 Your Knowledge
Literary Characters: Fact or Fiction?
Although Wittgenstein resisted general accounts of the meanings of words, insisting that the task of the philosopher was simply to describe the ordinary ways in which words are used, he did think that “an inner process stands in need of an outward criterion”—by which he seemed to mean a behavioral criterion. However, for Wittgenstein a given type of mental state need not be manifested by any particular outward behaviour: one person may express his grief by wailing, another by somber silence. This approach has persisted into the present day among philosophers such as Daniel Dennett, who think that the application of mental terms cannot depart very far from the behavioral basis on which they are learned, even though the terms might not be definable on that basis.
Ryle and analytical behaviourism
Some irreferentialist philosophers thought that something more systematic and substantial could be said, and they advocated a program for actually defining the mental in behavioral terms. Partly influenced by Wittgenstein, the British philosopher Gilbert Ryle (1900–76) tried to “exorcize” what he called the “ghost in the machine” by showing that mental terms function in language as abbreviations of dispositions to overt bodily behaviour, rather in the way that the term solubility, as applied to salt, might be said to refer to the disposition of salt to dissolve when placed in water in normal circumstances. For example, the belief that God exists might be regarded as a disposition to answer “yes” to the question “Does God exist?”
A particularly influential proposal of this sort was the Turing test for intelligence, originally developed by the British logician who first conceived of the modern computer, Alan Turing (1912–52). According to Turing, a machine should count as intelligent if its teletyped answers to teletyped questions cannot be distinguished from the teletyped answers of a normal human being. Other, more sophisticated behavioral analyses were proposed by philosophers such as Ryle and by psychologists such as Clark L. Hull (1884–1952).
This approach to mental vocabulary, which came to be called “analytical behaviourism,” did not meet with great success. It is not hard to think of cases of creatures who might act exactly as though they were in pain, for example, but who actually were not: consider expert actors or brainless human bodies wired to be remotely controlled. Indeed, one thing such examples show is that mental states are simply not so closely tied to behaviour; typically, they issue in behaviour only in combination with other mental states. Thus, beliefs issue in behaviour only in conjunction with desires and attention, which in turn issue in behaviour only in conjunction with beliefs. It is precisely because an actor has different motivations from a normal person that he can behave as though he is in pain without actually being so. And it is because a person believes that he should be stoical that he can be in excruciating pain but not behave as though he is.
It is important to note that the Turing test is a particularly poor behaviourist test; the restriction to teletyped interactions means that one must ignore how the machine would respond in other sorts of ways to other sorts of stimuli. But intelligence arguably requires not only the ability to converse but the ability to integrate the content of language into the rest of one’s psychology—for example, to recognize objects and to engage in practical reasoning, modifying one’s behaviour in the light of changes in one’s beliefs and preferences. Indeed, it is important to distinguish the Turing test from the much more serious and deeper ideas that Turing proposed about the construction of a computer; these ideas involved an account not merely of a system’s behaviour but of how that behaviour might be produced internally. Ironically enough, Turing’s proposals about machines were instances not of behaviourism but of precisely the kind of view of internal processes that behaviourists were eager to avoid.
The fac