I had originally planned to write a paper that would re-interpret some issues in traditional philosophy of science from the perspective of media ontology (phenomenology). I tried to “translate” certain discussions in traditional philosophy of science from the standpoint of media theory, and thereby raise the questions anew. Roughly speaking, there were several lines of inquiry: first, realism (and so-called instrumentalism); second, causality and scientific explanation; third, scientific method and the demarcation of science.
But in actual writing I dragged on for N long, and to this day still have nowhere to start. With the first report of the new term looming, I am frankly uneasy, so I decided to change topics in the nick of time and return to the steps laid out in my original research plan: “First, use the philosophical foundations of phenomenology to interpret the relevant themes of media ecology; second, use the analytical examples provided by media ecology to explicate relevant phenomenological claims; third, integrate the resources of these two sides and carry out analyses of specific technical cases.” The first step, the interpretation of media ecology, produced “A Preliminary Inquiry into McLuhan’s Media Ontology”; the second step, the interpretation of phenomenology, produced “A Preliminary Inquiry into Heidegger’s Media Ontology.” Although I later wrote “An Outline of Media Ontology,” it was essentially just a revision of the second essay and did not achieve integration. True integration must be realized in concrete case analyses; mere grafting together in the grand narrative of basic theory is nothing more than patchwork. Whether it is phenomenology or McLuhan, their strengths ought to be displayed in subtle case analyses. Therefore I am considering whether to proceed first according to this sequence and, through case studies, bring Heidegger and McLuhan into actual conjunction. That would make it possible later to enter the next cycle: once more the three-part sequence of media ecology, phenomenological ontology, and case analysis. In the next cycle, the horizon will not be limited to McLuhan and the early Heidegger; secondary and English-language literature should also be drawn upon. If one goes through such a cycle two or three times, one should be able to muddle through to a doctorate.
As for the line of thought that uses media ontology to interpret problems in philosophy of science, the main difficulties I encountered were bibliographical ones. First, it is hard to find a target for attack. Analytic philosophers have written too much. Taking the whole of analytic philosophy as the target may be acceptable in an essayistic sketch, but as a rigorous argument it is obviously too presumptuous. And if one tries to find a specific target, one cannot find a suitable one: either it is too superficial to be worth bothering with, or too technical to digest. Besides, out of personal taste, I truly do not want to spend too much effort on texts in analytic philosophy. In addition, my grasp of so-called media ontology is still far from ready-to-hand for me; at this stage, using this topic as a training ground does not seem quite ripe yet. So I decided to return to the usual route and move forward from there.
Of course, as for this theme that I have temporarily set aside, I have been making so much noise about it for so long that if I do not write something, it would really be hard to account for myself. So I will first write an opening in essay form:
1. Scientific Method
As for scientific method and the demarcation of science, several questions are involved: What are objectivity and universality? How are they possible? Where do they come from? Is there some unique “scientific method”? Is this method the only path to seeking “truth”? … To respond to this series of questions, one needs to activate an intensified theory of “being-with.” Media ontology, from the very beginning, replaces the concepts of isolated subject and object in dualist philosophy with plural media. We do not first and foremost observe and operate as isolated subjects, but as plural “the they” (one). That is to say, subjectivity is grounded in “the they,” and some originary sense of “objectivity” is in fact the most general state. “Universality” is similar: according to the so-called “categorical intuition,” what we first and originally see is not some particular object, but universality itself. Thus the question is rather: how are subjectivity and particularity possible?
Traditional philosophy of science takes such a grounded state—namely, a structure in which “a solitary subject quietly faces a particular object”—as the most basic structure. It will naturally then encounter an insurmountable obstacle: how can cognition obtained from such a structure transcend this structure? The key is that such a structure is not at all the starting point of cognition; rather, it is the product of reflection upon and abstraction from originary cognitive activity.
The reason I say that this must be an “intensified” theory of being-with is that in Heidegger, although “the they” is treated as the basic state and the point of departure for reflection, it is always a negative state to be excluded; in the end Heidegger still has to appeal to the structure of “a solitary individual facing a particular death,” namely the unfolding of so-called authentic existence. Of course, in reflections on virtue or meaning, such a structure is important; this is why science cannot provide ultimate existential concern. Yet in other concrete respects, there is no need to reveal so-called authentic existence; the state of the they plays a more active role. For example, in scientific activity, in the pursuit of objectivity and universality, we do not need to appeal to such an authentic self; rather, we should do more with the state of the they. The state of the they, or everyday life, or the lifeworld, is by no means monolithic, as if there were only a binary distinction between everydayness and authentic existence, with only one changing dimension in everydayness, namely transcendence toward authentic existence. In fact, “the they” is also plural and has multiple structures.
What does “media” mean here? Media ontology reminds us here that the so-called “the they” can by no means be regarded as the sum total of humanity, or an abstract average of humanity. Heidegger’s calling the they an “average state” may cause misunderstanding, as if the “average human” were like “the general triangle,” an abstract inclusive concept. If that were the case, then after introducing “the they” one would still be appealing to a binary structure of “human being (humanity, ordinary people) — (quietly facing) — object (nature).” In fact, the everyday state of human beings is a state lodged in equipment; in other words, it is a mediating state rather than a state as a terminal point.
So then, if the starting point is already objectivity and universality, how can it be said that science is to pursue objectivity and universality? Here one must note that objectivity or universality is always relative, just as “the they” is not a monolithic abstraction, and universality is not a fixed thing lying there. From the start, people cognize as the they, but this state of the they is not fixed; it can be reflected upon and surpassed.
We do not have to be an authentic, solitary self in order to carry out so-called “reflection”; in fact, we are precisely always reflecting as “the they.” Take, for example, the fact that I am wearing glasses, controlling the keyboard and mouse with my fingers, operating the computer and writing an article. At this moment, some problem arises in my operation, and I need to engage in “reflection,” to inspect where the problem lies. I may ask: is this the computer’s problem, or mine? The conclusion may be: the computer is fine; it is my own operation that has a problem. What does “my own” mean here? Does it mean that authentic self-toward-death self? Obviously not; in this kind of reflective activity there is no need to involve that level at all. But if there is no authentic meditation involved, does that mean it is not self-reflection? Obviously, this is indeed self-reflection to some degree. At this moment, the “I” involved in reflective activity is a composite structure. For example, the problem may lie in “I typed the wrong key” or “I looked at it wrong.” Under the question “Is it the computer’s problem or my problem?”, the answer is: “my” problem. But if one then examines further: how did I look at it wrong? Why did I type the wrong key? The reason may be that the keyboard is broken, my glasses are malfunctioning, and so on—then these are no longer “my” problem. But if further inspection identifies some other culprit, such as a broken keyboard or glasses, does that not mean that in the very first step of reflection the answer should not have been “my problem”? Not at all. We may also reflect further: why did the keyboard break? Perhaps because “my” improper operation caused it. Does that not bring us back to “my problem” again? Ask again: how could I have operated improperly? The answer may again be: “he” taught me the wrong method… The key is that “I” is not some fixed, motionless, ready-made terminal point. In this chain of questioning, the concept of “I” is not frozen and unchanging. In each reflection, “I” needs to be reconstructed anew within a specific context (through a new kind of “searching vision”). In any case, this “I” that is reflected upon is never that solitary authentic self, but a real, actual, mediating existence that includes ready-to-hand equipment as well as the others in being-with. What unfolds in layers of “self-reflection” is not the authentic self, but precisely equipment and others.
In everydayness, we are thrown into some situation; reflection unfolded within that situation begins from an average “I.” This self includes equipment and others; it is a medium, not a terminal point, in the process of everyday handling and intercourse. Yet this “self” can be gradually unfolded and expanded through directed training and deeper reflection. For example, I can improve my keyboard, such as by replacing it with a more precise and reliable one, buying from a merchant with better word-of-mouth, learning how to use it from more people or more authoritative people, and strengthening my mastery of it, or by obtaining and learning other alternative tools, such as a handwriting pad. In this way, when “I” once again face the computer, the possibility of problems on “my” side will be smaller.
If seeking objectivity means, in the course of dealing with things, eliminating as far as possible the factors on the subject’s (my) side, then that is precisely the pursuit of objectivity. The gain of objectivity does not come through constantly eliminating and stripping away the territory of the self; rather, it comes precisely through constantly expanding the space of the subject (its possibilities). Simply adding a medium through which one reaches things may not expand the self, but if that medium is easier for people to control, easier to reproduce precisely, easier for more people to participate in and exchange, and can harmonize and corroborate with other ways of access, then the expansion of media means the expansion of the self; it means the gain of objectivity.
Note that this mode of expansion is practical, that is, finite and plural. Absolute objectivity requires an infinite self, which only God can accomplish. Human beings can only expand the space of the self in certain aspects. But this does not mean that any arbitrary method makes no difference from scientific inquiry. Those differences, however, are also practical, historical, and contextual; one cannot find a once-and-for-all standard to adjudicate the boundaries of science.
Logic, mathematics, and experimental methods are also ways of extending the self. If one does not take them as media of extension, but as rigid objects, then one produces the rootlessness of science. Science is an extension of human beings, not a deity placed opposite us that has nothing to do with people.
Of course, what I have said here is only a rough sketch; in detail there are still many issues. For example, objectivity and universality are not completely identical. Objectivity speaks to reporting and transmission, while universality speaks to application and dissemination. The meaning of mathematics is even more worthy of deeper discussion. But I will not expand further here.
2. Causality
As for causality and the problem of scientific explanation, the first thing to note is that the concept of “scientific explanation” in traditional philosophy of science cannot provide an account of causality. The problem of induction also proclaims the difficulty of causality. Modern science displays a static world, not a causal, temporal world. So where does causality come from? In my view, causality itself, like tables and chairs, is first of all something that can be naively intuited. Of course, this does not mean that all causal relations mentioned in every context are intuited; in fact, in most cases, especially causal relations inferred in scientific research, they cannot be seen directly in ordinary life. It is just like the fact that many times the existence of tables, chairs, and so on is also inferred rather than directly seen. For example, I do not need to inspect each classmate’s seat one by one, nor do I need to look at each chair one by one. I only need to glance at the classroom, see that the students are all bent over their desks reading, and see no one standing, and I can judge that “the students in this classroom are all sitting on chairs.” Such a judgment is basically reliable, but it can be mistaken—perhaps some student is in a horse stance? “Causality” is similar: when we obtain it through inference rather than intuition, our inference can go wrong. But the reason we can infer the existence of chairs or causality in a non-intuitive way is grounded in our intuitive grasp of chairs or causality. If one has never grasped the meaning of these concepts through any intuitive apprehension, then these concepts are completely empty, and inference would be impossible. If one still insists on inferring, one can only endow the concepts with meaning anew. For example, we can stipulate: the center of gravity of the body in a certain state is defined as State A (A = sitting), and 99% of those in State A are also in State B (B = sitting on a chair). Then even if someone does not understand at all what sitting or a chair is, he can, through geometric calculation, “infer” the conclusion that “there is a very high probability that the students in this classroom are all sitting on chairs.” In some cases, such inferences may indeed be more precise and rigorous, but if these concepts have never been linked with intuition, what meaning can these inferences, which cannot be genuinely apprehended at all, possibly have?
The crisis of modern science lies precisely in the fact that it insists on inferring the existence of various things after having lost originary understanding. At that point, so-called inference can only be built entirely upon specially constructed formal domains, and loses its connection with the lifeworld. Modern science re-endows concepts such as force, energy, and causality with meaning in the formal domain, in the world of mathematics, and then derives them from there. And when concepts like “force” and “energy” undergo a rupture between their meaning in the scientific domain and in everyday life, we may not easily notice it, or we may think it does not matter. But causality is more problematic. If this concept is ruptured between the two worlds, then it means science will, at a fundamental level, find it difficult to respond to questions in the real world of “because of what…?”
So how is intuition of causality possible? First, one must overturn the subject-object opposition structure of traditional philosophy of science. In the eyes of traditional philosophers, only ready-made objects—things placed opposite us with determinate boundaries—can be “intuited.” As already mentioned in the paper on McLuhan, this is a visually centered model. As for how causality presents itself, I have already offered hints in articles such as “The Mechanization of ‘Force’” and “The Naturalization of Mathematics” — the concept of causality is associated with “force” and is experienced through touch.
3. Realism
As for the problem of realism, the first thing to note is that in the context of analytic philosophy, realism is less a metaphysical or ontological problem than a linguistic one. “Scientific realism” claims that “electrons really exist.” But as for what “real” and “exist” actually mean, they have not reflected on these deeply. What they care about is whether scientific concepts such as “electron” have objects to which they refer.
I have already written previously about the so-called realist theses of analytic philosophy and my criticisms of them; see “Lecture Notes on Realism and Anti-realism” and “How Is a Certain Scientific Realism Possible.” In my view, so-called “scientific realism” is an extremely naive claim and not worth taking seriously. But does that mean we should side with “anti-realism” or “instrumentalism”? That still deserves some consideration. In fact, according to the line of media ontology, tools are media, and media are existence. Instrumentalism is in fact realism rather than anti-realism. The key is: what exactly is “existence”? Traditional philosophy of technology, as Heidegger said, has forgotten being and mistaken beings for being itself. From this perspective, tables and chairs are “real” because they can be quietly contemplated by us as clear, observable objects with distinct boundaries. Scientific realism is then an extension of naïve realism, namely the belief that scientific concepts such as electrons and atoms are just as real as tables and chairs. For the contradiction between naïve realism and scientific realism, see the two earlier articles mentioned above. What I want to add here is that media ontology likewise holds: electrons and atoms are “just as real” as tables and chairs. But at a fundamental level, our understanding of tables and chairs goes in an entirely different direction.
Why is a chair real? Because you can see its clear spatial outline? But we can clearly see a chair in a picture, in a mirror, and on a television set, and yet we regard that as an image, a reflected image, or a moving image, not as a real chair. A mere side-on image is not enough to present reality.
Analytic philosophy often understands a thing as the sum total of sense data. For example, we can see the outline of a chair, see its color, look at it from another angle and see its other side, and we can also touch it. The various sense data obtained from different perspectives and sides add up to our vivid, concrete experience of a real, tangible chair. This is certainly not wrong, but the question is: how are these so-called “sense data” even possible to be “added up”? How are they possible to be “brought together”?
The example of the “cup” that Wu Lao-shi often uses is similar. It is not that we first see this side, that side, this tactile impression and that auditory impression, and then add them together to piece out a cup or a chair. In fact, what happens is that we first see a cup or a chair, and only then can we analyze its various sides. The sensory impressions of the various sides have already been unified at a more originary level. But this unification is not innate, or, one might say, necessary. A person who is not familiar with chairs may perhaps find it hard to regard the different sides of a chair as one and the same thing, and may also not know how to touch the chair they see. It is precisely in a given environment, in a network where various media are split apart and linked, referring to and guiding one another, that the chair occupies a position; the chair presents itself in a certain full, saturated way within a certain environment—that is what we call reality. Abstracted from its situation, with a solitary subject facing a solitary object, the chair as object is an abstract, imagined chair, not a “real” chair.
Therefore, the real chair is not some clearly bounded node waiting for a concept to correspond to it. Scientific realism seems to think that the real world is like a sheet of iron with many nails driven into it, each nail hanging a label: this one says “chair,” that one says “electron”; whereas nominalists think there are only labels and no nails. But in fact the “real world” is not a sheet of iron at all; it is an intricate, complex network. Concepts are less like labels of reference than like signposts of direction.
The concept “chair” points out the chair beside us, and the chair beside us in turn points to tables, floors, seats, rest, etiquette, and so on—things linked to one another in a network of mutual implication. And the reality of the “chair” comes into view precisely when this guiding function is interrupted, when the everyday handling and use is interrupted. For example, lack, weariness, boredom, and so on—when I need to sit down, or when I have been sitting too long, the reality of the chair reveals itself. And when the chair breaks down, its reality becomes most glaring; at that moment, the chair comes closest to being an isolated object quietly contemplated. But as we carry out the activity of checking or probing the “broken” chair, the chair’s true essence may also be revealed—first we will adopt the strategy of analytic philosophy, objectifyingly, calmly, and objectively contemplating this chair and analyzing its parts. But then—if the problem still has not been solved—we may at any time leave this isolated object, for example: maybe the floor is uneven? Or maybe there is something wrong with my thigh? Or did someone just play a prank on me? Or is it actually just my psychological effect? … The probing of a chair’s malfunction may end up drawing in anything whatsoever, even the reality of the entire world—if no matter how much you fuss over it you still cannot find the cause, you may well ask: am I dreaming? My probing will move far away from this chair, yet it will always remain centered on this chair, because the thing that has actually broken down is indeed “it.” This activity of probing hints to us at the essential existence of the chair—not this clearly bounded object, but a node that contains the entire structure of the world.
The existence of “electrons” is similar to that of chairs; the fundamental question is not whether they have a clearly bounded boundary, or which fixed sensible properties they possess, but rather the relation of linkage they have with the environment in which they are situated.
Like “chair,” an electron can only be said to be real in an appropriate environment. For example, in front of a cloud chamber pattern, a scientist says: there is an electron here. This is true. And after study and training, a scientist can indeed see (intuitively) an electron in this context. For a scientist, the cloud chamber pattern is a mode in which an electron appears. Other people, seeing the same scene, may only be able to reach the conclusion that an electron exists through examination and inference; still others may take the scientist’s guidance and regard it as an electron. It is just like how a fruit grower may be able to tell at a glance that a peach tree is there, while another amateur botanist may recognize the peach tree only after carefully distinguishing its branches and leaves, and a tourist may learn that this is a peach tree from the name tag hanging on it, and so on. An analytic philosopher might say that first there exists that objectively real peach tree, and then different people receive different images of it. But from the perspective of media ontology, it is indeed first that there is an objectively real peach tree “there,” but where exactly is “there”? In a dream? In a mathematical construction? Where must it first be in order to become “real”? It must be within the world, and this world is the world of fruit growers, botanists, tourists, and so on, the world in which people exist together and are mutually connected. So yes, there is indeed “first a peach tree there,” but at the same time there are also first fruit growers and botanists and so on; they too are already first in the world. Within this shared background, different encounters and linkages take place.
February 17, 2011
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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