Whatever you think, you don’t necessarily know your own mind
PSYC 2015 - Social Psychology
University of Cincinnati
September 2, 2024
Do you think racial stereotypes are false? Are you sure? I’m not asking if
you’re sure whether or not the stereotypes are false, but if you’re sure
whether or not you think that they are. That might seem like a strange
question. We all know what we think, don’t we?
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
Most philosophers of mind would agree, holding that we have privileged
access to our own thoughts, which is largely immune from error. Some
argue that we have a faculty of ‘inner sense’, which monitors the mind just
as the outer senses monitor the world. There have been exceptions,
however. The mid-20th-century behaviourist philosopher Gilbert Ryle held
that we learn about our own minds, not by inner sense, but by observing
our own behaviour, and that friends might know our minds better than we
do. (Hence the joke: two behaviourists have just had sex and one turns to
the other and says: ‘That was great for you, darling. How was it for me?’)
And the contemporary philosopher Peter Carruthers proposes a similar
view (though for different reasons), arguing that our beliefs about our own
thoughts and decisions are the product of self-interpretation and are often
mistaken.
Evidence for this comes from experimental work in social psychology. It is
well established that people sometimes think they have beliefs that they
don’t really have. For example, if offered a choice between several
identical items, people tend to choose the one on the right. But when
asked why they chose it, they confabulate a reason, saying they thought
the item was a nicer colour or better quality. Similarly, if a person performs
an action in response to an earlier (and now forgotten) hypnotic
suggestion, they will confabulate a reason for performing it. What seems
to be happening is that the subjects engage in unconscious self-
interpretation. They don’t know the real explanation of their action (a bias
towards the right, hypnotic suggestion), so they infer some plausible
reason and ascribe it to themselves. They are not aware that they are
interpreting, however, and make their reports as if they were directly
aware of their reasons.
Many other studies support this explanation. For example, if people are
instructed to nod their heads while listening to a tape (in order, they are
told, to test the headphones), they express more agreement with what
they hear than if they are asked to shake their heads. And if they are
required to choose between two items they previously rated as equally
desirable, they subsequently say that they prefer the one they had chosen.
Again, it seems, they are unconsciously interpreting their own behaviour,
taking their nodding to indicate agreement and their choice to reveal a
preference.
Building on such evidence, Carruthers makes a powerful case for an
interpretive view of self-knowledge, set out in his book The Opacity of
Mind (2011). The case starts with the claim that humans (and other
primates) have a dedicated mental subsystem for understanding other
people’s minds, which swiftly and unconsciously generates beliefs about
what others think and feel, based on observations of their behaviour.
(Evidence for such a ‘mindreading’ system comes from a variety of sources,
including the rapidity with which infants develop an understanding of
people around them.) Carruthers argues that this same system is
responsible for our knowledge of our own minds. Humans did not develop
a second, inward-looking mindreading system (an inner sense); rather,
they gained self-knowledge by directing the outward-looking system upon
themselves. And because the system is outward-looking, it has access only
to sensory inputs and must draw its conclusions from them alone. (Since it
has direct access to sensory states, our knowledge of what we are
experiencing is not interpretative.)
The reason we know our own thoughts better than those of others is
simply that we have more sensory data to draw on – not only perceptions
of our own speech and behaviour, but also our emotional responses, bodily
senses (pain, limb position, and so on), and a rich variety of mental
imagery, including a steady stream of inner speech. (There is strong
evidence that mental images involve the same brain mechanisms as
perceptions and are processed like them.) Carruthers calls this the
Interpretive Sensory-Access (ISA) theory, and he marshals a huge array of
experimental evidence in support of it.
The ISA theory has some startling consequences. One is that (with limited
exceptions), we do not have conscious thoughts or make conscious
decisions. For, if we did, we would be aware of them directly, not through
interpretation. The conscious events we undergo are all sensory states of
some kind, and what we take to be conscious thoughts and decisions are
really sensory images – in particular, episodes of inner speech. These
images might express thoughts, but they need to be interpreted.
Another consequence is that we might be sincerely mistaken about our
own beliefs. Return to my question about racial stereotypes. I guess you
said you think they are false. But if the ISA theory is correct, you can’t be
sure you think that. Studies show that people who sincerely say that racial
stereotypes are false often continue to behave as if they are true when not
paying attention to what they are doing. Such behaviour is usually said to
manifest an implicit bias, which conflicts with the person’s explicit beliefs.
But the ISA theory offers a simpler explanation. People think that the
stereotypes are true but also that it is not acceptable to admit this and
therefore say they are false. Moreover, they say this to themselves too, in
inner speech, and mistakenly interpret themselves as believing it. They are
hypocrites but not conscious hypocrites. Maybe we all are.
If our thoughts and decisions are all unconscious, as the ISA theory implies,
then moral philosophers have a lot of work to do. For we tend to think that
people can’t be held responsible for their unconscious attitudes. Accepting
the ISA theory might not mean giving up on responsibility, but it will mean
radically rethinking it.
