GOODMAN’S NOMINALISM AS BACKGROUND TO WORLDMAKING (4)

 GOODMAN’S NOMINALISM AS BACKGROUND TO WORLDMAKING

 

    All versions of Nominalism are premised on deny that universals or abstract entities exist independently of our classificatory practices, i.e., that they map onto the world/reality/Being. Nominalism rejects the idea that the world comes pre-divided into natural kinds that thought simply discovers. Ockham’s nominalism is radical in denying that universals exist as independent entities but it is comparatively modest in its overall outlook. Only individual things exist and universals are mental signs or linguistic terms we use to group them. Yet this does not undermine the idea that the world itself has a diminished reality still independent of thought to which thought must conform. Individuals possess real similarities, causal powers, and stable natures, and our concepts, though not corresponding to separate universal entities, are nonetheless meant to conform to these features. Thus Ockham’s nominalism leaves conceptual space for a limited notion of truth as the mind’s conformity to reality and allows that classification can be more or less adequate to what is there.

     Goodman’s nominalism is more radical because it does not stop at denying universals but extends its skepticism to the very idea that the world has reality independent of logically possible versions of the world. On his view, the divisions we make (e.g., what counts as an object, a property, or a kind, etc.) are not grounded in mind-independent natures but arise within potentially incommensurable ways of conceiving such natures and nature as a whole. Hence, different, equally coherent ways of seeing the world as a whole and thus the particulars in it can yield different “world-versions,” none of which can claim privileged access to reality as it is in itself. Where Ockham preserves a distinction between our conceptual schemes and a structured reality they aim to describe, Goodman tends to dissolve that distinction, making the organization of the world inseparable from the ways we symbolize and describe it. Here a quote from the beginning of Ways of Worldmaking:

           

Consider, to begin with, the statements "The sun always moves" and "The sun never moves" which, though equally true, are at odds with each other. Shall we say, then, that they describe different worlds, and indeed that there are as many different worlds as there are such mutually exclusive truths? Rather, we are inclined to regard the two strings of words not as complete statements with truth-values of their own but as elliptical for some such statements as "Under frame of reference A, the sun always moves" and "Under frame of reference B, the sun never moves" – statements that may both be true of the same world.  Frames of reference, though, seem to belong less to what is described than to systems of description: and each of the two statements relates what is described to such a system. If I ask about the world, you can offer to tell me how it is under one or more frames of reference; but if I insist that you tell me how it is apart from all frames, what can you say? We are confined to ways of describing whatever is described. Our universe, so to speak, consists of these ways rather than of a world or of worlds.…   Yet doesn't a right version differ from a wrong one just in applying to the world, so that rightness itself depends upon and implies a world? We might better say that 'the world' depends upon rightness. We cannot test a version by comparing it with a world undescribed, undepicted, unperceived, but only by other means…. While we may speak of determining what versions are right as 'learning about the world', 'the world' supposedly being that which all right versions describe, all we learn about the world is contained in right versions of it; and while the underlying world, bereft of these, need not be denied to those who love it, it is perhaps on the whole a world well lost.

 You could say, I think, that for Goodman reality is constructed. Different symbolic systems yield different “world-versions.” Here are examples of world versions taken from Goodman’s work.

·       Physics describing the world in terms of particles, fields, and forces

·       Alternative scientific frameworks organizing the same domain differently

·       Astronomical description of stars and planets versus everyday perception of the sky

·       Everyday visual perception of objects, colors, and shapes

·       Perceptual organization such as figure/ground distinctions and constancies

·       Realist painting using perspective

·       Non-perspectival or abstract painting

·       Stylistic differences in depiction that alter what is seen and how it is organized

·       Ordinary language classifications of objects and properties

·       Alternative predicate systems such as “green” versus “grue”

·       Euclidean geometry

·       Non-Euclidean geometries

·       Alternative coordinate systems

·       Formal logical systems organizing relations differently

·       Narrative worlds in novels

·       Mythological worlds

·       Characters and events constituted within a literary framework

·       Musical works as defined by notation

·       Different performances as realizations of a work

·       Variations in interpretation within the same notational system

·       Musical scores

·       Maps

·       Diagrams

·       Symbol systems governed by syntactic and semantic rules

·       Chronological recording of events

·       Narrative or interpretive histories organizing events differently

·       Composition and decomposition of wholes and parts

·       Weighting or emphasis of certain features over others

·       Ordering of elements in time, space, or logic

·       Deletion and supplementation of elements

·       Deformation or transformation through distortion or stylization

 . . .

  I have never been able to do much with Goodman’s well-known grue-argument, a kind of proof of Nominalism, but I will try again. So here it is.

   Imagine you are looking at emeralds. You pick we up. It is green. You pick up another. It is also green. You look at many more, and all of them are green. At this point, you naturally say: “Emeralds are green.” And you go a step further: “Future emeralds will also be green.” This seems completely reasonable. We learn from experience. We notice patterns, and we expect those patterns to continue. This is something we all do constantly, in everyday life.

    Now a philosopher, Nelson Goodman, asks us to consider a strange alternative. He says: let us invent a new word, “grue.” We define it like this:

 

An object is grue if it has been observed up to now and is green, or if it is observed in the future and is blue.

 

Now notice something odd. Every emerald we have seen so far is not only green; it is also “grue,” because all of them have been observed up to now and are green. So the same evidence supports two statements:

 

• “All emeralds are green.”
• “All emeralds are grue.”

 

But these lead to different expectations about the future:

 

• If emeralds are green, they will stay green.
• If emeralds are grue, they will turn blue in the future.

 

So which should we believe?

    Goodman’s point is this that the past evidence alone does not tell us which way to go. Both “green” and “grue” fit everything we have seen so far. So why do we trust we and reject the other? This is meant to challenge our confidence in how we learn from experience. Most people immediately say: “But emeralds don’t just suddenly turn blue!” And that reaction is important. It shows that we are not merely thinking that “This is what has happened so far.” We are also thinking that “This is how things are.” We assume that emeralds have a certain nature, and that their color belongs to them in a stable way. We do not take seriously the idea that their color might depend on an arbitrary date in the future.

      The example works by introducing a made-up definition that is carefully designed to match all past observations while changing the future. In other words, it does not arise from studying emeralds. It arises from playing with words. This is easier to see with a simpler comparison. Imagine a number sequence: 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128 …. We naturally continue: 256, 512, and so on. But someone could say: “No, the rule is: double the number until 128, and then add 2.” So the next number would be 130. That rule fits all the numbers we have seen so far. But we do not take it seriously. Why not? Because it is not the rule we were actually following. It has been artificially constructed to fit the past while changing the future.

    Goodman wants to show that the evidence alone does not determine how we should describe the world. That seems true, as far as it goes. We always use concepts like “green” to organize what we see. But the example goes further and want to imply that perhaps no way of describing the world is more closely tied to reality than any other. And this is where I hesitate. We can accept the important insight – that our thinking uses concepts – without accepting that all concepts are on a par. There is a difference between a concept that arises from trying to understand what a thing is and a concept that is artificially constructed to fit past observations. “Green” is part of our attempt to describe a real feature of emeralds. It is connected to how they actually appear and behave. “Grue,” by contrast, is stitched together from unrelated conditions (color and time). It does not describe a stable feature of anything. So the fact that both can be made to fit the past does not show that they are equally good ways of understanding the world. It only shows that we can always invent alternative descriptions if we try hard enough.

   The “green and grue” problem is valuable because it reminds us that learning from experience is not just a matter of collecting data; it also depends on how we describe what we see. But it can mislead if we forget that not every possible description is equally rooted in reality. Some ways of speaking arise from genuine inquiry into things and help us understand them better. Others are clever constructions that fit the data but do not capture anything real. The difficulty, then, is not that we cannot learn from experience. It is that we must learn to distinguish between descriptions that merely fit the past and those that genuinely make sense of what things are.

 . . .

    The grue argument shows that the same evidence can support incompatible conceptual schemes. Worldmaking generalizes this result from predicates to full symbolic systems. A symbolic system determines what counts as an object, a property, and a relation. Different symbolic systems organize the same experiential input into different structured worlds. A world-version is constituted by the system of description through which it is articulated. No single world-version is uniquely forced by the given data. The plurality of world-versions follows from the underdetermination of description by evidence.

    The same night sky can be described within different symbolic systems, for instance. In a painterly system, as exemplified by Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night,” stars are organized in terms of color, movement, luminosity, and expressive form. The swirling patterns, intensified contrasts, and radiating halos do not merely depict stars but articulate a world in which the night sky is dynamic, vibrant, and charged with presence. In an astrophysical system, by contrast, stars are organized in terms of mass, energy, spectra, and causal laws. Each system determines what counts as a star and which properties are relevant. These systems are not reducible to we another because they serve different purposes and employ different criteria. Each system yields a distinct world-version of the same underlying reality. The example illustrates how world-versions differ not only in predicates but in entire modes of organization, extending from the classification of properties to the very way in which objects are constituted and related within a world.

 . . .

      The case of whales illustrates how classification depends on the symbolic system within which observations are organized. In we system, whales are classified as fish. In another, they are classified as mammals. Each classification is based on features that are observable. In the “fish” system: whales live in water, have fins, and resemble other sea creatures. In the “mammal” system: whales are warm-blooded, breathe air, bear live young, and nurse them. The choice of which features to treat as decisive is not dictated by the data alone. The same empirical input – observations of whales – can be organized under different predicates depending on which criteria are selected as relevant. Thus “Whale as fish” and “whale as mammal” are not simply correct vs incorrect labels imposed on a fixed world. They are elements of different classificatory systems, each of which determines what counts as a significant property and how objects are grouped.

    From this perspective there is no classification of whales uniquely forced by the given data. What counts as a “natural grouping” depends on the symbolic system employed. The shift from “fish” to “mammal” is not the discovery of a pre-given essence, but a reorganization of the classificatory scheme in light of new interests, criteria, and theoretical integration. The whale case thus parallels the lesson of the grue example: the same reality can be organized in different, internally coherent ways, and no single organization is uniquely determined by observation alone. 

      The nominalist reconstruction captures something important: classification is not a passive reading-off of data but involves selection, emphasis, and conceptual organization. But it does obscure an equally important feature of the whale case: namely, the transition from “fish” to “mammal” was not merely a change of scheme, but a deepening of understanding. In the earlier classification, whales were grouped with fish on the basis of surface similarity, i.e., habitat and outward form. In the later classification,whales were recognized as mammals on the basis of integrated biological structure, i.e., respiration, reproduction, physiology. The difference is not merely that different criteria were chosen, but that some criteria proved more revealing of how the animal is organized as a whole. Thus “fish” captures an aspect of whales (they live in water) but “mammal” articulates a deeper unity among their features. The nominalist account flattens this important distinction. Indeed, not all classifications are equal; some are more adequate disclosures of the object. Hence, classification, which is a key part of conceptualization, is not arbitrary, even though it is conceptually mediated. It is a response to the intelligibility of the thing itself. The data alone do not dictate the classification, true, but neither is the classification indifferent to what is there. The movement from “fish” to “mammal” should be understood as a process in which inquiry becomes progressively responsive to the structure of the object, bringing into view relations that were previously unnoticed or undervalued.

     The nominalist reading emphasizes that multiple classifications are compatible with the same observations and concludes that classification is system-relative. The reading I believe can accept the underdetermination of classification by data but hold that inquiry can nevertheless disclose more or less adequate ways of understanding what a thing is. The whale case shows that while different classifications are logically possible, they are not equally deep when it comes to understanding whales; some conceptualizations-classifications merely organize appearances, while others disclose a deeper unity.

 . . .

   I hope this clarifies my resistance to “grue.” “Grue” is like a constructed classification that fits the data but does not arise from inquiry into any stable feature, whereas “green” (and “mammal”) are candidates for disclosure, not just formal fit. The real divide is not

classification vs no classification but constructed predicates vs disclosive predicates. The grue-argument blurs that. I think Goodman was smarter and more philosophically sophisticated than I will ever be and I am sure he would have a reply. But I think the best he can achieve would be a logical draw, leaving folks like me who love and need the independent world to hold on to it.

 . . .

    The same entity can be described as a “fetus” or as an “unborn child” or “baby.” The same human being can be described as a “hairless biped” or as an “embodied soul.” These descriptions select different aspects of the same referent. Each description belongs to a broader conceptual and practical framework. Different frameworks generate different perceptions of significance and different practical responses. Some descriptions are selective, highlighting real aspects of the object. Some descriptions risk being reductive if they present a partial aspect as exhaustive.

   The choice of description has moral consequences, as the examples above illustrate, because it shapes thought and feeling, how to see the phenomenon and respond to it. The Goodman framework explains how different descriptions constitute different world-versions but the framework does not by itself determine whether some descriptions are more adequate to reality than others.

     Consider first the description of a developing human being as a “fetus” or as an “unborn child” or “baby.” The term “fetus” belongs to a medical and biological framework. Within that framework, the being is classified according to stages of development, physiological processes, and clinical criteria. This description highlights real aspects: growth, differentiation of organs, dependence on the mother’s body. It enables certain kinds of reasoning, e.g., diagnosis, prognosis, intervention.

     The terms “unborn child” or “baby,” by contrast, belong to a personal and relational framework – the language of love. Here the same being is understood as already standing in relations of kinship and care, as someone who can be awaited, named, loved, and mourned. This description highlights other real aspects: continuity of personal identity, vulnerability, and the beginnings of a human life that will unfold over time. It makes possible a different range of responses like anticipation, attachment, protection.

    The difference between these descriptions is not merely verbal. Each organizes the phenomenon in a way that brings certain features into prominence and recedes others into the background. The medical description tends toward abstraction and functional analysis; the personal description toward recognition and relation. Both can be true in what they say, but they do not say the same thing, and they do not carry the same weight in shaping how the being is regarded.

      The risk of reduction appears when we of these descriptions is taken as exhaustive. If “fetus” is treated not as a partial, context-bound description but as the whole truth about the being, then the personal dimension is obscured. Conversely, if “baby” is used without regard to biological realities, certain medical distinctions may be overlooked. The question, then, is not which description is simply correct, but whether a given description does justice to the full reality or narrows it in a way that affects perception and response.

    A similar structure appears in the second example. A human being can be described as a “hairless biped.” This description belongs to a classificatory, zoological framework. It identifies features that distinguish humans from other animals: upright posture, lack of body hair. These are real properties, and the description is not false. It captures something about the kind of organism a human being is.

    The description “embodied soul,” however, belongs to a different framework, we that aims to articulate the unity of bodily life and inwardness such as thought, feeling, intention, and self-awareness. Here the human being is not primarily an instance of a biological type but a center of experience and agency, whose bodily existence is integral to, but not reducible to, that inner life. This description brings into view dimensions such as dignity, responsibility, and the capacity for truth and love.

     Again, the difference lies in what is made salient. “Hairless biped” isolates external, measurable traits; “embodied soul” attempts to express the kind of being that lives through those traits. The former is thin but precise within its domain; the latter is richer but also more demanding, because it seeks to articulate a unity that is not immediately visible in the same way.

     The reductive danger arises if the thinner description is taken as sufficient. If a human being is treated simply as a biological organism characterized by certain physical features, then the dimensions of inward life and moral significance can be eclipsed. The description is not false, but it is inadequate if it is allowed to stand as the whole account of what a human being is.

     These examples show how descriptions do not merely label a pre-given object but shape the way the object is encountered. They determine how we see, feel, and think about the phenomena being thus disclosed. The Goodman framework helps to explain this by showing how different systems of description yield different “world-versions.” But it leaves open the question that presses in these cases: namely, whether some descriptions, while partial, are nevertheless more adequate to the reality because they disclose aspects that others leave out or obscure. In moral contexts especially, this is absolutely critical. It is not enough to note that different descriptions are possible; we must also ask whether a given way of speaking allows the phenomenon to appear in its full meaning/reality or diminishes it by restricting what can be seen and felt.

 . . .

       Goodman investigates what follows from logic and evidence considered in abstraction from lived experience. This standpoint brackets familiarity, practice, and the felt naturalness of concepts. It is indeed a view from nowhere. Indeed, from this standpoint, conceptual schemes are underdetermined by evidence and the predictable result is that multiple incompatible descriptions remain logically possible. Lived experience, in contrast, presents the world as stable, intelligible, and structured, something not captured by a purely logical analysis. The sense that “green” is natural and “grue” is artificial arises within lived practice. Goodman accounts for this difference in terms of entrenchment (deeply entrenched conventions/habits) rather than reality as discloses (and concealed) through lived experience. This purely logical view-of-the-world-as-if-from-no-place-within-it standpoint (Nagel) reveals the purely abstract-logical freedom of conceptualization but risks neglecting the authority of what reality actually reveals to us.

 

. . .

 

   I learned about Goodman from a friend who is an anthropologist, and on reflection I can see the attraction. Cultural anthropology encounters diverse systems of classification and meaning across cultures that often resist reduction to a single universal framework. Goodman provides a philosophical justification for treating these systems as distinct world-versions, thereby avoiding the imperialist-sounding claim that other cultures are simply mistaken about reality. Goodman undermines the assumption that Western scientific description is uniquely privileged, which thus allows anthropologists to treat myth, ritual, and science as different forms of worldmaking. He supports the idea that entering another culture involves entering a different world-version and helps explain incommensurability between conceptual systems. And indeed, I value the philosophy for protecting against the reductionism that treats other ways of seeing the world as inferior approximations of science – no only concerning other cultures but my own predecessor cultures (the high Middle Ages, for example, cannot be reduced to bad science and superstition. It produced more advances than is usually realized and produced Thomas Aquinas and Dante, the great cathedrals and flourishes independent cities).

    The approach raises the problem of how to evaluate truth or error across different world-versions. But I will have to deal with that later.

 . . . 

  Goodman wrote:

 

To demand full and sole reducibility to physics or any other one version is to forego nearly all other versions. The pluralists' acceptance of versions other than physics implies no relaxation of rigor but a recognition that standards different from yet no less exacting than those applied in science are appropriate for appraising what is conveyed in perceptual or pictorial or literary versions.

 

I full agree with this. I just don’t think it implies nominalism. Most of what Goodman calls world versions disclose something real, some real aspect of reality. Reality transcends all possible finite world versions.