A blog from the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics (CRB)

Tag: philosophy (Page 1 of 19)

Objects that behave humanly

Many forms of artificial intelligence could be considered objects that behave humanly. However, it does not take much for us humans to personify non-living objects. We get angry at the car that does not start or the weather that does not let us have a picnic, as if they were against us. Children spontaneously personify simple toys and can describe the relationship between geometric shapes as, “the small circle is trying to escape from the big triangle.”

We are increasingly encountering artificial intelligence designed to give a human impression, for example in the form of chatbots for customer service when shopping online. Such AI can even be equipped with personal traits, a persona that becomes an important part of the customer experience. The chatbot can suggest even more products for you and effectively generate additional sales based on the data collected about you. No wonder the interest in developing human-like AI is huge. Part of it has to do with user-friendliness, of course, but at the same time, an AI that you find personally attractive will grab your attention. You might even like the chatbot or feel it would be impolite to turn it off. During the time that the chatbot has your attention, you are exposed to increasingly customized advertising and receive more and more package offers.

You can read about this and much more in an article about human relationships with AI designed to give a human impression: Human/AI relationships: challenges, downsides, and impacts on human/human relationships. The authors discuss a large number of examples of such AI, ranging from the chatbots above to care robots and AI that offers psychotherapy, or AI that people chat with to combat loneliness. The opportunities are great, but so are the challenges and possible drawbacks, which the article highlights.

Perhaps particularly interesting is the insight into how effectively AI can create confusion by exposing us to objects equipped with human response patterns. Our natural tendency to anthropomorphize non-human things meets high-tech efforts to produce objects that are engineered to behave humanly. Here it is no longer about imaginatively projecting social relations onto non-human objects, as in the geometric example above. In interaction with AI objects, we react to subtle social cues that the objects are equipped with. We may even feel a moral responsibility for such AI and grieve when companies terminate or modify it.

The authors urge caution so that we do not overinterpret AI objects as persons. At the same time, they warn of the risk that, by avoiding empathic responses, we become less sensitive to real people in need. Truly confusing!

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Zimmerman, A., Janhonen, J. & Beer, E. Human/AI relationships: challenges, downsides, and impacts on human/human relationships. AI Ethics (2023). https://doi.org/10.1007/s43681-023-00348-8

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We recommend readings

A way out of the Babylonian confusion of tongues in the theorizing of consciousness?

There is today a wide range of competing theories, each in its own way trying to account for consciousness in neurobiological terms. Parallel to the “Babylonian confusion of tongues” and inability to collaborate that this entails in the theorizing of consciousness, progress has been made in the empirical study of the brain. Advanced methods for imaging and measuring the brain and its activities map structures and functions that are possibly relevant for consciousness. The problem is that these empirical data once again inspire a wide range of theories about the place of consciousness in the brain.

It has been pointed out that a fragmented intellectual state such as this, where competing schools of thought advocate their own theories based on their own starting points – with no common framework or paradigm within which the proposals can be compared and assessed – is typical of a pre-scientific stage of a possibly nascent science. Given that the divergent theories each claim scientific status, this is of course troubling. But maybe the theories are not as divergent as they seem?

It has been suggested that several of the theories, upon closer analysis, possibly share certain fundamental ideas about consciousness, which could form the basis of a future unified theory. Today I want to recommend an article that self-critically examines this hope for a way out of the Babylonian confusion. If the pursuit of a unified theory of consciousness is not to degenerate into a kind of “manufactured uniformity,” we must first establish that the theories being integrated are indeed comparable in relevant respects. But can we identify such common denominators among the competing theories, which could support the development of an overarching framework for scientific research? That is the question that Kathinka Evers, Michele Farisco and Cyriel Pennartz investigate for some of the most debated neuroscientifically oriented theories of consciousness.

What do the authors conclude? Something surprising! They come to the conclusion that it is actually quite possible to identify a number of common denominators, which show patterns of similarities and differences among the theories, but that this is still not the way to an overall theory of consciousness that supports hypotheses that can be tested experimentally. Why? Partly because the common denominators, such as “information,” are sometimes too general to function as core concepts in research specifically about consciousness. Partly because theories that have common denominators can, after all, be conceptually very different.

The authors therefore suggest, as I understand them, that a more practicable approach could be to develop a common methodological approach to testing hypotheses about relationships between consciousness and the brain. It is perhaps only in the empirical workshop, open to the unexpected, so to speak, that a scientific framework, or paradigm, can possibly begin to take shape. Not by deliberately formulating unified theory based on the identification of common denominators among competing theories, which risks manufacturing a facade of uniformity.

The article is written in a philosophically open-minded spirit, without ties to specific theories. It can thereby stimulate the creative collaboration that has so far been inhibited by self-absorbed competition between schools of thought. Read the article here: Assessing the commensurability of theories of consciousness: On the usefulness of common denominators in differentiating, integrating and testing hypotheses.

I would like to conclude by mentioning an easily neglected aspect of how scientific paradigms work (according to Thomas Kuhn). A paradigm does not only generate possible explanations of phenomena. It also generates the problems that researchers try to solve within the paradigm. Quantum mechanics and evolutionary biology enabled new questions that made nature problematic in new explorable ways. A possible future paradigm for scientific consciousness research would, if this is correct, not answer the questions about consciousness that baffle us today (at least not without first reinterpreting them). Rather, it would create new, as yet unasked questions, which are explorable within the paradigm that generates them.

The authors of the article may therefore be right that the most fruitful thing at the moment is to ask probing questions that help us delineate what actually lends itself to investigation, rather than to start by manufacturing overall theoretical uniformity. The latter approach would possibly put the cart before the horse.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

K. Evers, M. Farisco, C.M.A. Pennartz, “Assessing the commensurability of theories of consciousness: On the usefulness of common denominators in differentiating, integrating and testing hypotheses,” Consciousness and Cognition, Volume 119, 2024,

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Minding our language

A strategy for a balanced discussion of conscious AI

Science and technology advance so rapidly that it is hard to keep up with them. This is true not only for the general public, but also for the scientists themselves and for scholars from fields like ethics and regulation, who find it increasingly difficult to predict what will come next. Today AI is among the most advanced scientific endeavors, raising both significant expectations and more or less exaggerated worries. This is mainly due to the fact that AI is a concept so emotionally, socially, and politically charged as to make a balanced evaluation very difficult. It is even more so when capacities and features that are considered almost uniquely human, or at least shared with a limited number of other animals, are attributed to AI. This is the case with consciousness.

Recently, there has been a lively debate about the possibility of developing conscious AI. What are the reasons for this great interest? I think it has to do with the mentioned rapid advances in science and technology, as well as new intersections between different disciplines. Specifically, I think that three factors play an important role: the significant advancement in understanding the cerebral bases of conscious perception, the impressive achievements of AI technologies, and the increasing interaction between neuroscience and AI. The latter factor, in particular, resulted in so-called brain-inspired AI, a form of AI that is explicitly modeled on our brains.

This growing interest in conscious AI cannot ignore certain risks of varying relevance, including theoretical, practical, and ethical relevance. Theoretically, there is not a shared, overarching theory or definition of consciousness. Discussions about what consciousness is, what the criteria for a good scientific theory should be, and how to compare the various proposed theories of consciousness are still open and difficult to resolve.

Practically, the challenge is how to identify conscious systems. In other words, what are the indicators that reliably indicate whether a system, either biological or artificial, is conscious?

Finally, at the ethical level several issues arise. Here the discussion is very lively, with some calling for an international moratorium on all attempts to build artificial consciousness. This extreme position is motivated by the need for avoiding any form of suffering, including possibly undetectable artificial forms of suffering. Others question the very reason for working towards conscious AI: why should we open another, likely riskier box, when society cannot really handle the impact of AI, as illustrated by Large Language Models? For instance, chatbots like ChatGPT show an impressive capacity to interact with humans through natural language, which creates a strong feeling that these AI systems have features like consciousness, intentionality, and agency, among others. This attribution of human qualities to AI eventually impacts the way we think about it, including how much weight and value we give to the answers that these chatbots provide.

The two arguments above illustrate possible ethical concerns that can be raised against the development of conscious artificial systems. Yet are the concerns justified? In a recent chapter, I propose a change in the underlying approach to the issue of artificial consciousness. This is to avoid the risk of vague and not sufficiently multidimensional analyses. My point is that consciousness is not a unified, abstract entity, but rather like a prism, which includes different dimensions that could possibly have different levels. Based on a multidimensional view of consciousness, in a previous paper I contributed a list of indicators that are relevant also for identifying consciousness in artificial systems. In principle, it is possible that AI can manifest some dimensions of consciousness (for instance, those related to sophisticated cognitive tasks) while lacking others (for instance, those related to emotional or social tasks). In this way, the indicators provide not only a practical tool for identifying conscious systems, but also an ethical tool to make the discussion on possible conscious AI more balanced and realistic. The question whether some AI is conscious or not cannot be considered a yes/no question: there are several nuances that make the answer more complex.

Indeed, the indicators mentioned above are affected by a number of limitations, including the fact that they are developed for humans and animals, not specifically for AI. For this reason, research is still ongoing on how to adapt these indicators or possibly develop new indicators specific for AI. If you want to read more, you can find my chapter here: The ethical implications of indicators of consciousness in artificial systems.

Written by…

Michele Farisco, Postdoc Researcher at Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics, working in the EU Flagship Human Brain Project.

Michele Farisco. The ethical implications of indicators of consciousness in artificial systems. Developments in Neuroethics and Bioethics. Available online 1 March 2024. https://doi.org/10.1016/bs.dnb.2024.02.009

We want solid foundations

The doubtful beginnings of philosophy

Philosophy begins with doubt, this has been emphasized by many philosophers. But what does it mean to doubt? To harbor suspicions? To criticize accepted beliefs? In that case, doubt is based on thinking we know better. We believe that we have good reason to doubt.

Is that doubting? Thinking that you know? It sounds paradoxical, but it is probably the most common form of doubt. We doubt, and think we can easily explain why. But this is hardly the doubt of philosophy. For in that case philosophy would not begin with doubt, but with belief or knowledge. If a philosopher doubts, and easily motivates the doubt, the philosopher will soon doubt her own motive for doubting. To doubt, as a philosopher doubts, is to doubt one’s own thought. It is to admit: I don’t know.

Perhaps I have already quoted Socrates’ famous self-description too many times, but there is a treasure buried in these simple words:

“when I don’t know things, I don’t think that I do either.”

The oracle at Delphi had said of Socrates that he was the wisest of all. Since Socrates did not consider himself more knowledgeable than others, he found the statement puzzling. What could the oracle mean? The self-description above was Socrates’ solution to the riddle. If I am wiser than others, he thought, then my wisdom cannot consist in knowing more than others, because I do not. But I have a peculiar trait, and that is that when I do not know, I do not think I know either. Everyone I question here in Athens, on the other hand, seems to have the default attitude that they know, even when I can demonstrate that they do not. Whatever I ask them, they think they know the answer! I am not like that. If I do not know, I do not react as if I knew either. Perhaps this was what the oracle meant by my superior wisdom?

So, what did Socrates’ wisdom consist in? In beginning with doubt. But must he not have had reason to doubt? Surely, he must have known something, some intuition at least, which gave him reason to doubt! Curiously, Socrates seems to have doubted without good reason. He said that he heard an inner voice urging him to stop and be silent, just as he was about to speak verbosely as if he knew something: Socrates’ demon. But how could an “inner voice” make Socrates wise? Is that not rather a sure sign of madness?

I do not think we should make too much of the fact that Socrates chose to describe the situation in terms of an inner voice. The important thing is that he does not react, when he does not know. Imagine someone who has become clearly aware of her own reflex to get angry. The moment she notices that she is about to get angry, she becomes completely calm instead. The drama is over before it begins. Likewise, Socrates became completely calm the moment he noted his own reflex to start talking as if he knew something. He was clearly aware of his own knowledge reflex.

What is the knowledge reflex? We have already felt its activity in the post. It struck us when we thought we knew that a wise person cannot doubt without reason. It almost drove us mad! If Socrates doubted, he must have had good reason! If an “inner voice” inspired doubt, it would not be wisdom, but a sure sign of madness! This is the knowledge reflex. To suddenly not be able to stop talking, as if we had particularly good reason to assert ourselves. Socrates never reacted that way. In those situations, he noted the knowledge reflex and immediately became perfectly calm.

The value of becoming completely calm just when the knowledge reflex wants to set us in motion is that it makes us free to examine ourselves. If we let the knowledge reflex drive our doubts – “this is highly dubious, because…” – we would not question ourselves, but assert ourselves. We would doubt the way we humans generally doubt, because we think we have reason to doubt. Of course, Socrates does not doubt arbitrarily, like a madman, but the source of his doubt becomes apparent only in retrospect. Philosophy is love for the clarity we lack when philosophizing begins. Without this loving attitude towards what we do not know, our collective human knowledge risks becoming a colossus on clay feet – is it already wobbly?

When the knowledge reflex no longer controls us, but is numbed by philosophical self-doubt, we are free to think independently and clearly. Therefore, philosophy begins with doubt and not with belief or knowledge.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Plato. “The Apology of Socrates.” In The Last Days of Socrates, translated by Christopher Rowe, 32-62. Penguin Books, 2010.

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Thinking about thinking

Time to forget time

A theme in recent blog posts has been our need for time. Patients need time to be listened to; time to ask questions; time to decide whether they want to be included in clinical studies, and time for much more. Healthcare workers need time to understand the patients’ situation; time to find solutions to the individual problems of patients suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, and time for much more. This theme, our need for time, got me thinking about what is so great about time.

It could be tempting to conduct time and motion studies of our need for time. How much time does the patient need to spend with the doctor to feel listened to? How much time does the nurse need to spend with the patient to get the experience of providing good care? The problem with such studies is that they destroy the greatness of time. To give the patient or the nurse the measured time, prescribed by the time study, is to glance at the clock. Would you feel listened to if the person you were talking to had a stopwatch hanging around their neck? Would you be a good listener yourself if you waited for the alarm signal from the stopwatch hanging around your neck?

Time studies do not answer our question of what we need, when we need time. If it was really a certain amount of time we needed, say fifteen minutes, then it should make no difference if a ticking stopwatch hung around the neck. But it makes a difference! The stopwatch steals our time. So, what is so great about time?

I think the answer is well on its way to revealing itself, precisely because we give it time to come at its own pace. What we need when we need time, is to forget time! That is the great thing about having time. That we no longer think about it.

Again, it can be tempting to conduct time studies. How much time does the patient and the doctor need to forget time? Again, time studies ruin the greatness of time. How? They frame everything in time. They force us to think about time, even when the point is to forget it.

Our need for time is not about measured quantities of time, but about the timeless quality of not thinking about time. Thinking about time steals time from us. Since it is not really about time, it does not have to take that long.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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We challenge habits of thought

Moral stress: what does the COVID-19 pandemic teach us about the concept?

Newly formed concepts can sometimes satisfy such urgent linguistic needs that they immediately seem completely self-evident. Moral stress is probably such a concept. It is not many decades old. Nevertheless, the concept probably appeared from the beginning as an all-too-familiar reality for many healthcare workers.

An interesting aspect of these immediately self-evident concepts is that they effortlessly find their own paths through language, despite our efforts to define the right path. They are simply too striking in living spoken language to be captured in the more rigid written language of definitions. However, the first definition of moral stress was fairly straightforward. This is how Andrew Jameton defined the concept:

“Moral distress arises when one knows the right thing to do, but institutional constraints make it nearly impossible to pursue the right course of action.”

Although the definition is not complicated in the written language, it still prevents the concept from speaking freely, as it wants to. For, do we not spontaneously want to talk about moral stress in other situations as well? For example, in situations where two different actions can be perceived as the right ones, but if we choose one action it excludes the other? Or in situations where something other than “institutional constraints” prevents the right course of action? Perhaps a sudden increase in the number of patients.

Here is a later definition of moral stress, which leaves more open (by Kälvemark, Höglund and Hansson):

“Traditional negative stress symptoms that occur due to situations that involve an ethical dimension where the health care provider feels he/she is not able to preserve all interests at stake.”

This definition allows the concept to speak more freely, in more situations than the first, although it is possibly slightly more complicated in the written language. That is of course no objection. A definition has other functions than the concept being defined, it does not have to be catchy like a song chorus. But if we compare the definitions, we can notice how both express the authors’ ideas about morality, and thus about moral stress. In the first definition, the author has the idea that morality is a matter of conscience and that moral stress occurs when institutional constraints of the profession prevent the practitioner from acting as conscience demands. Roughly. In the second definition, the authors have the idea that morality is rather a kind of balancing of different ethical values and interests and that moral stress arises in situations that prevent the trade-offs from being realized. Roughly.

Why do I dwell on the written and intellectual aspects of the definitions, even though it is hardly an objection to a definition? It has to do with the relationship between our words and our ideas about our words. Successful words find their own paths in language despite our ideas about the path. In other words: despite our definitions. Jameton both coined and defined moral (di)stress, but the concept almost immediately stood, and walked, on its own feet. I simply want to remind you that spoken-language spontaneity can have its own authority, its own grounding in reality, even when it comes to newly formed concepts introduced through definitions.

An important reason why the newly formed concept of moral stress caught on so immediately is probably that it put into words pressing problems for healthcare workers. Issues that needed to be noticed, discussed and dealt with. One way to develop the definition of moral stress can therefore be to listen to how healthcare workers spontaneously use the concept about situations they themselves have experienced.

A study in BMC Medical Ethics does just this. Together with three co-authors, Martina E. Gustavsson investigated how Swedish healthcare workers (assistants, nurses, doctors, etc.) described moral stress during the COVID-19 pandemic. After answering a number of questions, the participants were requested to describe, in a free text response, situations during the pandemic in which they experienced moral stress. These free text answers were conceptually analyzed with the aim of formulating a refined definition of moral stress.

An overarching theme in the free text responses turned out to be: being prevented from providing good care to needy patients. The healthcare workers spoke of a large number of obstacles. They perceived problems that needed to be solved, but felt that they were not taken seriously, that they were inadequate or forced to act outside their areas of expertise. What stood in the way of good care? The participants in the study spoke, among other things, about unusual conditions for decision-making during the pandemic, about tensions in the work team (such as colleagues who did not dare to go to work for fear of being infected), about substandard communication with the organizational management. All this created moral stress.

But they also talked about the pandemic itself as an obstacle. The prioritization of COVID-19 patients meant that other patients received worse care and were exposed to the risk of infection. The work was also hindered by a lack of resources, such as personal protective equipment, while the protective equipment prevented staff from comforting worried patients. The visiting restrictions also forced staff to act as guards against patients’ relatives and isolate infected patients from their children and partners. Finally, the pandemic prevented good end-of-life care. This too was morally stressful.

How can the healthcare workers’ free text responses justify a refined definition of moral stress? Martina E. Gustafsson and co-authors consider the definition above by Kälvemark, Höglund and Hansson as a good definition to start from. But one type of situation that the participants in the study described probably falls outside that definition, namely the situation of not being taken seriously, of feeling inadequate and powerless. The study therefore proposes the following definition, which includes these situations:

“Moral stress is the kind of stress that arises when confronted with a moral challenge, a situation in which it is difficult to resolve a moral problem and in which it is difficult to act, or feeling insufficient when you act, in accordance with your own moral values.”

Here, too, one can sense an idea of morality, and thus of moral stress. The authors think of morality as being about solving moral problems, and that moral stress arises when this endeavor encounters challenges, or when one feels inadequate in the attempts to solve the problems. The definition can be considered a refined idea of what moral stress is. It describes more precisely the relevant situations where healthcare workers spontaneously want to talk about moral stress.

Obviously, we can learn a lot about the concept of moral stress from the experience of the COVID-19 pandemic. Read the study here, which contains poignant descriptions of morally stressful situations during the pandemic: “Being prevented from providing good care: a conceptual analysis of moral stress among health care workers during the COVID-19 pandemic.”

Finally, I would like to mention two general lessons about language, which in my view the study highlights. The first is that we can learn a lot about our concepts through the difficulties of defining them. The study took this “definition resistance” seriously by listening to how healthcare workers spontaneously talk about moral stress. This created friction that helped refine the definition. The second lesson is that we often use words despite our ideas about what the words mean or should mean. Spoken language spontaneity has a natural weight and authority that we easily overlook, but from which we have much to learn – as in this empirical study.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Gustavsson, M.E., von Schreeb, J., Arnberg, F.K. et al. “Being prevented from providing good care: a conceptual analysis of moral stress among health care workers during the COVID-19 pandemic”. BMC Med Ethics 24, 110 (2023). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12910-023-00993-y

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Minding our language

Neuroethics: don’t let the name fool you

Names easily give the impression that the named is something separate and autonomous: something to which you can attach a label. If you want to launch something and get attention – “here is something completely new to reckon with” – it is therefore a good idea to immediately create a new name that spreads the image of something very special.

Despite this, names usually lag behind what they designate. The named has already taken shape, without anyone noticing it as anything special. In the freedom from a distinctive designation, roots have had time to spread and branches to stretch far. Since everything that is given freedom to grow is not separate and autonomous, but rooted, interwoven and in exchange with its surroundings, humans eventually notice it as something interesting and therefore give it a special name. New names can thus give a misleading image of the named as newer and more separate and autonomous than it actually is. When the name arrives, almost everything is already prepared in the surroundings.

In an open peer commentary in the journal AJOB Neuroscience, Kathinka Evers, Manuel Guerrero and Michele Farisco develop a similar line of reasoning about neuroethics. They comment on an article published in the same issue that presents neuroethics as a new field only 15 years old. The authors of the article are concerned by the still unfinished and isolated nature of the field and therefore launch a vision of a “translational neuroethics,” which should resemble that tree that has had time to grow together with its surroundings. In the vision, the new version of neuroethics is thus described as integrated, inclusive and impactful.

In their commentary, Kathinka Evers and co-authors emphasize that it is only the label “neuroethics” that has existed for 15 years. The kind of questions that neuroethics works with were already dealt with in the 20th century in applied ethics and bioethics, and some of the conceptual problems have been discussed in philosophy since antiquity. Furthermore, ethics committees have dealt with neuroethical issues long before the label existed. Viewed in this way, neuroethics is not a new and separate field, but rather a long-integrated and cooperating sub-discipline to neuroscience, philosophy and bioethics – depending on which surroundings we choose to emphasize.

Secondly, the commentators point out, the three characteristics of a “translational neuroethics” – integration, inclusiveness and impact – are a prerequisite for something to be considered a scientific field. An isolated field that does not include knowledge and perspectives from surrounding sciences and areas of interest, and that lacks practical impact, is hardly what we see today as a research field. The three characteristics are therefore not entirely successful as a vision of a future development of neuroethics. If the field is to deserve its name at all, the characteristics must already permeate neuroethics. Do they do that?

Yes, say the commentators if I understand them correctly. But in order to see this we must not be deceived by the distinctive designation, which gives the image of something new, separate and autonomous. We must see that work on neuroethical issues has been going on for a long time in several different philosophical and scientific contexts. Already when the field got its distinctive name, it was integrated, inclusive and impactful, not least within the academically established discipline of bioethics. Some problematic tendencies toward isolation have indeed existed, but they were related to the distinctive label, as it was sometimes used by isolated groups to present their activities as something new and special to be reckoned with.

The open commentary is summarized by the remark that we should avoid the temptation to see neuroethics as a completely new, autonomous and separate discipline: the temptation that the name contributes to. Such an image makes us myopic, the commentators write, which paradoxically can make it more difficult to support the three objectives of the vision. It is both truer and more fruitful to consider neuroethics and bioethics as distinct but not separate fields. If this is true, we do not need to launch an even newer version of neuroethics under an even newer label.

Read the open commentary here: Neuroethics & bioethics: distinct but not separate. If you want to read the article that is commented on, you will find the reference at the bottom of this post.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

K. Evers, M. Guerrero & M. Farisco (2023) Neuroethics & Bioethics: Distinct but Not Separate, AJOB Neuroscience, 14:4, 414-416, DOI: 10.1080/21507740.2023.2257162

Anna Wexler & Laura Specker Sullivan (2023) Translational Neuroethics: A Vision for a More Integrated, Inclusive, and Impactful Field, AJOB Neuroscience, 14:4, 388-399, DOI: 10.1080/21507740.2021.2001078

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Minding our language

Two orientations of philosophical thought

There are many philosophical movements and several ways of dividing philosophy. I would like to draw attention to two orientations of philosophical thought that are never usually mentioned, but which I believe characterize philosophical thinking. Although unnamed, the two orientations are so different from each other that they can make philosophers roll their eyes when they run into each other: “What kind of nonsense is this?”

I am not referring to the division between analytic and continental philosophy, which is a known source of rolling eyes. I am referring to a division that rather applies to ourselves as thinking beings: our innermost philosophical disposition, so to speak.

So do not think of famous philosophers or of the philosophical movements they are considered to represent. Now it is just about ourselves. Think about what it is like to discuss a question that is felt to be urgent, for example: “Why has humanity failed to create a peaceful world?” How do we usually react to such questions? I dare say many of us wish we could answer them. This is the nature of a question. A question demands an answer, just as a greeting demands a greeting back. And since the answer to an important question should have the same urgency as the question, it feels very important to answer. This has the consequence that the discussion of the question soon turns into a discussion of several different answers, which compete with each other. Perhaps a few particularly committed participants argue among themselves for and against increasingly complicated answers at a speed that leaves the others behind. It feels humiliating to sit there and not be able to propose a single answer with accompanying arguments that it must be the right answer.

Many of us are probably also familiar with how afterwards, when we have time to think in peace and quiet, we can suddenly see possibilities that never occurred to us during the discussion: “So obvious! Why didn’t I see that?” When we are given time to think for ourselves, we are free from a limitation that governed the discussion. What limitation? The limitation that the question must be answered and the answer defended as the correct answer. Why were we so stimulated to find the answer to the question and defend it against the competitors? Was it a good question that gave rise to all these divergent answers, as if someone had thrown a match into a stockpile of fireworks? Already in its wording, the question blames humanity for not being able to resolve its conflicts. Is this not already a conflict? The question pits us against humanity, and when the answers and arguments start to hail, the debaters are also pitted against each other. The discussion becomes yet another example of our tendency to end up on different sides in conflicts.

If we notice how our noble philosophical discussion about world peace threatens to degenerate into the very strife we debate and we want to seek the answer in a more responsible way, then perhaps we decide to review the answers and arguments that have been piled up. We classify them as positions and schools of thought and practice identifying them to avoid well known fallacies, which are classified with equal philosophical rigor. In the future, this hard work will finally lead us to the definitively correct answer, we think. But the focus is still on the answers and the arguments, rather than on the question that ignited the entire discussion. The discussion continues to exemplify our tendency toward conflict, but now in terms of a rigorous philosophical classification of the various known positions on the issue.

The difference between the two orientations concerns where we place our emphasis: on the question or on the answer? Either we feel the question propels us, like a starting shot that makes us run for the answer at the finish line. The answer may be in terms of the human mind, the structure of society, our evolutionary history and much more. Or we feel the question paralyzes us, like an electric shock that numbs us so that we have to sit down at the starting line and examine the question. What already happened in the question? Am I not also humanity? Who am I to ask the question? Does not the question make a false distinction between me and humanity, similar to those made in all conflicts? Is that why I cannot discuss the question without becoming an example of the problem myself?

Consider the two philosophical orientations side by side. One of them experiences the question as a stimulating starting signal and runs for the answer. The other experiences the question as a numbing electric shock and remains seated at the starting line. It cannot surprise us that these two philosophical dispositions have difficulty understanding each other. If you emphasize the answer and run for it, stopping at the question seems not only irresponsible, but also unsportsmanlike and inhibiting. Is it forbidden to seek the right answer to urgent questions? If, on the other hand, you emphasize the question and stay seated at the starting line, it seems rash to run for the answer, even when the race follows a rigorously ordered pattern. Did not the starting shot go off too early so that the race should be declared invalid, even though it otherwise went according to the strict rules of the art?

When we consider the two orientations side by side, we can note another difference. Emphasizing the answer directs our attention to the subject of the question: “humanity throughout history.” Emphasizing the question directs our attention to the subject who asks it: to myself. Again, it can hardly surprise us that the two orientations have difficulty understanding each other. Both may seem to be avoiding the subject!

Here one might want to object that even this distinction between two philosophical orientations places people on different sides of a conflict. But maybe we can recognize ourselves in both tendencies, although we lean more in one direction? Is not philosophical thinking often a dialogue between these tendencies? Do we not become more peaceful when we see the two philosophical dispositions side by side? Perhaps we understand each other better when we see the possibility of emphasizing both the question and the answer. We suddenly realize why we sound so different when we philosophize, despite the fact that we are all thinking beings, and we no longer need to exclaim: “What kind of nonsense is this?”

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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Thinking about thinking

Philosophically anchored psychotherapy

Philosophy is often regarded as impractical and useless. At the same time, philosophy has a therapeutic aspect. Socrates practiced philosophy with people he met in Athens. He tried to persuade them to care not only about their bodies, their money and the affairs of the state, but to also examine themselves and take care of their soul. The same can be said of the Stoics, who emphasized that philosophy must be put into practice and actually change our ways of life. They gave public inspirational speeches about the importance of bringing order to our chaotic souls and they talked to people about how we can live completely fulfilling lives. How impractical and useless is that?

Both Socrates’ art of conversation and the life advice of the Stoics have inspired the emergence of cognitive behavioral therapies. In recent times, Asian philosophy and meditation have also inspired psychotherapy in the form of so-called mindfulness, used as a method to manage stress, anxiety and pain. However, there is a tendency to gloss over the philosophical influence behind these methods, as if philosophy were something impractical and useless! There is a risk that, in an effort to present a clinically effective facade, one covers up the philosophical depth, while the problems one tries to treat are often connected with superficial hopes for quick and effective solutions.

Can today’s psychotherapies more openly and directly draw inspiration from philosophy? Are there already such bridges to philosophy that can be strengthened? If so, what distinguishes them? These questions are investigated by Sylvia Martin, researcher at CRB and a practicing psychotherapist herself. In a review article, she focuses on work with values in various forms of cognitive behavioral therapy as a bridge to philosophy that could be strengthened. I will give an example from the article of such work, which suggests how patients can be supported to find a more stable and fulfilling attitude to life.

Many people seek meaning in life through various objectives and projects, which they then try to realize. They believe that happiness will only come if they get to travel to Beijing, find a new job, buy a house or get a dog. Objectives do not provide stable meaning and fulfillment. On the contrary. The satisfaction when objectives are realized is short-lived and soon turns into a feeling of emptiness that must be filled by new exciting projects. There is of course nothing wrong with travel, jobs, houses or dogs, but when chasing new objectives becomes a pattern it can be unfortunate. Soon a whole life is filled with objectives that do not give the stable fulfillment that one is really longing for. The pattern of seeking new objectives and projects that will give meaning and satisfaction becomes a self-destructive lifestyle, which it eventually becomes difficult to get out of. But through therapy, people can be helped to see the unfortunate pattern. For example, they can be given the task of imagining the objective of “traveling to Beijing”: how they save money for the trip, learn Chinese and plan the trip. They can imagine all the fun they have in Beijing. But how does it feel to come home again? To come home is to return to meaninglessness and immediately the same old emptiness must be filled by a new project. Values such as compassion and truth differ from objectives by being more like a road that never ends. Values can be cultivated and deepened without end. The path becomes the destination, fulfillment lies in walking it, and the elusive notion of “finally finding fulfillment” dissolves. But all of this of course assumes that the therapy is not perceived as a “trip to Beijing” that will finally bring fulfillment. There are no easy solutions to the problem of a meaningless life, such as new trips, new jobs, new houses… or new therapies.

Philosophically anchored psychotherapy can contribute to the deepening required, so that the work with values does not become another project that reinforces superficial attitudes to life. Perhaps the impression that philosophy is impractical and useless is even related to the restless attitude that a meaningful life requires objectives to be effectively realized? Philosophy is not a project, but more like a lifelong path. Read Sylvia Martin’s review article here: Using values in cognitive and behavioral therapy: a bridge back to philosophy.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Martin, S. Using values in cognitive and behavioral therapy: a bridge back to philosophy. Journal of Evaluation in Clinical Practice. 2023; 1- 7. doi:10.1111/jep.13872

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We challenge habits of thought

Encourage children to take responsibility for others?

It happens that academics write visionary texts that highlight great human challenges. I blogged about such a philosophically visionary article a few years ago; an article in which Kathinka Evers discussed the interaction between society and the brain. In the article, she developed the idea that we have a “proactive” responsibility to adapt our societies to what we know about the brain’s strengths and weaknesses. Above all, she emphasized that the knowledge we have today about the changeability of the brain gives us a proactive responsibility for our own human nature, as this nature is shaped and reshaped in interaction with the societies we build.

Today I want to recommend a visionary philosophical article by Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist, an article that I think has points of contact with Kathinka Evers’ paper. Here, too, the article highlights our responsibility for major human challenges, such as climate and, above all, public health. Here, too, human changeability is emphasized, not least during childhood. Here, too, it is argued that we have a responsibility to be proactive (although the term is not used). But where Kathinka Evers starts from neuroscience, Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist starts from virtue ethics and from social sciences that see children as social actors.

Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist points out that we live in more complex societies and face greater global challenges than ever before in human history. But humans are also complex and can under favorable circumstances develop great capacities for taking responsibility. Virtue ethics has this focus on the human being and on personal character traits that can be cultivated and developed to varying degrees. Virtue ethics is sometimes criticized for not being sufficiently action-guiding. But it is hard to imagine that we can deal with major human challenges through action-guiding rules and regulations alone. Rules are never as complex as human beings. Action-guiding rules assume that the challenges are already under some sort of control and thus are not as uncertain anymore. Faced with complex challenges with great uncertainties, we may have to learn to trust the human being. Do we dare to trust ourselves when we often created the problems?

Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist reasons in a way that brings to mind Kathinka Evers’ idea of a proactive responsibility for our societies and our human nature. Nihlén Fahlquist suggests, if I understand her correctly, that we already have a responsibility to create environments that support the development of human character traits that in the future can help us meet the challenges. We already have a responsibility to support greater abilities to take responsibility in the future, one could say.

Nihlén Fahlquist focuses on public health challenges and her reasoning is based on the pandemic and the issue of vaccination of children. Parents have a right and a duty to protect their children from risks. But reasonably, parents can also be considered obliged not to be overprotective, but also to consider the child’s development of agency and values. The virus that spread during the pandemic did not cause severe symptoms in children. Vaccination therefore does not significantly protect the child’s own health, but would be done with others in mind. Studies show that children may be capable of reasoning in terms of such responsibility for others. Children who participate in medical research can, for example, answer that they participate partly to help others. Do we dare to encourage capable children to take responsibility for public health by letting them reason about their own vaccination? Is it even the case that we should support children to cultivate such responsibility as a virtue?

Nihlén Fahlquist does not claim that children themselves have this responsibility to get vaccinated out of solidarity with others. But if some children prove to be able to reason in such a morally complex way about their own vaccination, one could say that these children’s sense of responsibility is something unexpected and admirable, something that we cannot demand from a child. By encouraging and supporting the unexpected and admirable in children, it can eventually become an expected responsibility in adults, suggests Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist. Virtue ethics makes it meaningful to think in terms of such possibilities, where humans can change and their virtues can grow. Do we dare to believe in such possibilities in ourselves? If you do not expect the unexpected you will not discover it, said a visionary Greek philosopher named Heraclitus.

Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist’s article is multifaceted and innovative. In this post, I have only emphasized one of her lines of thought, which I hope has made you curious about an urgent academic text: Taking risks to protect others – pediatric vaccination and moral responsibility.

In summary, Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist argues that vaccination should be regarded as an opportunity for children to develop their sense of responsibility and that parents, schools, healthcare professionals and public health authorities should include children in debates about ethical public health issues.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Jessica Nihlén Fahlquist, Taking Risks to Protect Others – Pediatric Vaccination and Moral Responsibility, Public Health Ethics, 2023;, phad005, https://doi.org/10.1093/phe/phad005

This post in Swedish

Approaching future issues

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