K O D I K A S / C O D E Volume 39 (2016) · No. 1 - 2 Gunter Narr Verlag Tübingen Examining (and Displaying) Bias in Interdisciplinary Research on Emotions Rick Anthony Furtak (Colorado Springs) For understandable reasons, it is often hoped that empirical findings will resolve a question such as whether (or in what sense) emotions involve cognition. Although neuroscientists have observed that affective responses involve the joint activity of multiple brain areas, none of which should be conceptualized as exclusively affective or cognitive, many philosophical authors give the impression that the existence of subcortical emotions (independent of “ higher ” cognition) has been decisively established. In this paper, I argue that it would be judicious to refrain from speaking about a part of the brain as if it were the location where emotions take place, or as if it were a little mind having experiences of its very own — such as fearing, remembering, and getting angry. I take issue with philosophers who have been too hasty about using evidence that is limited and indefinite to justify sweeping conclusions, and I attempt to diagnose the motives for extrapolating, e.g., from shocked rodents in a controlled setting to a complete theory of emotions in human beings. 1 Socrates is said to have claimed that his wisdom consisted primarily in knowing that there was much that he did not know. This left him, if not especially knowledgeable, at least without the pretense of believing that his knowledge had no limits. In interdisciplinary research on the emotions, philosophers are not always careful to make this Socratic distinction: indeed, it often seems that what is demonstrated by some members of my own academic discipline is a lot of presumed knowing and little intellectual humility. This is shown in their willingness to draw broad conclusions based upon scanty evidence. For instance: according to one philosopher of emotion, we can justifiably “ abstract ” from data concerning the “ startle ” response, and form an adequate understanding of “ emotional response in general ” (Robinson 1996: 53 - 54). Moreover, the study of conditioned fear in rats “ has wide and important implications for naturally occurring fear - including fear in human beings - as well as for the study of emotion in general ” (Robinson 2005: 48). Note how rapidly she extrapolates from startled rats to human fear, and then to all human emotions, while showing contempt for “ armchair theorizing ” that does not employ a similar method. In response to such fearlessly presumptuous claims, others have noted that it is rather hasty to make general statements about the emotions of human beings based upon studies of startled rats. One social neuroscientist, 1 for instance, has pointed out that “ it takes some heavy leaning on rats in cages ” to derive sweeping claims about “ emotion in general ” (Brothers 2001: 55). With a decidedly polemical tone, she adds: “ One can speak of emotion, or one can speak of rats ’ brains, but [. . .] one cannot speak of both using the same language ” (Brothers 2001: 26). What we witness here are two emotion researchers giving voice to contrary views: a philosopher making bold claims to know the truth about emotions, and a naturalist reacting against this kind of excess by mounting a vehement attack on theorists who misuse empirical findings. Each of the two authors I have just quoted displays a strong bias, but each may feel that it is necessary to take a radical stand in order to outweigh those who defend views at the opposite extreme. Also noteworthy is the way that each of the two seems optimistic about the promise of an academic discipline other than her own. As a starting point, I would like to suggest that a good way for emotion researchers to learn from the example of Socrates would be for us to admit that each of us always holds biases of one kind or another. To acknowledge this would not be detrimental to the project of advancing our knowledge of human emotions: on the contrary, it might actually be a condition of doing so. Of course, being aware that we hold certain assumptions and occupy a particular theoretical perspective would not render us free of bias - yet it might serve us better than remaining unaware that we are biased. In the following section, as I identify and critique some prominent biases, I will simultaneously be revealing a bias of my own. To state this in the form of a thesis: for a number of reasons, tacit or implicit bias ought to become a more central object of study in interdisciplinary research on human emotions. 2 In recent years, there has been much conversation within the philosophy of mind about the “ hard problem ” of how to explain human consciousness as it is experienced by the conscious person herself (Chalmers 1995: 201). Within this context, Thomas Nagel has argued that the “ subjective character of experience ” is not adequately captured by accounts which assume that we obtain “ a more accurate view of the real nature of things ” only as we move toward “ greater objectivity ” (Nagel 1981: 166 - 167). In some domains of inquiry, it makes sense to eliminate personal bias and to rely upon quantitative means of measurement. But when we are trying to understand love and other varieties of meaningful human experience, these techniques may not always lead us to a more accurate understanding. This is because, by abstracting away from the vantage point of a specific person, we risk losing touch with the phenomena we are ostensibly studying. It is for this reason that objectivity, which is often conflated with accuracy or even rationality itself, might in some cases be a misguided ideal - especially if emotional experience is capable of providing us with a type of insight that is not available from the vantage point of dispassionate cognition. And, if it is, then emotion researchers ought to be wary of the tendency to speak as if such things as the subjective 1 On “ social neuroscience ” as understood by the researcher to whom I refer, see Brothers, “ The Social Brain: A Project for Integrating Primate Behavior and Neurophysiology in a New Domain. ” 20 Rick Anthony Furtak (Colorado Springs) character of experience do not really exist, since they cannot be weighed or measured like a stone, a potato, or an elevated heart rate. Who tends to think, and to speak, in this way? What I have in mind is a way of thinking that is overtly espoused by some philosophers, who claim that “ whatever can be known can be known by means of science alone ” (Quine 1970: 1), but which is shared much more widely than it is theoretically defended. The assumption stated by Quine among others is tacitly shared by the intellectual culture of our time, as evidenced by the way it is unquestioningly accepted in so many stories on emotion that are broadcast by the popular media. I remember listening to a brief public radio program one Valentine ’ s Day that dealt with love not by appealing to the testimony of poetry or first-personal experience but by inviting a behavioral scientist to speculate about why our prehistoric ancestors might have been more fit to survive if they made friends. The speculations were treated not as an educated guess, such as any educated and imaginative person might venture, but as the established truth about “ why we love. ” More recently, a contributor to an online debate among members of the International Society for Research on Emotion began his message by writing, “ I don ’ t want to frighten anyone, but ” - and what followed the “ but ” was a declaration that there is, of course, really nothing that matters, or that merits an emotional response. In declaring this, with the supercilious tone of an adult telling a child that Santa Claus doesn ’ t really exist, he cited another author expressing his own despair that the world seems increasingly meaningless insofar as it yields to scientific explanation. 2 There are many humanists who share the bias I am describing: indeed, it may be easier to exaggerate the explanatory power of academic disciplines that we admire from a distance, rather than those we know from within, whose limits and imperfections are all too familiar to us. Even in philosophy, a supposedly humanistic discipline, we hear plenty of doubt as to whether beliefs and pains are real, or whether aesthetic and moral values such as beauty and honesty are actually just as non-existent as unicorns. Thinkers who give voice to these doubts often fantasize about the arrival of a “ completed neuroscience ” that will somehow explain away the appearances and tell us what has really been going on. Then we will no longer believe in the reality of insults, misunderstandings, or threatening gestures; since none of these can be weighed or measured, the positivist argues, they must be unreal. This leads one philosopher to remark, during a discussion of conscious awareness, that there may after all be “ no such thing as awareness ” (Churchland 1989: 309). According to this way of thinking, the notion that we can experience meaning in life must be dismissed as a myth about the alleged existence of a physical substance that none of our best instruments can detect. From such a viewpoint, it is hard to see how there could be such a thing as (for example) marriage: if so, then people would need to be somehow bound to one another; yet if the only truths about the world are facts about material entities, then promises and legal bonds must be unreal, and people can only be bound together with twine, glue, or the like. From the perspective of a researcher holding this set of presumptions, it is likely to seem plausible that our best scientific account of human emotions will be one that deviates radically from the everyday conceptions that we use to interpret experience. Appearances 2 The author in question is Steven Weinberg, who says that “ the more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems pointless. ” This is from his book The First Three Minutes, 154 - 155. Examining (and Displaying) Bias in Interdisciplinary Research on Emotions 21 are to be explained away rather than explained in a manner that validates how things actually seem, according to some emotion theorists, who claim for example that “ common sense ” ideas about affects such as fear being triggered by perceived threats must give way to accounts that focus upon density of neural firing (Tomkins 1991: 55 - 56). Yet when affective experience is the datum to be accounted for, a more reasonable bias might be to assume that abstraction from our lived experience of the world will not likely bring us closer to the truth. Furthermore, when we speak of meaning or value, we are not referring to a substance that could be put in a jar, like mayonnaise or peanut butter. Rather, we are focusing upon a relational property of objects viewed in a certain light, by a subject who is emotionally involved in the world that he or she is experiencing. Our emotions make us aware of the significant features of this world, making whatever matters to us stand out in sharp relief. If I am annoyed, then something must be annoying me; and I cannot sincerely claim to be afraid of you unless I see you as frightening. We cannot even identify these emotions without using intentional language that makes reference to the surrounding world. Our vulnerability to emotions is thus a consequence of our personal attachment to aspects of a world that we did not create and do not control. As the ancient Stoics recognized, we do have the option of viewing human existence as devoid of value, rejecting all apparent meaning and thereby reducing life to absurdity. But although our quest for objectivity can lead us to doubt whether the world really is the way that it appears to be from the perspective of an emotional person, we have no compelling reason to represent a Stoic ’ s “ value-free ” world as the scientifically verified truth. If the purpose of naturalistic explanation is to account for the observed phenomena, then it makes better sense to assume that our emotions reveal as much about reality as they do about our own minds. Our world of experience is one in which ordinary things are weighted with significance: a corpse is revolting, a living-room soothing. At a glance we see the police officer ’ s anger, even though we may fail to notice the color of his eyes. Objects are not merely inert bulky structures; they “ lure and threaten us, support and obstruct us, sustain and debilitate us, direct us and calm us ” (Lingis 1998: 120 - 121). Thus, the objective world as we know it is permeated with meaning, just as obviously as visible objects are colored. What it is for something to have a color, to be red for instance, is for its surface properties to be such that it appears red, when illuminated, to any observer with normal color vision. Just as the color of a thing cannot be seen in the dark, its meaning or value cannot be perceived in the absence of the appropriate emotional disposition. In this sense, our capacity for appraising things as emotionally moving has something in common with seeing their color. Yet, at a recent ISRE conference, a keynote speaker remarked that “ we now know ” there is really no such thing in the world as color. As I will explain further in the last section of this essay, this sort of metaphysical question is unlikely to be settled decisively by any appeal to “ the facts. ” Indeed, studies have shown that those who regard themselves as especially “ objective ” and invulnerable to bias are more likely to be unknowingly influenced by implicit bias (see Uhlmann & Cohen 2007; see also Saul 2013: 43 - 44). It is only “ if you yourself have loved, ” one existential philosopher claims, that you know how the world appears to an affectively engaged person. He adds that “ the blind person cannot know color differences, ” even though “ others have assured him that they do exist ” (Kierkegaard 1997: 237). In order to appreciate this comparison, we should take into account 22 Rick Anthony Furtak (Colorado Springs) the fact that the person who is not blind does not spawn the world of light and color out of his own mind, but must be constituted in a certain way in order to perceive what is visible. What is visible, such as the red color of the rose, is certainly “ out there ” in the world, but it would be nonsensical to ascribe this property to the rose as viewed from nowhere. If we strip away the world ’ s visible properties and ask whether it really contains colorful things, then - absolutely speaking - it is neither colored nor colorless, since the property of being colored or colorless is dependent upon the perceptual apparatus of a certain kind of observer. A living organism that was differently equipped, one that could see infrared light, could see what is invisible to us. By the same token, what moves you to feel profound awe may go unnoticed by me, but it does not follow that my perspective authorizes me to conclude that it is not awesome or does not exist. This is why the pursuit of objectivity will not always lead us closer to a scientifically accurate account. Every time we are emotionally affected in one way or another, we experience what a phenomenologist would call a modification of our subjectivity. Therefore, the human point of view must be central to any description of what is happening: in order to shed light on emotions as we know them, interdisciplinary research must incorporate some approach that is situated within human experience rather than operating only from the outside in. Educated guesses about our earliest ancestors may have their place, but they are unable to address the complexities faced by the living individual who loves and suffers. In order to be attuned to this predicament, we need a different kind of sensitivity, as well as a vocabulary that is appropriate for the subject matter. What mode of “ research ” is then most appropriate for studying human emotions? For starters, it must be one that allows us to come to terms with the predicament of a situated person, rather than abstracting the human being (or the human brain) away from his or her (or its) connections to the world. And the dry scholarly article, aiming to be impersonal and scientific, might not be the literary genre best suited to explore what it is like to respond to the emotionally moving features of a particular situation. Opposing the philosophical notion that “ the task is to become more and more objective, ” Kierkegaard claims that it is a difficult but more worthy challenge to account for how things appear to a person who is emotionally involved. 3 And it is a philosophical task to explain, and possibly to authenticate, the human world of meaning - that is, to defend its veracity against misguided ideas that would seem to deprive it of substance. 3 Although the differing assumptions between one academic discipline and another may be the source of some failures to communicate, even theorists of emotion located within philosophy can often be heard talking past one another. One philosopher makes it clear that his “ cognitive ” theory does not imply that emotions are “ deliberate ” or “ fully conscious ” (Solomon 1988: 183 - 191), but another cites the fact that emotions can occur “ without any conscious deliberation ” as decisive refutation of the first philosopher ’ s view, and as proof that emotions are “ non-cognitive ” (Robinson 2005: 44 - 46). Another prominent cognitivist 3 Undated entry from the year 1844 or 1845. Søren Kierkegaard, Journals & Papers, § 4537. See also Alastair Hannay, “ Philosophy of Mind, ” in Kierkegaard and Philosophy, 36 - 37. Examining (and Displaying) Bias in Interdisciplinary Research on Emotions 23 working in the philosophy of emotion makes a point of noting that “ emotions are [. . .] bodily ” (Nussbaum 2001: 19 - 23), while another reports that “ cognitive theorists are united ” in holding that emotions “ are disembodied ” (Prinz 2004: 25). And anyone familiar with the debate between Lazarus and Zajonc will recognize that academic psychologists find themselves engaged in this kind of internal dispute as often as the philosophers do. It seems evident that a number of divisive issues could perhaps be resolved, or at least debated more constructively, if everyone involved could simply come to terms, or - short of that - could at least respect the way that others are using them. The latter may be our best option if divergent uses of key terms are not a result of merely semantic issues that could easily be resolved, but a sign of substantive disagreement over how best to conceptualize a given topic or phenomenon. Whether the “ startle ” response qualifies as an emotion, or whether emotions are necessarily brief in duration, are debatable questions for good reasons: to settle them merely by proposing a clarified definition of terms would sidestep the relevant debates about how the terms at issue (and what they describe) ought to be understood. 4 Believing that one understands such things as tacit bias disposes one to be more biased, and to think that one is not biased. The assumption that one is rational in a way unaffected by implicit bias, either because one is exceptionally rational or because such a thing as bias does not (in one ’ s humble opinion) exist, also tends to lead the person making this assumption to become even more unknowingly biased. 5 This is why I stated earlier that to be aware, at least, that one occupies a specific perspective, and views things from that point of view, may not eliminate bias but does have certain advantages over holding implicit biases to which one is oblivious. And the ideal of an “ absolute reason, ” free of all prejudices, may “ itself prove to be a prejudice, ” not a vantage point that could actually be occupied by a historically situated human being (Gadamer 2004: 277 - 278). 6 If so, then “ the important thing is to be aware of one ’ s own bias, ” factoring this into the equation, so to speak, or - more accurately - into the conversation (Gadamer 2004: 271). Empirical research provides support for this claim, for instance, in having shown that calling a person ’ s attention to cloudy weather conditions reduces the influence of affective bias such as negative mood on 4 Prinz finds it “ scandalous that cognitive science has not settled on a definition of cognition ” (see Gut Reactions, 41). While his consternation is understandable, it may be that analogous debates over how to understand cognition give rise to the ambiguity that Prinz laments - in which case, glossing over those ambiguities by proposing a merely stipulative definition of “ cognition ” would be a clumsy and unhelpful way of removing (or avoiding) the problem. 5 For a thorough overview of the evidence supporting these claims, see Jost et al., “ The Existence of Implicit Bias is Beyond Reasonable Doubt. ” Cf. Jennifer Saul, “ Scepticism and Implicit Bias. ” Further elaboration of this tendency for researchers to talk past each other can be found in Furtak, “ Emotion, the Bodily, and the Cognitive, ” especially 58 - 59. 6 Although it may sound harsh to describe as “ bias ” or “ prejudice ” the ways in which our perspectives are never entirely neutral, the point is to indicate that the claims we make and even the ways in which we use specific terms are charged with connotations that indicate our own lack of neutrality and the ways in which we are disposed to think (or the assumptions we hold) about the topic at hand. Christopher Ricks illustrates and highlights this when he writes: “ At the time of ‘ The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ’ , Eliot was a philosopher. But (or, with a different prejudice, So) he was aware that philosophy. . . was tempted by narcissistic regression. ” This is from his book T. S. Eliot and Prejudice, 21. See also Leslie Paul Thiele, The Heart of Judgment, 196 - 197: “ To generalize, we might say that being under the influence of a particular [affective bias] is not in itself an impediment to good judgment. Being unaware of our moods and emotions, their causes and effects, is the real problem. ” 24 Rick Anthony Furtak (Colorado Springs) his or her judgments (see, e. g., Clore & Parrott 1991). Holding a biased perspective, we might say, is like speaking with an accent, in the sense that it ’ s easy to assume that biases or accents are things that other people have. On further reflection, though, it should become clear that our ways of thinking or speaking are inconspicuous to us only because they are ours, whereas they might stand out to others who think or speak differently. Looking back at some of the examples that I brought up earlier, we can see that questions which appeared (to some) to be obviously settled are open to other legitimate interpretations. To characterize LeDoux ’ s research as irrelevant to our knowledge about human emotions because it involves the study of rat brains is just as one-sided as to believe that no argument whatsoever is needed to establish conclusions about human emotion based on LeDoux ’ s findings. Do the vast spaces of the interstellar regions, combined with the fact that we are only “ a tiny part of an overwhelmingly hostile universe ” (Weinberg 1977: 154), lead inexorably to the conclusion that life is pointless? Or could the same facts about the universe justify a response of wonder or awe? Why should we believe that it would be self-evident that human life is not pointless, if we were a much larger part of the universe than we are, either because we were much larger and long-lived than we are, or because the cosmos was much smaller than it is (see Nagel 1981: 152)? Or, to shift to another example, a philosopher who claims that “ I was a materialist and hence believed that the mind is the brain ” (Churchland 1989: ix) is relying on the tacit premise that materialism implies a metaphysical identity between the mind and the brain; however, this assumption also is open to debate, as another philosopher of science demonstrates in the passage that follows. I do not believe that there are, in addition to the things that physicists theorize about, immaterial minds or deities. I believe, rather, that there are countless [. . .] kinds of things: atoms, molecules, bacteria, elephants, people and their minds, and even populations of elephants, bridge clubs, trades unions, and cultures. I agree with the physicalists that to the extent that these things are composed of anything they are, ultimately, composed of the entities of which physicists speak. Where I differ is in my assessment of the consequences of this minimal compositional physicalism. The truth about physical stuff, in my view, is very far from being the truth about everything (Dupré 2001: 5). In order do get from what Dupré calls “ minimal compositional physicalism, ” which he accepts, to the conclusion he would reject, that an emotion is nothing other than a measurable pattern of physiological (especially neurophysiological) activity, we must implicitly assume that nothing is real except for meaningless matter in motion. In calling attention to this implicit bias, and in questioning it, I rely on certain biases of my own, for instance that - as I said earlier - one task of philosophy is to explain and validate the human world of meaning. Yet my intention is not to displace a bias I dislike and, by sheer rhetorical force, replace it with another bias that I happen to prefer. My hope is that, by bringing each of these biases into the light, we can include them within our critical exchange, rather than allowing them to exert great power over us while at the same time escaping our notice. We could even observe the way that tacit biases tend to operate in an affective manner, and turn this observation into a rich field of interdisciplinary inquiry within emotion research. The alternative is an unfruitful confusion in which we too often find ourselves shouting at each other in mutual incomprehension, or exchanging presumptuously insulting comments that display our biases without acknowledging them, as if each of us spoke without an accent and from no theoretical vantage point whatsoever. 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