this “method”: the problem is solved through an administrative decision to remove the term “spirit” from the language, and thereby to deny its existence. Now we have no way to express the philosophical distress that all of us, including most analytic thinkers, feel, and therefore, from the analytic point of view, this distress no longer belongs to the philosophical plane but at most to the psychological plane. It is merely a failure testifying to the existence of a linguistic fiction, and nothing more.

Already in the introduction to this gate we saw that the analytic flight derives from a position according to which everything must have a concrete understanding, expressed in a formal definition, and a proof. The extreme expression of this view is positivism, especially logical positivism in the first half of the twentieth century. Anything we do not understand, in the analytic sense of “understand,” or cannot define, does not exist. According to the analytic thinker, if we do not know how spirit influences matter, then clearly such influence does not occur at all. If we do not scientifically observe spirit as such through our senses, then we are supposed to conclude that it too does not exist.⁶⁸

Opposed to analyticity stands the synthetic position. It begins from the premise that intuition and common sense are our best criteria of truth. The plausibility of an axiomatic system can be examined through intuition, because even if axioms, by definition, cannot be proved, they certainly do not have an arbitrary status. At the root of everything lies the view that truth is not synonymous with verifiability and definability. See especially the ninth gate of the first book.

Chapter Three: The Irrelevance of Science to These Questions

Introduction

In the previous two chapters we dealt with the problem of body and soul. We divided the discussion into two aspects, each dependent on the other. First: do spiritual entities, or a spiritual substance, exist at all? This is the question of materialism. Second: if they do exist, what is the nature of the interaction between them and material entities, and is such interaction possible at all? This is the psychophysical problem. In this chapter we will discuss how, if at all, these two problems can be examined and decided, and especially whether science is the correct and proper instrument for that purpose.

Above we already distinguished between two principal planes of discussion of the psychophysical problem: the scientific plane and the plane of common sense, or intuition. Of course the principles of science themselves are an inseparable part of common sense; see the second gate of the second book for a fuller discussion.⁶⁹ Therefore, when we distinguish between these two planes, what we mean is the distinction between the experimental and theoretical results of science, on the one hand, and the basic intuitive principles of thought that precede science, on the other. It is a distinction between specific contents included in the scientific knowledge accumulated up to our day, and meta-scientific principles that serve as assumptions prior to scientific inquiry. Those principles have a universal character and do not belong to any particular scientific field as such.

As a further general introduction, it is important to note the following point. A scientific theory that offered a complete explanation of mental phenomena of every kind would at most provide a basis for materialism only on the level of Ockham’s razor. That is, the existence of such a theory would not constitute a scientific proof of materialism, but only a basis for the claim that there is no need to posit the existence of nonmaterial entities in order to explain mental phenomena. The materialist could then argue that by force of Ockham’s razor, and not by force of any specific scientific result, he assumes that there are no nonmaterial entities in reality.

But we have already dealt with the question of Ockham’s razor in the previous chapters, especially here in chapter 1. When we speak here of a scientific decision concerning the questions under discussion, we mean something else. We are not looking for a sufficient scientific explanation or description of mental phenomena. Our concern is with scientific evidence that would define the substances involved in mental phenomena themselves. In other words, scientific evidence for the existence of spirit and for its nature. Therefore, when we say that the questions of body and soul are not scientific questions, that is, that they are not scientifically decidable, we mean only on that plane, and not the first claim, that the totality of the phenomena cannot be described without a spiritual element.

In the previous chapter we saw that interactionist dualism raises several misunderstandings, some on the scientific plane and others on different planes. In the end, our conclusion there was that, at least as of now, the psychophysical question is not a scientific question but a philosophical one. The same is true of the question whether souls and spiritual entities exist, the question of materialism, and of the question of determinism.

There are, however, quite a few scientists and philosophers who claim that this is not so. Some of them, who go further, hold a fully developed scientific position on these matters. Others, more moderate, claim that these are scientific questions, and that even today there is a scientific method that provides a clear way to examine them and answer them. In this chapter we will try to examine both claims in general and refute them.

Of course, to examine these claims we must first clarify them. The first task is to sharpen the difference between the alternative approaches among which we are asked to choose, and only then can we try to define scientific experiments capable of confirming or refuting one of them. For that purpose we must take into account the various branches of science touching this subject, and examine in each scientific context whether there is any possibility of proposing and carrying out an experiment that would decide the psychophysical question, whether interactionist dualism is correct or materialism and the like, or the question of determinism. The search for such scientific experiments will do double work for us: it will clarify and sharpen the differences between the approaches, and it will also show us again that these problems cannot be decided by scientific tools, whichever direction one takes.

In the second gate of the second book we pointed out, following Karl Popper, that in fact there is no scientific theory that can be proved. For example, the theory that all objects with mass fall toward the earth is not provable. Even if we examine every massive object we can, there will still remain the theoretical possibility that there are other massive objects that do not fall to the earth. What we can do, at most, is try to refute the theory in question. Its refutation is certainly possible. We need only observe one case in which a massive object remains suspended in the air and does not fall to the earth. I noted there that some people, and I among them, regard successful results of such an experiment as corroboration of the theory under discussion. But it is entirely clear that proof, in the full and necessary sense of that term, is unavailable for any scientific theory.

For that reason, the Popperian criterion for the scientific status of theories is their falsifiability. A theory is scientific if it can be subjected to experimental testing and therefore also to refutation. We must therefore examine whether one can describe an experiment, preferably a feasible one, whose results would refute at least one of the alternatives before us. If we find no such experiment, our conclusion will be that the psychophysical question, at least at the present stage, does not belong to the scientific sphere.

In the remainder of the chapter we will try to examine these questions from the perspective of the various relevant scientific disciplines. The division will be made, among other things, according to the different parts of the “soul,” if it exists. For example, emotion, sensations, character, and the like relate to psychology and genetics; thinking relates to logic, mathematics, and computer science; and so on. The necessary brevity will force us into some superficiality and generalization, but what is said should suffice to give a reasonable sense of the possibility of scientific decision in these matters.

Computer Science

Within computer science one can raise several aspects that seem relevant to the problem of body and soul, and what they share is that they concern human thought. Thought has several aspects, such as learning, memory, processing, and also consciousness, which constitutes a relation to the environment around us, input and output.

In the first chapter we discussed the claim of some proponents of artificial intelligence, as a worldview and not necessarily only as a professional field, who regard the human intellect as a kind of sophisticated computer. In certain respects, incidentally, it is a rather primitive computer. The same is said of several other human functions, such as the capacity for learning and speech, which according to this view are equivalent to a computer’s input and output systems, and so forth.

Of course, the obvious experiment would be to build for ourselves a cognitive system made entirely of metals and various inanimate materials, like a computer, with no spiritual components. Apparently all that remains is to examine whether this can in fact be done. But the real problem lies at a more prior level, in the very definition and design of the experiment. First, and most importantly, in order to define the experiment more precisely we must define the concept “human being” according to the two alternatives before us, for example materialism and dualism. We have already noted how difficult it is to define the concept of “spirit,” and therefore this is clearly no simple task. Yet apparently there is a simpler alternative as well: we might try to skip the definition of the concepts and instead define what would have to occur in the experiment that could not be understood within one of the theories under discussion, materialism or dualism. In that case we would say that the experiment refuted that theory.

The most common test for the artificial-intelligence approach is the Turing test; see the second book, fourth gate, note 40.⁷⁰ The British mathematician Alan Turing proposed the following test. Seat a human being in a room with two computer terminals. One will be connected to an ordinary physical computer running an artificial-intelligence program, and the other will be operated by a human being. If we manage to create a program such that the person conversing with it cannot tell whether behind the terminal stands a human being or a computer program, then that program is “a human being.” Apparently, then, we have proved that the human being, at least his cognitive part, does not necessarily include nonmaterial, spiritual, components.

But this proposal rests on a fundamental mistake. Even if such a program could theoretically be produced, the claim that it may therefore rightly be considered a human being is itself a strange one. What it means is that the definition of “human being” is: whoever can conduct an intelligent conversation with certain characteristics. The assumption, not the result, of the Turing test is that a “conversing computer” is a human being. But that is precisely the question we want to examine. This is simply the materialist definition itself. According to the dualist approach, there is no doubt that this is not a sufficient definition of a human being. Is anyone willing to marry such a “human being”? Therefore the Turing test cannot in fact lead to a proof of the materialist position, since it is itself based on the assumptions of that position.

Let us sharpen this further. Suppose we succeeded in producing such a program. In that case we have succeeded in creating a human being, according to the materialist definition, from inanimate components. But if the dualist is right, and the definition of “human being” is not the materialist one, that is, a “conversing computer” is not a human being, then success in the Turing test shows nothing. It shows that one can produce a “conversing computer” from inanimate materials, but not necessarily a human being from inanimate materials.

Thus, the Turing test is simply an application, or reformulation, of the materialist assumption itself, and none of its results yields success or failure in any empirical test of dualist theory. We see that the very definition of the test assumes materialism rather than proving or refuting it. This is a particularly blatant case of begging the question.

It should be noted that this is true in both directions. Even if the test fails, that does not mean that one cannot create a human being from inanimate materials, nor even that we have failed to create such a human being. The only meaning is that we did not succeed in producing a “conversing computer” in this way. It may still be possible to produce such a computer, and perhaps even a real human being, from inanimate materials. And even if we never succeed, that still does not unequivocally rule out either of the possibilities examined in the experiment.

Of course, the experiment can be used as a minimal proposal. A program that does not pass this test cannot even be considered a candidate for being human, even according to materialists. But, on the other hand, success in the experiment has no significance. Failure, of course, is our present situation. If so, if anything at all can be extracted from the Turing test, it is only the conclusion that, as of today, materialism is far less plausible than dualism.

At this point the frustrated materialist will likely accuse the pleased dualist of sabotaging the experiment. The claim now may be that the inability to define the concept “spirit,” and certainly not “human being,” according to the dualist position, precludes any possible scientific test a priori, and not only the Turing test. Such a claim is based on a positivist position, which is the philosophical basis of the analytic approach.

But the only conclusion of that claim is that the question of deciding between dualism and materialism does not belong to computer science. It contains not the slightest argument in favor of materialism itself. “Scientific” does not mean “true.” There are non-scientific theses that are obviously true. The fact that something is not empirically testable or definable does not mean it is false; it means only that it does not belong to the domain of science.

This argument of the materialist, like the previous one, again rests on begging the question. It once more fails because it covertly assumes its own position, namely that truth means definability and scientific verifiability. But we have already seen above that this is itself one of the foundation stones of the present dispute. One cannot argue against position A in any controversy by means of an argument that itself rests on position B. Therefore, the question whether one can propose a scientific experiment to examine this issue is itself bound up with the basic dispute between the two positions.

Let us move briefly to speech and the capacity for learning, which supporters of artificial intelligence treat as the use of a computer’s input-output systems and memory, the virtual computer described in the previous paragraphs. In this context, the test parallel to the Turing test is the Chinese-room test described above, in chapter 1.

The proposed test here is that if a computer could in fact learn to speak in that way, then that computer is a human being, because it has a capacity for learning and conversation like that of a human creature.

Here too, the rejection of the relevance of the experiment itself, regardless of its results, proceeds in much the same way. The assumption of the supporters of artificial intelligence is that a computer that learns to speak Chinese in this way is indeed a human being. Again, this is begging the question. In the present context one may add what we already saw in the first chapter: speech is not a merely physical action, certainly not according to dualists. Does this experiment prove that such a computer also has the insights and cognitive occurrences that accompany speech in an ordinary human being? According to the dualist, consciousness and thought are a basic part of the definition of the human being. The construction of this test assumes that only measurable characteristics define concepts or entities. If so, at most we have once again hooked an argument based on begging the question, now for the third time.

In summary, it is nevertheless important to note that the upshot of the argument presented here is not support for the dualist position or refutation of materialism. The result is only that the question under discussion is removed from the domain of computer science, and nothing more. As we shall also see below, this question belongs to philosophical, a priori planes, not to the various scientific disciplines.

Excursus 3: Speech and Thought in Halakha (Jewish law)⁷¹

On the subject of the relation between thought and speech, there is an interesting dispute among the commentators on the Talmud. The Mishnah, as discussed in the Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 15a, presents a tannaitic dispute about one who recites the Shema silently, moving his lips without making an audible sound. The Gemara, the Talmudic discussion, explains there that the dispute depends on the exposition of biblical verses. It then concludes that according to Rabbi Yosei, two laws are derived from the word “hear”: first, that the Shema may be recited in any language; and second, that one must make it audible to one’s own ear.

Rashba explains there that from the Gemara’s very assumption that a source is needed for the rule that the Shema may be recited in any language, it follows that one must make it audible to one’s own ear. For if the law were that one need not make the words audible to the ear, then mere mental thought would obviously suffice. And in mere thought there is no significance to different languages, so the exposition that one may recite it in any language would be superfluous. Therefore, says Rashba, the second exposition automatically yields the first as well.

Within his remarks he slips in, as something self-evident, that in thought there is no significance to different languages: “In the thought of the heart, language is irrelevant.” It is not entirely clear what Rashba means by this, and the later authorities indeed disagreed about it.

One can understand him to mean that in cases where halakha suffices with thought, there is no halakhic requirement for any particular language, since the point of different languages is only communication between people. Some have understood him to mean only that there is no special requirement for the holy tongue, that is, biblical Hebrew, but that seems quite forced in the wording. See both interpretations in Kuntrasei Shiurim, Nedarim, lesson 1, sec. 16.

Yet Rashba’s wording suggests that he means to make a claim about the way thought itself proceeds. It seems that he means that thought is not verbal but abstract, or perhaps proceeds through images, visual or auditory. In other words, we think ideas directly, not by means of words or sentences. So too seems implied by the author of Sha’agat Aryeh, sec. 13 and at the end of sec. 7, who apparently understood Rashba this way. Finally, I found explicitly in Hazon Ish, Orach Chayim 29:8, that he too understood Rashba this way.⁷²

This approach of Rashba, according to this interpretation, is puzzling, since it is very hard to deny the fact that sometimes we certainly do think verbally, and indeed it seems that this is usually the case.

Now, Tosafot on the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 40b, s.v. “Ve-khi Teima,” explains that it is forbidden to think words of Torah in the holy tongue in a privy or bathhouse. Rashash comments there that Tosafot apparently disagree with Rashba, holding that even in thought there are distinctions between different languages. That is, Tosafot understand that a person really does think verbally, for otherwise there would be no basis for distinguishing between different languages.⁷³

It seems likely that Rashba too does not mean to say that one can never think verbally. It is more likely that Rashba understands that when halakha refers to thought, it is dealing with the more inward layer, beyond the verbal layer of thought. The verbal layer certainly exists, but it is not relevant to laws that deal with thought, because it is something like “half-speech.” If that is indeed his meaning, then in fact we have combined the two interpretations raised by Hazon Ish regarding Rashba’s view.

Finally, I found in Damasio’s above-mentioned book, Descartes’ Error, pp. 138–141, a discussion of this very issue. Damasio argues with certainty that current research shows that the main part of thought proceeds on a conceptual level beyond verbal representations. In fact, there is an a priori reason why thought cannot begin at the verbal level, meaning that this cannot be its most basic level. The reason is that the very formation of words indicates that the ideas symbolized by them already existed earlier.

The same question, and the same dispute, also exists with respect to the formation of words in language.⁷⁴ Here too it seems that the dispute can be decided a priori. It is hard to see how a word can be formed unless the speakers already possess some understanding of what it denotes. Verbalization is the creation of a word as a sign for an existing concept, not a creation ex nihilo of a new term. Of course, the creation of the word is an important aid in the process of conceptualization, and it clarifies the meanings involved, but undoubtedly some level of understanding precedes the formation of the terminology and its verbal articulation.

The following quotation shows that Damasio is describing precisely the process we have seen here:

It has often been thought that thinking is based on more than mere images, that it is built also from words and abstract symbols that are not images.

Obviously, no one will deny that thoughts include words and arbitrary symbols. But what this statement misses is the fact that both words and arbitrary symbols are based on topographically organized representations and can become images.

Damasio also brings experimental evidence there for his claim. After that he quotes someone who was probably above average in the field of thought, Albert Einstein, who put the matter even more sharply:

Words, or language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in the mechanism of thought. The psychical entities that seem to serve as elements in thought are certain signs and more or less clear images…

If so, Rashba’s words, and his capacity for thought probably did not belong to the lowest decile either, no longer seem quite as puzzling as one might have thought.

The impression that emerges from this section is that the claim that the question of body and soul can be scientifically decided is itself an expression of an analytic position. A sharp example of this is the model of the concept “human being” adopted by the proposed experiment. The conception of human thought as something a computer can perform is itself nothing but analyticity. By its very essence, the computer performs only analytic operations. It is therefore obvious that anyone committed to an analytic position will tend to see the computer as a complete model for the cognitive parts of the human being. This discussion further sharpens the absurdity inherent in the analytic position.

To illustrate this, let us quote a short passage from David Harel’s book The Computer Is Not Omnipotent, which deals precisely with a question that he does not intend to address in the book:

In a strong sense, our computational ability is identical with what we are able to infer or understand by means of systematic, step-by-step processes from what we already know. The limits of computation are the limits of knowledge. We may possess insight and depth, and there are exceptionally brilliant people, but there is a solid basis for the claim that what can be understood from facts is what can be computed from them algorithmically.

There are people who object to drawing such sweeping conclusions from results that are merely algorithmic. Indeed, we shall refrain from dealing with this more general issue, which undoubtedly deserves comprehensive treatment. We shall confine ourselves to the well-defined mathematical aspects of pure algorithmics, and leave the more speculative and controversial aspects of our story to philosophers and to researchers in the cognitive sciences. (p. 56)

Is this not a sharpened formulation of analyticity as opposed to synthetic thought? In addition, there is here an implicit statement that this topic is not decidable by scientific tools. That is exactly our claim.

Let me add that the conception that sees science as the whole of reality, or as the supreme arbiter in every question, is at bottom an analytic position, even though, as I showed in detail in the second book, there is no way at all to ground science on analyticity. A synthetic position tends to see science as a tool for grasping certain aspects of reality, but not as a total tool, and certainly not a totalitarian one.

Let us now move on to other scientific fields.

Neuroscience

The next scientific field that claims relevance to the problems of body and soul is the study of the brain. This is a relatively new field, and it deals with mapping the different parts of the brain according to their functions and describing their mutual operation.

The problems that arise here concern the question: who performs the human being’s mental actions? Is it the brain, or the soul that uses it?

Brain research is complex and depends on more detailed information about the brain itself, and therefore we will not enter into it. Here we will focus only in a general way on the method of brain research and its implications for our issue.

Brain research attempts to identify and locate the functions of the brain, and the relation between those functions and the functions of the human being who possesses the brain. Important studies are done on people with brain injuries, in whom one can examine what phenomena are caused by different defects in the brain.

Brain research can identify certain parts as responsible for certain human functions by means of correlations. For example, if a defect in a certain brain region consistently causes strange behavior, absence of some emotion or of emotion in general, a defect in logical or evaluative thinking, a defect in social or psychic functioning, and the like, then we identify the damaged region as responsible for the damaged function.

Of course, careful research must take into account the fact that damage to that specific region may be a condition for the functional impairment, but is not identical with it. Beyond that, the researcher must be aware that there may be additional regions involved in the function under discussion, and damage to them would also cause impairment of the same function.

For example, Damasio, who is a neurologist, argues in his book Descartes’ Error that there is a connection between emotional function and decision-making, which is seemingly part of the intellect. In chapter 3 he describes how his suspicion of such a connection arose when he examined one of his patients, called Elliot there, who made rather poor decisions, especially in personal and social matters. Damasio concluded that Elliot was entirely without emotion. When he saw a disaster taking place, he described it in a wholly cold and correct manner. When he saw a picture or listened to a musical work, he understood it on intellectual planes, but had no emotional experience accompanying it.

Damasio, as a careful researcher, examined this connection in other patients with damage to the prefrontal lobe; see chapter 4 there. He indeed found such a connection.

At that point one might conclude that the prefrontal lobe is responsible for both of those functions, emotion and decision-making. But that would be a hasty conclusion. It is entirely possible that there are additional brain regions whose damage can produce similar phenomena.

And indeed, Damasio finds other kinds of injury that lead to similar results, for example patients with anosognosia, who have damage to a brain region called the amygdala; see later in that chapter.

At the end of the process he arrives at a further conclusion beyond the functional mapping of the brain’s parts: there is an inherent connection between damage to emotional functioning and damage to decision-making, at least in certain contexts. In many cases the two appear together.

At that point the theoretical part of the research begins, trying to connect emotion to the logic of decision-making conceptually and functionally. This is not the place to enter Damasio’s theoretical proposal. He attempts to develop a theoretical explanation and anchors it in the role of an additional brain region responsible for the connection between those two functions.

But one could just as well seek the connection between those two functions outside the brain. It is no less plausible to infer from these results that the connection between emotion and decision-making is created in the soul, which binds the two to one another. The fact that across all the brain regions we encounter the phenomenon that when one is damaged the other is impaired as well allows us to argue that the brain is not the root of the problem. The soul binds them together. Of course this is only a proposal, and probably not empirically testable. Its importance lies in pointing to the limits of brain research as a tool for deciding questions of body and soul.

The same lack of caution to which I pointed above may continue to appear when we conclude that the physiological explanation gives us the full picture. If the human being indeed has a component in addition to the material part, then the full explanation of some mental phenomenon will not necessarily be found in brain research at all, however careful and comprehensive it may be. Even if we found no additional brain regions causing the same phenomenon, it could still be that the region in question does not determine the phenomenon but only constitutes a necessary condition for its occurrence.

In fact, one can say more than that. Even if we found a complete explanation of our mental functions within brain research, that still would not lead to the materialist conclusion. Such an explanation would offer a complete description of the entire sequence of the mental function under discussion in the brain. But all that could still be only the expression of the real process.

To illustrate, let us return to Damasio’s example. It seems entirely plausible that the reason for the connection between emotional function and personal decision-making lies in the logical relation between them, and perhaps that relation is created precisely in the soul and not in the brain, as we suggested above.

A person makes decisions only within the framework of the goals he sets for himself. A person who does not want to live decides not to take medicine he needs. Such a decision may appear irrational to a normal person. But the problem lies in his goals, not in his decision-making. That person knows that in order to live he must take the medicine, but he simply does not want to live.

In chapter 3 of his book, Damasio describes tests he performed on Elliot in which Elliot analyzed reasonably every social situation presented to him and pointed to different ways of achieving different social, moral, and emotional goals. But in the end he did not “succeed” in implementing this in his life. A very plausible explanation is that because of his lack of emotion, his social-psychic goals were different from ours. It did not bother him to be hurt or to hurt others, and therefore he acted in ways that could lead to injury, his injuring others or the reverse. Is this defective decision-making? What we have here may simply be the application of correct methods to goals different from those of the normal person. If so, perhaps there is only damage to emotion here, and no damage at all to the ability to make decisions.

Up to this point we have dealt with the connection between emotion and decisions connected with it. But we must also discuss damage to emotion as such. Suppose we had not discovered a correlation between two functions, but only a correlation between some brain region and a certain psychic function. One could still ask: does the brain process really determine the psychic function, or does it merely express it?

For example, injury to one of the brain regions could lead to a change in psychic functioning in the opposite way as well. If the brain is indeed the instrument used by the soul in its various functions, then damage to the brain will prevent the soul from expressing that function, and perhaps even from performing it. In other words, the damage may prevent the sadness itself, or alternatively its expression in the world. But none of this necessarily leads to the conclusion that the brain is the only actor on the mental stage. The brain is a necessary condition for the function, or for its practical expression in the world, but it is not necessarily the leader and guide of that function. It is entirely possible, indeed entirely clear as we saw in the previous chapters, that the soul is what feels the sensations, while the brain merely helps it do so. This is like saying that a person without legs cannot walk, and yet it is reasonable to say that the walker is the person and not the legs themselves.

So far we have dealt with the question of materialism, the question whether souls exist. But one can also discuss here the psychophysical question. In that context, the question we raised is the direction of influence. We saw above that epiphenomenalism assumes influence from body to soul but not vice versa. Brain damage that creates apparent dysfunction therefore seems to provide empirical support for epiphenomenalism.

But here too our claim is that this should not be seen as support. The fact that psychic functioning is impaired shows that the brain is a condition for its performance, or for its expression in the world, but certainly not that it is the only actor or the dominant one on the stage.

Damasio describes in his book, on pp. 187–188, an experiment conducted by one of his colleagues, Paul Ekman. Ekman instructed various normal subjects how to distort their faces through a series of instructions concerning different facial parts. The subjects could not know what their faces looked like as a whole, yet expressions that usually indicate sadness did indeed produce feelings of sadness in them, and similarly with joy, anger, and so on. At first glance this seems to be evidence that the bodily state determines psychic functioning.

But that too is no proof. First, Damasio himself points out that not all parts of the brain can be “fooled” in this way; for example, artificial smiles produce a different brain state from genuine smiles. Second, it is entirely obvious that the bodily state influences the soul. It is obvious that a wound causes pain, and perhaps also dejection and sadness. There is nothing new in that. The question is whether this is the exclusive route. On the other side, watching a difficult situation outside ourselves often causes us sadness, compassion, and more. There we are not dealing with a material stimulus that directly influences the psychic state.

As we shall see below, the freest act of the human being is will, or choice. Is there any evidence that even this too is caused by bodily states, meaning that it is not free?

Finally, let us generalize the question and say that even if, theoretically, we could derive our character and sensations entirely from the genetic structure alone, and perhaps even if we could prove, in a way not clear to me, that no other component takes part in human behavior and character, even then there would still be no scientific decision concerning the questions of body and soul. The reason is that our character and sensations are not ourselves. Later we shall see at length that they are only a sort of periphery within which we act. There is something within us that “carries” these character traits and properties on its back. That component, and only it, is the human being. This plane of being is not open to scientific examination at all, and therefore it removes a priori the possibility of a scientific decision on the questions of body and soul. We shall return to this point in detail later in the book.

Toward the end, let me add one brief remark about Damasio. At the end of chapter 3, pp. 106–107, he explains that a full understanding of human behavior, and also treatment of problems of social violence, will not come from analysis of neurochemistry alone; what is required is a combination of socio-cultural and neurochemical influences together.

It is unclear how this remark fits the materialist picture presented in the book. Damasio is careful to use neutral formulations, but he always locates the explanations of behavior in the neurochemical mechanism. True, one can understand his explanation as a description of the system on the neurochemical plane, and not as a claim that this is the only plane operating in the human being,⁷⁵ but even if it is only a description on one plane, he still assumes that this description is supposed to be complete. If so, treatment on that plane alone should seemingly suffice to deal with violence. If we changed the chemical structure of the violent criminal’s brain, we would achieve definite results, assuming the knowledge were fully in our hands. What room, then, remains for a combination of the two factors?

The picture emerging from the book regarding the question of body and soul, and regarding the relation between mental and chemical factors in mental phenomena, is not clear.

At times it seems that statements of this sort are meant to cover up a substantive problem in the materialist approach. If the human being is a physico-chemical creature, then there is no place for a moral attitude toward him, nor for punishment, nor in general for any judging stance toward his behavior. The desire to preserve those moral values leads more than a few thinkers and scientists to overlook the conclusions arising from their approach. We dealt with this above in chapter 1, in the section “Morality and Sanctity: The Fear of Cloning,” and will not return to it here.

The conclusion that emerges from this brief and admittedly incomplete discussion is that brain research can, at most, yield a physiological description that accompanies the mental occurrences, either as influencing them or as influenced by them, but it probably cannot explain those phenomena themselves. Brain research cannot decide the question of body and soul in either of its two aspects.

Here too, anyone who claims otherwise is simply begging the question. For example, anyone who claims that explanations of the type we have seen provide a full description of the mental events under discussion is in effect assuming that a mental event is a chemical process. In chapter 1, following Yeshayahu Leibowitz, we pointed out that the chemical and biological processes are only a description of the mental event on the physical plane. Here we return to that claim.

The considerations in favor of the existence of a soul within which and in whose framework all these processes occur belong solely to the philosophical plane; see the previous chapters. That is the plane that determines the meaning of the results obtained in brain research.

Evolution

At the end of the first chapter we pointed out that evolutionary research can never decide the question of body and soul. In fact, all it can do is refute the materialist position. For example, we saw there that certain behaviors of animals, and of human beings, have no survival value and yet they exist. That fact can pose a difficulty for materialism, since it will be unable to explain the emergence of such traits. See there as well the limitations of that argument.

But we also pointed to a more principled aspect. Evolution can never offer an explanation for the emergence of the impossible. This theory is a brilliant consideration that can explain the random emergence of the improbable by means of long temporal processes that allow an improbability that arises by chance to survive, if indeed it is more fit than its rivals. But if we encounter an entity whose random emergence is not merely improbable but impossible, that itself will be a refutation of evolution as a comprehensive theory. It can explain the emergence of bodies, but not the emergence of souls or other spiritual entities.

True, if we explain spiritual characteristics as only properties of the material whole, see above in chapter 2, the double-aspect theory, then perhaps one can also view those layers, which are not entities but properties or characteristics, as products of evolutionary processes. In any event, one certainly cannot see here a scientific proof of the delusion of the double-aspect theory.

Psychology

The hope of the founders of psychology was to succeed in drawing a complete map of the human soul that would enable us fully and deterministically to explain and predict its behavior in any given situation.

Today there are many who doubt that such a map is possible. But even if we succeeded in arriving at such a perfect map, it is unclear what one could infer from it with respect to determinism, the existence of souls, and the psychophysical problem.

This issue touches on the relation between psychology and emotion, intellect, and will. It is also connected to the relation between the human being and his character and nature. These questions will be discussed in detail in the following gates, and therefore we will leave them open for the moment.

Genetics

In recent years, with the completion of the mapping of the human genome, the field of genetics has emerged as an important candidate for a scientific decision concerning the questions with which we are occupied here.

Many people, including geneticists, philosophers, and laymen, feel that with the completion of the enormous project of mapping the human genome, we now possess a complete map that gives us the essence and meaning of life, and certainly the key to understanding its emergence.

Above we already discussed the question of cloning, and especially the fears surrounding it, which are a paradigmatic instance of this attitude. We saw that the fear of cloning involves an internal contradiction connected to the feeling described here.

In fact, even before the genome-mapping project began, many were already convinced that genetics provides a complete and exhaustive explanation of all human phenomena, including mental ones. Different behaviors and different temperaments, among both humans and animals, as well as differences between them, were explained by genetic differences. Some pointed to the negligible difference between the human genetic structure and that of apes at the higher evolutionary levels as an indication that these are two species belonging in essence to the same kind.

First, it is important to know that this early optimism, or pessimism, is of course exaggerated. As of now, there is not even a full genetic explanation for a single human character trait. What we have is a set of correlations pointing to some connection, at varying levels of significance, between moods and character traits and certain parts of the human genome. Altering those parts affects human behavior and character in one way or another.

This is strikingly similar to what was described above regarding brain research, and therefore the interpretation here will also be very similar to what we saw there. The claim is that even if we had a full genetic description of some character trait or some mental state, this still would not constitute a decision concerning the questions of body and soul discussed here.

Even a change in part of the genetic structure that manifests itself in perfectly clear and fully defined effects on behavior would not be able to serve as an indication that a mental state is nothing but a certain genetic structure. At most we could say that the genetic structure influences the mental state, or that the mental state can find full expression provided we possess one genetic structure rather than another.

Beyond all this, even if we could say that the genetic structure is the exclusive cause of the mental state, that state itself still occurs in, and characterizes, the soul. At most we have found the physical cause of that state. But there is nothing new in this, for we have known from time immemorial that the body influences the soul; a wound causes pain, irritability, and the like. This may perhaps characterize epiphenomenalism, but it certainly does not prove it, although it probably does rule out parallelism.

Finally, even if we reached what now seems a wholly fanciful state in which all our behavior and character were nothing but a reflection of genetics, so that no other component took part in them at all, even that would prove nothing. The reason is that all these things are not truly the deepest inner human essence, that is, they are not the human being himself, but a periphery within which he acts. As already noted, this subject will be discussed at length later in the book.

One of the clearest spokesmen in Israel for the school that sees genetics as the key to solving these problems is none other than the head of the genome project in Israel, Professor Doron Lancet of the Weizmann Institute. In an interview with him published in Haaretz on January 9, 1998, even before the genome-mapping project had been completed, he already solemnly announced to the world that humanity would decipher the secret of life and reduce it solely to genetics. He also took care to add that this research would show that there is no plausibility in positing things such as the World to Come, the soul, God, and the like.

In my response, which was published there a few weeks later, I pointed to several problematic aspects of that interview.⁷⁶ First, there seems to be excessive boastfulness here. Even before the experiment is completed, we are already announcing its results. Usually the purpose of conducting a scientific experiment is to arrive at truth, not to reveal desired and tendentious assumptions. But that is only a secondary defect of character, connected with the honesty of those conducting the experiment, or more precisely, another attempt at preaching that uses a scientific cloak in order to advance mistaken ideological ideas. The deeper problem revealed here is that excellent professionals in genetics are not aware of the most elementary elements of the problems that accompany their professional work.

We have already noted the phenomenon that scientists in various fields, who unquestionably lead the research in their areas, do not offer philosophical analyses at a reasonable level. These scientists invade areas in which they are not experts and speak in them as though those too were their fields of expertise. The layman sometimes cannot separate wheat from chaff, and the result is a distorted picture of the meanings of scientific research in different areas.

It is extremely important to distinguish between empirical results and their interpretation on various planes. The specialist’s main advantage lies in obtaining the results and in their narrow scientific interpretation. Broader implications are not the business of the specialist. In fact, one may say that there are no specialists at all in topics of that kind.⁷⁷

Let us conclude this section with somewhat more rational quotations from prominent experts who dealt with more central parts of the genome project and were more aware of the implications of the research in which they were engaged. Incidentally, these statements were made after Lancet’s declarations, after the mapping project had been completed, at least formally.⁷⁸

The first is actually Craig Venter, who founded the controversial company Celera, a private for-profit DNA sequencing company. Venter was one of the two experts who appeared with President Clinton at the press conference where he announced the completion of the worldwide human-genome mapping project. Unlike the earlier speakers, he referred to the achievement in measured and secular terms:[^79]

Some have said that sequencing the human genome will diminish humanity by removing the mystery from life. Poets have claimed that sequencing the genome is an example of sterile reductionism that will rob them of inspiration. Nothing could be further from the truth. The complex and wondrous way in which lifeless chemicals, our genetic code, give rise to the human spirit, whose depth is unfathomable, will inspire poets and philosophers for thousands of years.

Venter is well aware of the distinction between the genetic sequence and the processes for whose occurrence it provides some sort of basis. The relation between the two planes is no better understood today than it was before the genome project began. That grand and important project dealt only with the physical plane of life and its phenomena. The claim that identifies this with the mental phenomena themselves is once again, predictably enough, begging the question.

Quite a few experts reacted dismissively to the media and cultural carnival surrounding the completion of the genome mapping. Their claim was that enormous work still remains in studying the relation between the genome and the mental and physical phenomena it produces in the human being, if indeed it produces all of them, which is by no means clear today. For example, what in this vast sequence is related to certain diseases, to a specific bodily structure, or to some character trait, and so forth. At present these connections are not understood at all, and research into them is still in its infancy.

Sidney Brenner, one of the most prominent genetics experts in the world, said the following:[^80]

The idea that this is a huge scientific achievement is simply ridiculous. It is an entrepreneurial achievement, a great managerial achievement, but there is no new science here. It is just like sending a man to the moon. It is easy to send him there, but bringing him back, that is the problem!

Such a sober response seems required by an understanding of the significance of the genome, as presented in this section. The map that has been obtained is a huge and important research tool, one that can aid medicine and improve many aspects of our lives. But it has no significance in the philosophical context with which we are concerned. Even if all genetic research were completely finished, and successfully so, at most we would have achieved a fuller understanding of the genetic plane in our being. That might provide a good infrastructure from which to begin examining, if it is possible at all, the various connections between this plane and mental occurrences.

Summary and Transition

The focus of our argument in most scientific fields is that even complete scientific success, which is still far from our grasp, would not answer the philosophical problems concerning the relations between body and soul.

By way of analogy, full understanding of the mechanical structure of a car can never teach us whether, where, or how it will travel. All of those depend on the driver, who is not part of the structure we are studying. For that reason, one may say a priori that psychology, computer science, genetics, and brain research, at least as we know them today, cannot decide these questions.

The conclusion that follows is that the relevant discussions of these questions lie on the philosophical planes with which we dealt in the two previous chapters. But one major task still remains: to explain and justify the claim that accompanied the entire discussion in this chapter, namely that a person’s psychology is not the person himself, but rather an outline within which the person acts. The next gate is devoted to that topic.

Summary of the Discussion in the First Gate

In this gate we dealt with the problem of body and soul. In the first chapter we rejected the principal claims of materialism and showed that a rational approach consonant with simple intuitions clearly leads to dualism, that is, to the view of the human being as a creature including two components of being, material and spiritual. In the second chapter we dealt with the psychophysical problem, which concerns the interaction between these two components. Our conclusion there was that the various approaches proposed to deal with this troubling problem are nothing but bizarre metaphysical hallucinations. In addition, these hallucinations solve nothing and leave the problem standing as it was.

We proposed one possible way of dealing partially with the problem by giving up the assumption that spirit cannot influence matter, that is, cannot causally bring about a material occurrence. This is a simple intuition shared by all of us, and one of which we are aware day after day. True, the claim that there is such interaction does not add much scientific information, since it is not open to definition, formulation, and scientific testing. But more than once we have already rejected the analytic assumption of a necessary connection between truth and verifiability, certainly scientific verifiability.

This point led us to the third chapter, where we argued that the questions of body and soul do not belong to science in its various branches, that is, they are not open to scientific testing. Having reached this conclusion, we return to the philosophical arguments of the previous chapters. Those arguments clearly show that we have no apparent reason to give up the dualist intuition that is within us.

Among other things, we saw that the claim that questions of body and soul are connected to scientific fields, and or are open to scientific testing, is itself an analytic position. That is, analyticity is not only one specific thesis among several possible theses about mind-body relations; it is also connected to questions concerning the very method of deciding those questions. It is important to notice this double aspect when encountering various analytic arguments in these matters.

Having reached the conclusion that there is a spiritual component in the human being, we can now enter into it and try to decipher the relations among its different parts. In the next gate we will deal with mapping and distinguishing the different parts of the soul.

Footnotes