In Confucian Metaphysics, the notion of identity is understood to exist merely as a component of a social relation; that is, a self is not taken to be a discrete ontological entity.  Mary Bockover's conception of the Confucian model of personhood rigidly acquiesces to this tradition. Her argument is staked on both ethical and metaphysical grounds. The former comprises both pragmatic concerns — elucidated in the parlance of liturgical and ecclesiastical rituals — and deeper ethical concerns. The moral structure of Confucianism is described in terms of destiny, and so necessarily discloses teleological and eschatological aspects of the system; the importance of Li and Ren in a technical sense is therefore ancillary to a plainly philosophical examination of Confucianism, but it does lend context to the discussion of Confucian metaphysics and the Confucian conception of personhood — the focus of this examination.

Bockover's interpretation of the metaphysics of identity in Confucianism consists of two fundamental claims. The first is that the notion of persons and selves is intelligible only insofar as it is conceived of in terms of social relations. The second is that the prevailing positivistic orthodoxy in philosophy of mind and metaphysics is inadequate. For this second point, much is made of the fallible nature of scientific investigation; there is a particular critical emphasis on the presuppositional metaphysical underpinnings of the current science. In this regard, the Confucian system seems quite in line with Kuhn's and Feyerabend's brand of scientific skepticism.

The central metaphysical claim of Confucianism is that the self is social. By this, it is meant that the idea of a self is meaningful only if it is taken to be social and that there neither are nor could there possibly be any selves as ontologically discrete entities. As Bockover puts it, "there is no independent self — anywhere." Further, she claims that "there is no internal/external distinction." This claim denies more than just the Western idea of personhood; it rejects the foundational modal delineation of subjective and objective ontology in its entirety. It is thus clear that, in Bockover's Confucianism, the related concepts of identity, mereology, and the mind itself — as singular entities — just do not exist. "Mind is a metaphor," she says, and "consciousness is not an internal mental event."

The second part of Bockover's argument, a bold articulation of antiempiricism, tacitly concedes the strength of the reigning scientific orthodoxy, for it is evidently necessary to overturn the scientific method itself to preserve the integrity of the metaphysical claims made for Confucianism. Thus proceeds a discussion, and subsequent denial, of essentialism and psycho-physical theories of identity. It is not evident, however, that logic itself is expelled from the Confucian methodology.

With that in mind, we take a look at her contentiuon that there is nothing meaningful in saying that a person exists independently of others. The intuitive countervailing point to this claim is the fact that there are, it seems, in this world people who choose to avoid all and any contact with others. These persons are detached from all social relations and thus appear to constitute counterexamples to the unrefined claim of Confucian ontology. However, to the rejoinder that feral children and hermits (along with whichever other persons are similarly isolated from society) constitute an exceptional specimen, we are assured that they are social entities just the same because, after all, they were born unto a person and therefore into a relation.

A disposition of isolation is thus intelligible only insofar as it is purposefully asserted toward, or, as may be the case, away from, other people. We should understand solitude as a state of separation and we cannot meaningfully articulate this notion of separation without implicating the entities—i.e., other people—from which one diverges. And since we are not born alone, but rather inside another person, there is no state of being that cannot accede to this formulation of self. It is not that in the state of being alone a human being ceases to be a person, but that persons, by themselves, never are alone and never can be alone. What then should we say of persons who avoid other persons? We should evidently say, by the tenets of Confucianism, that these persons do indeed disclose a relation to other persons, but that it is a disharmonious relation and thus an ethical misdeed.

However, this conceit does nothing to deprive us of the conviction that our mental world is subjective, whether or not we deprecate the terminology. The privacy of phenomenal consciousness is unmistakable and undeniable. If I drink a glass of wine—or if I dream of drinking a glass of wine—there is no sense to be had in saying that you drank the glass of wine and no chance to be had in your getting drunk. Furthermore, whatever moral significance inheres in the action of drinking a glass of wine is intrinsic to me. For even if there are no persons that are not social there are nevertheless human actions that are not social. Now, of course, it could be the case that I drank the glass of wine in the charge of some social task. But I could have drunk the wine by myself and for myself, and I could have dreamed of drinking the wine because I was drunk. The denial of this possibility is tantamount to the assertion that actions and social actions are the same. That is, every action, of logical necessity, is a social action. Since Confucianists evaluate actions in terms of virtue, all social actions are either good or bad—i.e., they are either harmonious or disharmonious—but there is no sense in deferring the moral character of these actions to the relation between persons because it is only insofar as this asymmetry persists that there is a comprehensible notion of virtue. For if there is no element better than the worst, and none worse than the best, then there can be no sense in evaluating relations by their goodness any more than there is sense in judging lines by their straightness.

As a consequence, there should be many more relations than there are persons, for even the loneliest person must acknowledge at least his or her mother. No temporo-spatial intersection of ontological predicates could point out any discrete self because each relational role is established only in virtue of its attachment to another role and whatever its ontological terminus, it has no intrinsic features and its actual features are only those sufficient to establish its nature. However, these features disclose only the type of relation; they cannot say anything about the things being related per se (other than that they are human beings) for such a consideration would presuppose identity a priori. Therefore there is no sense in distinguishing relations in terms of the character of the things being related, for the being of these relata is only meaningful in virtue of such a relatedness, and this relatedness is bestowed by nature incidentally. If a person is a mother and a daughter, then we must suppose that she has a relation to two people at least; that is, there is a manifest second-order relation between the relations. But Confucianism does not countenance these points of commonality. Therefore, we must then ask: what are they common to? Their coincidence does not point out a self, according to Confucianism, but if this relational relation is a meaningful construct, it won't do to deny it's ontological status in toto.

Bound up in the Confucian sense of duty and obligation is the asymmetry of interpersonal relata. We might understand this in volitional terms or in moral terms, but in any case it is customary to explain relationships by the properties of the relata. Confucianism, however, explains this asymmetry by the properties of the relation. As a consequence, it has the uneasy obligation to unwind the tautology that obtains in assigning discrete dispositional predicates on the basis of a relation between morally and volitionally vacuous relata. 

So while it is of course true that a master and slave relationship discloses an asymmetry, it is an asymmetry that is caused by the differences of its participants. Otherwise, there is no distinguishing the two. Each of the relata must persist in time as a distinct entity. Suppose that there is a master and slave relation. If the slave thence buys the master, the relation is reversed, as we identify the current slave to be the same person as the former master. Unless this distinction is meaningfully conceived of in terms extrinsic to the slave and master's relational actions, there is no distinction between the two, and our ability to distinguish the ontological points of relation is thus undermined. Identity persists if and only if the relation persists. We could obviate this inconvenient exigency if we impose a condition of extrinsic ontological preservation over temporal frames. A purely functional account of personhood would define a king in terms of ruling. That is, if one rules then one is a king. However, one cannot rule unless there is at the very same time one who is ruled upon. These requisite conditions, obviously, don't eventuate ex nihilo, nor does some platonic relation of hegemony descend from heaven. Any realistic causal account of relations takes a hard turn away from Confucian metaphysics. 

Now the existence of persons is a necessary condition for the existence of the relations by which they are thereby made meaningful. So while it may be contingently true that every person comes into existence coincidental with a relation as a part of this relation, it is neither logically nor metaphysically necessary for such a relation to attend the existence of every person. It is logically and metaphysically necessary, on the other hand, for there to be persons in order for there to be a personal relation. Now we could say that there are just these person-like things, and then they interact, and then those things—those same things—become persons. But under this interpretation, Confucianism is just a flimsy exercise in confused descriptions. The Confucian relation is descriptive. It describes persons. But notice the circularity in defining relations by the entities thus related and thence defining the entities by this relationship. I am a brother on account of my having a sibling and being a male. One of these predicates might precede the other temporally, but they both describe the same entity—me. It is not enough that, for sibling y (my brother) to have a brother, there be a male x and there be a sibling z; these entities must have in common an ontological point of attachment; there is no meaningful brother-relation unless these predicates are conjoined in time. Now the Confucian could say that they are not conjoined to something else (i.e., me), but that their conjunction—and nothing else—establishes an instance of me nonetheless. It cannot be the case, however, that this conjunction represent merely a part of me, or an aspect of me, because there can be no meaningful way to ontologically situate the relatedness of the two if personhood is defined by relations.

To pursue this point, let's suppose moreover that I have a child. I am a father to this person only insofar as I am a male and her or his father, just as I am a brother to another person only insofar as I am a male and his or her sibling. But to whom am I both a brother and a father? Myself? Surely not, for it is supposed that there is no such thing. We would have to thence conclude that the brother and the father are not the same person. This is not a satisfactory state of affairs. It is made worse if we should endeavor to identify the basis for one's having a sibling in the first place. It must be one in which there is a commutative morphological relation to a mother person. Neither relation is sufficient, however, to unify these predicates unless we resort to independent conceptions of personhood.

The world in which this is not the case is also the world in which there are necessarily many more persons than there are personal bodies. Confucianism, by this manner of reckoning, seems like a tortuous exercise in conflating personality and personhood. To this, the Confucian should reply that it is indeed true that persons are not identical to their bodies and furthermore true that the relations in question do, of course, have to do with insubstantial spiritual persons. But this is a religious answer to a philosophical question.

The orthodox, textbook definition of 'atheism' is the belief that there is no God. This is the definition you'll find in dictionaries, encyclopedias, and in philosophical essays. For instance:

"Atheism is in fact extremely simple to define: it is the belief that there is no God or gods." -Julian Baggini

"Atheism is the belief that there is no God of any kind." -John Hick

"Atheism I take to be the denial of theism." -J.J.C. Smart

"An atheist disbelieves in the existence of God—he believes that there is no God. He doesn’t merely lack belief in a divinity; he positively believes in the absence of a divinity. Moreover, he takes his negative belief to be rational, to be backed by reasons. He doesn’t just find himself with a belief that there is no God; he comes to that belief by what he takes to be rational means—that is, he takes his belief to be justified." -Colin McGinn

"The traditional atheist believes that there is not now, nor ever was, a God." -Norman Geisler 

This has proven to be an unsatisfactory state of affairs for the new formulation of atheism, which rejects this heritage as meaningless piffle. It is customary nowadays to regard an atheist as one who does not believe in any gods and atheism to be just this disposition of unbelief. It is likewise customary to understand unbelief to be tantamount to disbelief. Thus deprived of any discrete descriptive referent, agnosticism is derided as either a wishy-washy emblem of ambiguity or an ideological refuge of cowardice for those afraid to commit to a position of perceived unpopularity or dogmatic extremism.

This interpretation is ostensibly abetted by a simple linguistic analysis. Since theism denotes the belief that there is a god, then it stands to reason, it is alleged, that atheism—which is taken to be the negation of theism—denotes the absence of such a belief. It is true that this interpretation has the advantage of etymological parsimony. However, the exigencies of semantic caprice and the strictures of logic do not favor this attempt to retroactively impose a spurious definition in defiance of centuries of philosophical tradition.

"If a person is designated as a theist, this tells us that he believes in a god, not why he believes. If a person is designated as an atheist, this tells us that he does not believe in a god, not why he does not believe," George Smith avers. And he is right in an trivial technical sense, but his aphorism is misleading. He concedes that a theist holds a positive belief—he believes that there is a god; but such a doxastic stance is altogether unintelligible unless he has at the same time reasons for his belief. A person is thus a theist only if there inheres in her declaration of belief this notion of 'why.' But an atheist, by Smith's reckoning, needn't account for his not believing in a god. Now we must agree with the latter part of his claim, because on this definition of atheism a person who, for instance, is conceptually deprived of whatever it is that could be a god should not of course be held to justify a non-existent proposition. But if a person is designated an atheist, this surely discloses more than the notion that he or she doesn't have a particular belief—for even if we hold Smith to the pointless designation of an atheist as any person just in case he or she is not a theist, the logical counterpart is nevertheless implicated by analogical balance in rejecting the theist's doxastic justification.

It is therefore plainly evident that whatever logical symmetry Smith means to convey with this argument is illusory. If we take atheism to represent the logical negation of theism we are left with an opaque appellation that does nothing to refine or clarify the concept of atheism. The set of belief-capable entities subsumed in this definition would broaden the register of genuine atheists to a point of inclusive inconvenience for those proudly self-designated atheists who, I trust, find little intellectual solidarity with imbeciles, infants, and farm animals. If a person expresses a positive belief in the existence of some other thing, a belief that this other thing exists, there may or may not be an actual ontological referent--the person could be wrong, after all—but there must necessarily be some explanatory relation of meaning. A theist has to qualify what it is that exists so that it should have to be represented by a finite set of predicates. It is hardly satisfactory to say that atheism represents the negation of theism, and thence to concede that the rightness of the one does not entail the wrongness of the other. If we suppose that atheists, in not believing in any gods, happen to be right, not only is theism left unrefuted but its claims are unconditionally immune to any of the tenets of atheism. This is hardly satisfactory if atheism is defined in the first place as a denial of theism.
   
Now were we to suppose instead that were no gods, then theism would be indeed be refuted; but this is an eventuality for which atheists should be entitled only to the satisfaction of not being explicitly wrong. This brand of atheism promises vacuous authority, however, because there are no grounds on which a doctrine which asserts nothing could be wrong.

Furthermore, there is no sense in taking the negation of theism or the denial of theism to signify the absence of a theistic belief. Theists believe that there is a god. The denial of this belief then is that there is no God. The claim that God exists is the salient claim of theism; to oppose this claim is to deny the content of the belief in God. It is the existence of the content or referent of the belief that suffers the negation, not the belief itself. If Jones believes that he can pass his exam, and Smith denies Jones's claim—that is, he says that Jones is wrong—we could not credibly infer that what Smith means is that Jones is wrong that he believes that he is able to pass the exam
that Jones does not in fact believe this. No, what Smith means is that Jones's belief is wrong; he does not have the ability to pass his exam. Now if we should stipulate that Jones does in fact believe that he can pass his exam—suppose, for instance, that believing such a thing is a necessary condition for being a Jones—the only coherent sense in which we could respond to Jones's belief negatively is to deny what he believes; such a denial necessarily entails the wrongness of its object. The evident grammatical polarity thus evinced is just a symptom of the logical duality of propositional denial.

This argument invites the rejoinder that the Greek prefix 'a' is alleged to convey merely a sense of detachment; that is, one who is an atheist is without theism. This point of pedantry doesn't respect the semantic encumbrance at issue, nor is not borne out by the conventions of the English language. One might say that such an interpretation is atypical. No, we must take the term 'atheism' to be an extensionally derivative modification of the term 'theism.' If it were to preserve the congenital naiveté alleged there should be no such appellation; the concept of atheism attains intelligible descriptive force only as a reactive judgment. Inasmuch as one can remain doxastically noncommittal only by incidental ignorance, the necessary conviction that should motivate allegiance to this category betrays a disposition that is necessarily incompatible with an assertion of unbelief.

Therefore whichever way the Greek prefix 'a' should be interpreted, its attachment to theism means only that agnosticism conceived in terms of doxastic futility and in terms of doxastic possibility do not advertise separate offers. It remains the case that you can know what the idea of god means and yet not commit to either option. As Mitchell Green points out, a satisfactory analysis of theistic epistemology "requires treatment of the omissive case. An assertion of ‘I do not believe p’ neither constitutes nor requires the assertion of not-p.' Goldstein holds that if I assert that I don’t believe that p then I deny that p. This is incorrect: an agnostic who truthfully reports, ‘I neither believe that God exists nor believe that He doesn’t’ would, on that principle, be making contradictory assertions about the existence of God. Surely that is not so, and proponents of this approach have not addressed the problem raised by the omissive case," he notes.

Furthermore any meaningful consideration of agnosticism has to countenance the simple fact that a disposition of agnosticism, however the term is defined, is compatible with not having a belief in the existence of God. It makes no sense, however, to conclude on this flimsy point of fact that any person fitting this description is an atheist just the same. Green makes this clear: "After all, someone who asserts ‘I don’t believe that God exists nor do I believe that He does not’ has not expressed the belief that God does not exist."

Now we have seen that the suppositional correctness of atheism in this model would fail to falsify theism. But even more damning to the argument is the fact that if God did exist, then atheism, under the definition that has become the vogue, would not be wrong. If an atheist were to thence countenance this contingency she would, of necessity, forfeit the title. Thus this disposition of atheism—in the putative absence of God's existence—should be preserved by doubt alone. But doubt, so considered, cannot meaningfully represent the vacuous epistemic condition of unbelief; rather, it is surely tantamount to disbelief because the negative formulation of atheism could meaningfully capture only a position of arrant conceptual ignorance and the people to whom such a description applies make fairly weak exponents of a doctrine they don't know anything about.

The analogical employment of Santa Claus (and his fictive counterparts) is a mainstay in the atheistic literature as a pedagogical prop that is supposed to clarify some relentlessly abstruse technical point about belief to show that agnosticism is really just atheism. But this simplistic thought-experiment serves to do nothing but conflate two very different doxastic attitudes. Admittedly, I take it that a person who doesn't believe in any Santa Clauses likewise believes that there are no Santa Clauses—or that, at least, there aren't any Santa Clauses fitting the fantastical claims of folklore. It is rather innocuous to equivocate disbelief and unbelief in this case, for the existence of any such entity is amenable to empirical disconfirmation. The idea of Santa Claus is not bound up in the metaphysical; it would be odd indeed to make or to dispute the claim that his existence is logically necessary. This hackneyed argument is an analogically vacuous imposture, and a symptom of the fatuous tenets of new atheism. 

David Benatar's philosophy-bomb of contrarian pessimism was relit recently by somewhat unlikely acolyte Peter Singer in the New York Times. Singer's endorsement of Benatar's philosophy lends some legitimation to the controversial thesis. My review follows.

Benatar's monograph extends and intensifies the argument for ontological pessimism he sketched out a decade earlier in the essay, Why It is Better Never to Come into Existence, published in the American Philosophical Quarterly. Benatar, the head of the philosophy department at University of Cape Town, South Africa, defends the unpopular view that "it is better not to come into existence." This conclusion, he contends, proceeds in a plainly logical fashion from the antisymmetrical nature of the deontic and hedonic facts of life and non-life.

Population ethics has been a hot-button social issue ever since Thomas Malthus read J. S. Mill in The Black Dwarf and concluded that ecological questions were profound moral problems and that the discussion, moreover, stood to benefit from the penetrating intellect of a misanthropic statistician. These ideas are still being debated and in academic philosophy constitute a field of broad applicability and active interest. The recondite view that existence is bad per se doesn't hold the same popular appeal, but Benatar's brand of pessimism exudes more logical rigor and cheeky contrarian zeal than that of the average Schopenhauer sycophant's and his article and book have caused something of a stir in academia.

The logical nucleus of Benatar's argument for pessimism comprises four claims about the relationship between pleasure and pain that, by his account, reveal an asymmetry that justifies his contention that bringing persons into existence is always harmful. Properly considered, there are three arguments on offer. His defense of metaphysical pessimism is the crux of the essay, establishing a foundation for the somewhat ancillary arguments that existence is more painful than pleasurable and that persons shouldn't be brought into the world. Benatar argues most forcefully for the first, relegating the consequential ethical charges to a comparatively pragmatic discussion in the denouement, taking care to emphasize their pedagogical detachment. "It must be stressed that the view that it is better never to come into existence is logically distinct from my view about how great a harm existence is," he notes. "One can endorse the first view and yet deny that the harm is great. Similarly, if one thinks that the harm of existence is not great, one cannot infer from that that existence is preferable to non-existence." This bluff of surplus proof is unnecessary; the ontological severity of harm is a pointless consideration for his titular claim if it is in fact the case that it is better to never come into existence. The bulk of the essay, in any case, is given over to the defense of his claim of asymmetry.

Benatar concedes up front that pain is bad and pleasure is good. This is all rather obvious, he says, especially if we measure human life by a calculus of ethical propriety that marks off the actions and events therein as 'benefits' and 'harms.' So considered, it only stands to reason that: (1) The presence of pleasure is good, and (2) The presence of pain is bad. But this symmetry does not hold, he argues, for the absence of pain and the absence of pleasure. The balance is in this case lopsided because: (3) The absence of pain is good no matter what, while (4) The absence of pleasure is bad only to the living.¹

Benatar does not endeavor to substantiate the first two claims—nor is he obliged to do so. Whether or not the goodness of pleasure follows therefrom analytically or necessarily is not, as far as his argument goes, a pertinent point of contention because in order to dispute or disconfirm his claims one would have to concede the very same epistemic foundation. Rather, these primitive considerations should be taken axiomatically.  The latter contrastive ontological claims, on the other hand, are indispensable to his argument.

Benatar, in countering a rather obvious objection to (3)—that the absence of pain in the absence of persons is neither good nor bad, and furthermore could not possibly be good or bad unless it were good or bad for someone or if it were good or bad to someone—discloses the form and terms of the argument. "This objection would be mistaken," Benatar claims, "because [3] can say something about a counterfactual case in which a person who does actually exist never did exist." However, we are thus logically precluded from comparing pleasureless empty worlds to counterfactual worlds in which there are persons who actually exist. The absence of pleasure, in the absence of people, is, by this manner of reasoning, not amenable to a similar counterfactual because whereas in (3) we move from a something (or a someone) to nothing; the reversed case—in which we move from nothing to something—gives us no ontological hook on which to hang such existential predication.  The presence of pleasure, for those to whom it is conceivably applicable, cannot be so counterfactually considered, per Benatar's argument, because under the supposition that were 'one' not to exist or had never existed there would be no entity for which qualitative predication could meaningfully persist. The validity of his asymmetry stands independently of the contingent moral value of actual or conceivable persons, because whether or not the entity in question led, or were to lead, a pleasurable or painful life, his formula should hold; the asymmetry claim is staked on logical grounds.

In fairness, as Degrazia observes, "Benatar does not claim that those who never exist are literally better off than those who do exist which would be a claim of questionable coherence inasmuch as nonexistence is not a state of an individual. He claims, rather, that coming to be is always bad for those who do." And Benatar does concede this point: "The non-existent are not, and so things cannot literally be better for them or to their advantage," he writes. "When I say that non-existence is preferable, that judgment is made in terms of the interests of the person who would or has otherwise come to exist." But in conflating those who do exist and those who would exist—entities for whom the respective counterfactual ontologies stand in contradiction—Benatar's argument relinquishes the technical delimitation by which his premises are defined.

But suppose we counterfactually consider only those individuals who do exist. The supposition to which we are led, however, would necessarily have to be one in which the non-existent fictive counterpart to an actual person somehow conforms to an unbounded ontological symmetry such that in coming into existence—in a second-order subjunctive mode—necessarily inherits the existential properties of the actual entity under consideration. This is problematic; as Degrazia notes, "The individual in nonidentity cases is not made worse off than she was before because she was not before; nor is she made worse off than she otherwise would have been because otherwise she would not have been. It follows, according to this reasoning, that no one is harmed by being brought into existence, no matter how bad his condition or circumstances, so long as avoiding the disadvantage in question was incompatible with that individual’s coming into existence at all."

Furthermore, Benatar's conception of pleasureless realms requires that his counterfactual ideation pluck its referent from the actual world, since the conditional asymmetry thus asserted could not feasibly confer a comcomitant predication on an entity that never was. This latter specimen Benatar denies the privilege of pleasure (not erroneously) on account of its suppositional personhood, but then rewards with the exemption of pain for having the requisite vacuous metaphysical properties. "What is happening here is that in certain moments of his argumentation, Benatar uses a different notion of 'possible being,' a concept that could be called 'empty,' according to which a 'possible being' would be the one that simply is not present in the world and neither is counterfactually represented," Julio Cabrera argues. "Clearly, these two concepts are incompatible: when using the counterfactual conception, it is irrelevant that the being is not present in the world, since he/she is counterfactually represented; and when using the empty conception, it is irrelevant to making considerations of any kind about the possible being because, in this conception, there is no such a being at all."

But the counterfactual scenario that Benatar has in mind for the world in which actual persons do not exist is similarly ontologically vacant. It is true that such a world would not be bad, but it would not be better than a world in which persons were immersed in pleasure, or at least in lives for which pleasure were to outweigh pain. (That such a calculation could only be true in the deluded minds of the miserable, as Benatar suggests, is a separate issue.)

The presence of pain is bad, Benatar says, and if we are to take his argument seriously, we should conclude that it is bad no matter what. It would be bad in worlds like ours and it would be bad in worlds in which there were no persons whatever—it would have to be. Of course we are expected to acknowledge that such ontologically vacant realms are painless and that this painlessness is a good thing. But this propositional breed of propriety is unrelated entirely to the hedonistic value to which it is contrasted and we can therefore likewise say that it is a bad thing that these empty worlds are not populated by persons and pleasures—in contravention of Benatar's admonition to the contrary—for in so saying we are not committing any crimes of logical deviation; these detached judgments have a common dative of advantage—us. The badness and the goodness of each is meaningful only in terms of conceptual counterfactuals made by persons and for persons and the pain and pleasure of empty worlds are extant only in these counterfactual suppositions. In worlds in which there are no persons—if there are worlds in which there are no persons—there is not, nor could there be, any pain or any pleasure.

Benatar nevertheless argues that we have a duty not to bring persons into the world, but that, "there is no duty to bring happy people into existence because while their pleasure would be good for them, its absence would not be bad for them." This formulation of the asymmetry argument is tempered with explicit moral force and more clearly discloses the modal inflection of the metaphysical contingencies that spring from his philosophy. This is a conditional claim and the condition to which it applies is the one in which actual persons bring other persons into existence. However, this assertion that the absence of pleasure would not be bad "for them" directly contradicts (4) because, as we have seen, Benatar explicitly claims that the absence of pleasure would, in fact, be bad for the living. If the condition Benatar had in mind was instead the absence of persons (which requires a charitably imaginative interpretation on our part), we are left with the pointless observation that 'their' non-existence would not be bad.

But this is a nonsensical claim to contrast against the suppositional pleasure that such a person would experience, for if "they" are understood to be non-existent then the former admission—that such a state of affairs would be a good thing—likewise impeaches (4) because we must now suppose that it is meaningful to move from nothing and nobody to something and somebody in our counterfactual ontology. However, it was only under the presumptive denial of this possibility that the counterfactual distinction Benatar adduced to substantiate the asymmetry lent meaning to his argument in the first place.

So if we are to accept the legitimacy of the hedonistic metrics of counterfactual suppositions tendered on behalf of the non-existent, we should forfeit considerations of the pleasure that would thence obtain only if we go along with Benatar's more fundamental claim that no lives are genuinely pleasure-positive.

This suggests an even deeper flaw in Benatar's theory. Campbell Brown illustrates this succinctly: "Consider three worlds, A, B, and C, and a person, Jemima, such that: in A, Jemima doesn’t exist; in B, Jemima exists but experiences neither pleasure nor pain; and in C, Jemima exists and experiences only pleasure," Brown writes. "It follows from [3] that A and B are equally good for Jemima, and so are A and C. But it follows from [4] that C is better for Jemima than B. This seems simply incoherent."    

Benatar's asymmetry is insufficient to entail his conclusion. He gives us no good answer to Holtug's query: "How can anything be worse for a person who does not exist?" Furthermore, Benatar has the unlucky obligation to show nevertheless that all lives are necessarily painful, for this is a point that is neither analytical nor entailed by his logical exploits, but required to carry the argument.

 A persistent curiosity of Benatar's argument is that he emphatically claims that all lives are in fact overwhelmingly painful while nevertheless insisting that the balance of pain and pleasure for any given person in particular is given over to the contingencies of chance. So, while he doesn't argue explicitly that existence is necessarily painful or that it is a moral predicate, he might as well. Even if pleasure were measured to countervail pain, it turns out, no exception should be inferred; the difference could be in the comparative order, or the intensity, or "a few more noticeable 'highs,'" instead. "It will not do therefore to calculate how bad a life is," he cautions. (A somewhat contradictory pledge—"in the current chapter I consider how bad it is to come into existence" is fulfilled in another chapter.)  

Furthermore, for a theory contrived on modal claims, Benatar's reluctance to specify just what it would take for a life to be pleasure-positive is odd. Instead, he offers numerous putative scenarios that might strike you as having such a balance, but then follows each with a discussion of why the average human—which is alleged to have the introspective powers of the Hamburglar—is mistaken. Every intuitive notion of pleasure, it turns out, is either caused by pain, compelled toward pain, or else is just is pain. And, as Elizabeth Harmon suggests, "suppose we grant to Benatar that ordinary lives contain many minor distresses that we do not normally pay attention to in considering how good our lives are. Nevertheless, we might claim, there are certain positive features of our lives that are much more valuable than these negative features are bad."  Given the evident human difficulty in evaluating pleasure and pain, Benatar's own prerogative authority on such matters is self-undermining. Inasmuch as this assertion is one for which Benatar adduces only his own judgment, the veracity of his claims of asymmetry deliver nothing firmer than his strident pessimism.
   
By this I don't mean that most lives—or even any lives—are necessarily worth living; I mean only that it is as likely as the thesis in question. And it is not only people under the persuasion of the Pollyanna principle who think so. There are numerous theories of goodness and betterness and value in philosophy. For instance, one David Benatar came up with this rather mawkish defense of common sense (we all go through a poetry phase): "Indeed the kind of meaning wanted by those who think our lives are meaningless is the very kind of meaning that is beyond our reach."

Benatar is likewise convinced that ours is an existential tragedy immune to the auspicious promise of transhuman improvement. "The longer our species lasts the more suffering there will be," he claims. Assuming population growth, this follows simply from his dire pronouncements for the present. Nevertheless, we can conceive of futures in which there is less suffering or in which population growth slows. In fact, many of the calamitous phenomena Benatar adduces for his bleak futurism seem to predict such a scenario, the admitted futility of such prognostication notwithstanding.

Now it is true that while Benatar's argument is ostensibly about the worth of existence in a general sense, his titular claim attains viable pedagogical force precisely in the context of procreation. But he ultimately backs off making any bold demands for antinatalism. "These issues merit more substantial treatment than I am able to offer here. I am unsure, therefore, whether the suggested argument for the permissibility of (sometimes) having children is sound," he wanly concedes. He nevertheless strongly implies that there is a moral duty to not bring people into existence, but the point is peripheral to his central claim and conditional on judgments to which he resists committing absolutely. In the end, he offers only the comparatively feeble claim that "there can be no duty to bring people into existence." Phrased in terms of permissibility rather than obligation, his moral conviction is considerably softened. However, "If people realized how bad their lives were," Benatar says, "they might grant their coming into existence was a harm even if they deny that coming into existence would have been a harm had their lives contained but the smallest amount of blood."

Now were we to go further and to acknowledge the imperative inflection of the argument—i.e., that no one should have children—we should hold Benatar to justify his ethical claims with clarity and rigor. Benatar suggests that there is a moral imperative to not bring people into existence because it is better to prevent pain than to promote pleasure. This point he tries to substantiate with a rather discursive appeal to a consequentialist, welfare-maximizing, system of justice. And so the best way to proceed ethically, according to Benatar, is to act on John Rawls's maximin rule. In Rawls's words, "the maximin rule tells us to rank alternatives by their worst possible outcomes: we are to adopt the alternative the worst outcome of which is superior to the worst outcomes of the others." Because such a system would result in the fewest expected people coming into existence, it would prosper Benatar's ethics.  There is significant inferential overhead in accommodating Benatar's brand of ethics and much of the discussion of justice and reverse-utilitarianism is peripheral to the central argument (and redundant where it is not), but no matter how it is articulated Benatar's argument has to rest, necessarily, on some primitive alinement of normativity and hedonism and thence on some question-begging calculus of happiness. The problem here is Benatar's insouciant confidence that all this goes without saying. It is not at all obvious that actions taken to prevent pain should categorically exclude pleasure, or that the same genesis antisymmetry relations should hold for current and future people—among other counter-arguments met with accusations of glibness and angry denouncement from Benatar.

Benatar's scandalous one-liner that "it would be better if, as a result of there being no new people, humanity became extinct," represents the point of mildest follow-through in the book. "Although it may be bad for anyone of us to die," Benatar claims, "it is still worse to die earlier than we need to.  Secondly, there is a moral difference between some cases of killing-extinction and cases of dying-extinction.  Were anti-natalists to become pro-mortalists and embark on a 'speciecide' program of killing humans, their actions would be plagued by moral problems that would not be faced by dying extinction."

Suicide and Apocalypse are thus preferable to bringing people into existence by his deontological calculus of duty—but nonetheless uncouth because preventing pain is of greater importance than promoting pleasure. And although it's true that most every gritty slogan in the book seems to flatter the dignity of suicide, Benatar judiciously refrains from asking his readers to kill themselves.

Ultimately, Benatar's arguments are stronger than many of his critics are willing to acknowledge, but not nearly as strong as their author thinks they are. Yet there is something laudatory in his go-for-broke effort to push his pessimism rigorously. At any rate, if he generates enough controversy, he might be able at the very least to keep Pat out of his Google Search Results, and that should count for something.

¹Actually there are two (sometimes referentially conflated) asymmetries: the familiar deontic version and a second, more fundamental asymmetry. Further, the essential claim that "no lives are worth starting," Benatar says—in a response to a hostile review—applies only to the latter. "I did not attempt to infer that coming into existence is always a harm from the deontic asymmetry. I did refer to the deontic asymmetry, as well as to many other widely accepted claims, but I suggested that these are all best explained by a much deeper asymmetry between pleasure and pain." 
Counterfactual conditionals describe what would happen if some event or condition or property that has not occurred in fact or belief had occurred. 

Most contemporary studies make use of possible-world semantics to analyze counterfactuals but the project of making sense of suppositional and hypothetical events is not new. David Hume explicitly articulated an argument for causation in the very form that persists today. “We may define a cause to be an object followed by another, and where all the objects, similar to the first, are followed by objects similar to the second. Or, in other words, where, if the first object had not been, the second never had existed,” he wrote. Were it not for Hume's insight, it could be argued, there would be no coherent theory of counterfactuals. If we had made that argument, it could be the case that we would have been wrong.

The 'standard' explicatory apparatus of modern counterfactual logic owes mostly to David Lewis, whose exhaustive treatment of the subject, Counterfactuals, remains—despite substantial revision—the de facto account. However, it was the early efforts of Stalnaker, Mackie, and Ramsey that proved instrumental in the incipient development of the coherent truth-conditional semantical framework that permits the prevailing orthodoxy in logic where it remains a field of broad applicability and active interest.  The power of counterfactuals is particularly seductive to Bayesians and decision theorists, for whom it accommodates quantified probability valuations, a purpose for which it is put to normative ends, and to philosophers of mind, for whom the salvation of mental causation is thought to reside in the generous logic of modality. Of course it is also a form of reasoning we use every day—an inescapable and constant presence in our minds.

The notion of causation in counterfactual conditions should be broadly understood as imposing relations of dependence, a concept that has proven immune to facile designation as either sufficient or necessary. Lewis himself mostly resisted these categorial strictures, though any robustly conceived counterfactual account vindicates both interpretations. It is sometimes argued that counterfactuals concede necessity only when forced to account for preemption (c.f. Ruben, 1981) but by Lewis's inverse formulation, ¬A ¬B, that is, 'there would/might not be B if it were not for A,' causal necessity inheres in the logic itself (and is in fact explicit in the concentric-worlds graphs in Counterfactuals). The positive expression A B, that is, 'if A were the case then B would/might be the case,' on the other hand, broadly evinces sufficiency. It is thus evident that both concepts are subsumed in counterfactuals; they do not, however, abide the seemingly analogous equivalency relations found in the indicative mood or in the logic of material implication. Further, the mores of formal semantic and syntactic structure in counterfactual logic are inchoate at best and so do not submit to the rigor found in many other logics. (Note that the capital letters in our symbolic notation denote events for which truth valuation is measured ontologically; semantically, then, it is sometimes appropriate to regard these variables as representing propositions as well.)

We will adopt Lewis's notation for counterfactual conditionals wherein the necessity operator '□' and the possibility operator '◇' are appended to and modify the modal force of the subjunctive conditional operator '→' and not to the antecedents or consequents themselves; this notation honors the precision of the model since notions of counterfactual similarity are not measured in a purely technical sense. To negate the consequent is to assert a denial of the conditional; it does not necessarily affirm the relata. The proposition, A □→ ¬B can be understood as 'if A were the case then B would not be. ' To negate the proposition is, in contrast, to deny its truth-value. We should interpret the proposition ¬(A ◇→ ¬B) as 'it is not true that if A were the case then B might not be.'

Bivalent considerations recommend that we understand that A, if B is not possible, necessitate the occurrence of something else—i.e., a non-B. It has to be the case then that the negation of this condition compel the occurrence of B. The proposition A □→ B is thus equivalent to ¬(A ◇→ ¬B). A ◇→ B is likewise equivalent to ¬(A □→ ¬B), which asserts that it is not true that A denies the possibility of B. Moreover, by this manner of reasoning we see that A ◇→ B ¬(A □→ B); so A □→ B ¬(A ◇→ B).  This model (which preserves duality) follows from A ¬¬B. This is, however, an interpretation that invites the objection (among others) that it fails to disambiguate likelihood and possibility. One recourse we have to solve problems of this nature is to impose pragmatic considerations on the deductive criteria. However, the doxastic improvements on offer threaten to weaken the theory to a point of provisional fluff.

In any case, counterfactual conditionals are intelligible only insofar as it is possible to individuate the causal relata. Events that are causally consequential to and conditionally dependent upon their antecedents are obviously dependent nevertheless on innumerable peripheral conditions; absent any delimiting metrics of salience or relevance the domain of necessary causes is therefore constrained only by the temporally-receding light-cone of physical cotenability, and this constraint holds only in worlds contingently similar to the actual world. "Beyond this,” McGee argues, “to try to say which of the many selection functions that originate at the actual world is the actual selection function, we rely on pragmatic considerations in the form of personal probabilities."
           
In order to elucidate effectual causes, we must therefore exclude—or at least relegate to the contextual background—consequentially promiscuous causal conditions and events on grounds of relevance from the outset. Certainly it is true, for instance, that a forest fire counterfactually depends on the presence of oxygen, but if the fire were started by an arsonist's match we are led by intuition and causal parsimony to preferentially assign the causal responsibility (to say nothing of culpability) for the fire to the arsonist, because only the latter establishes causal necessity with specific efficacy for the putative effect.

We must note, however, that the causal relation between the arsonist and the fire is not necessarily symmetrical (although the evident disparity in any case is conditioned by the time and manner in which it is measured) but the salient point is that it does not disclose the flagrant causal asymmetry of a background condition like oxygen. After all, the presence of oxygen is necessary for the presence not only of the fire, but of the forest and the arsonist as well; the arsonist's causal influence, on the other hand, cannot reciprocate this broad causal context; it begins with the fire. This influence might spread, along with the fire, through space-time, but what it cannot do is exceed the causal constraints of its contextual conditions across possible worlds.

The valuations of counterfactual truth conditions are measured against a conceptual contrivance (we will ignore for now what its actual ontological status is) in which suppositional changes to the actual world are simulated as relevantly deviant possible worlds and graded by similarity to ours, in which the conceptual modifications accede to a quantifiably reified ontology for didactic or methodological purposes. David Lewis went for broke defending the claim that these other worlds are as real as you and I. This is not the mainstream view, but given the difficulty adducing evidence for any position in this debate, and because the utility of possible worlds semantics persists under any metaphysical judgment, it is a point that can be ignored.

The logical form of the counterfactual conditional proposition, A □→ B ("if A were the case, then B would be the case”) is given foundation by several considerations of dependence. Lewisian counterfactual dependencies are conjunctively expressed as, for instance, (Ax Bx iff (A1 B1) (A2 B2)), etc. In terms of Lewis's weighted counterfactuals, the crucial evaluation is: A □→ B iff B is true in the A-world most like the actual world. Much of the discourse in counterfactual logic is preoccupied with making sense of this claim. What, for instance, should constitute this likeness—the ‘comparative similarity’? And to what extent can this be objectively determined?

A second, more fundamental notion of dependency, causal dependency, is also required, as we have seen. E depends on B iff B E and ¬B ¬E. We have also seen that the counterfactual dependency sequence is insufficiently precise. Hence, we should prefer to establish a causal sequence, such as BB iff (b, d, e) where (b d) (d e), and  (b e) iff BB entails (b. . .e). Salient causes are picked out from the background causal clutter; a given cause C is considered to be independent from A1, A2 iff C is truly invariant of Ax.  (This may ultimately be a promise of futility however, because, as Leibniz observed long ago, "Since each thing influences all the others in such a way that, supposing that it were abandoned or changed, all things in the world would henceforward be different from the way they actually are.")

Lewis proposes a nomic dependency as well. This feature of his theory profiles too Humean for many philosophers who would prefer to defend a logical or metaphysical relation instead. Nevertheless, Cx depends, if we adopt this requirement, on Ax iff there are sets L [law] and F [fact] such that (L F (Ax Bx)) (¬F (Ax Bx)). In conventional causal formulations, events M and P (by convention, designating the mental and the physical, respectively) are not—by Kim’s exclusion principle—distinct. But this doesn't hold in the counterfactual mode, so we have: C E iff (¬(C = E) (¬C ¬E)), and C E iff C1 C2, etc. But should (¬(C1 = C2)   (P (E M)) E or if P and M are distinct and (P E)     (M E) then overdetermination threatens. While such a scenario could theoretically proceed from a premise conflict outside the strictures of counterfactual dependency, the independence principle—given the strong counterarguments that obtain in its absence—is the requisite contrivance in Lewis's theory—and necessarily entails this change. It also permits Lewis to revert—with minor modifications—to standard rule-weighting. For Kim's theory of mind, the independence theorem threatens to undermine the exclusion principle.

This is precisely what Barry Loewer alleges. Paul Raymont, however, dismisses the charge. "Given that strong supervenience relations hold across the nomologically possible worlds," he claims, "anything that has M in any such world also has a physical property (other than P) from the supervenience base of M, and this physical property will (for the reasons set forth in Kim’s exclusion argument) have at least as strong a claim to efficacy with respect to P* as M has." In either case the application of counterfactual semantics would still evince proximate causal relations. The causal candidates consist of statements to be evaluated by a similarity relation. For instance: Intention Ix Action Ax vs. Physical-event Px Action Ax. This pair can be helpfully broadened to betray the winner by contrastive distinction: Intention Ix → Action Ax and Intention ¬Ix □→ Action ¬Ax vs. Physical-event Px □→ Action Ax and Physical-event ¬Px □→ Action ¬Ax. Since physical-event ¬Px □→ Action ¬Ax is false, the intention relation should be selected in defiance of Kim's exclusion principle, and the preceding difficulty is made nugatory. However, it does not follow that Kim's exclusionary principle should be forfeited. It would, however, persist only as a contingent condition and not, as Kim claimed, an analytic truth. (Raymont, 2003).

              ╭─ ─ ─ ─ ▶─ ─ ─╮                                       ──▶ ╮                        
              Ⓑ ──▶◯Ⓐ─ ╮      /                                          ⑊              /       
                     
╭◀╯     \    /                               ────▶◯Ⓒ●◀─╯                     
     (2a)         
●Ⓒ          \ /                                 
                      ╰─▶Ⓓ
◀─╯                                              (2b)
           
Event D in figure (2a) represents Daisy's possibly being killed by Carl (the diagram assumes Carl's success, depicted by the black arrow).  But because Bob fails to prevent Anna from preventing Carl from killing Daisy (the white circle signifies failure to causally intervene) it seems reasonable to conclude that Bob, in some sense, caused Daisy to be killed. After all, were it the case that Lewis had not acted, Daisy—thanks to Anna—would (very probably) still be alive; thus, we must, in asserting that B D express a sense of dependency that exceeds causal sufficiency. Since D is dependent on B, B satisfies conditional necessity for D. This is more clearly expressed by its inverse  ¬B → ¬D. Hume conflates (and Lewis equivocates) the two formulae; both express the notion of changing a part of the world—a part that makes a difference—by supposition. 

In other words, if Bob doesn't stop Anna then Carl doesn't kill Daisy. Bob's actions by themselves are of course insufficient to bring about D; the point here is only that so long as they are necessary then Carl's actions too are insufficient for D. We might suppose then that the concomitant counterfactual expression of necessity—that is, 'if Bob's action weren't the case then Carl's action would not be'—should assume the form ¬B □→ ¬D. But this isn't satisfactory, as the following example illustrates.
     
In Figure (2b) we suppose that C now stands for the killing of Carl, a fate both Bob and Anna wish to bring about. Bob's obligation to do so, however, is obviated by Anna's murderous initiative. His causal distance is indicated in figure (4b) by the white circle. But were it the case that she lost her resolve, Bob would have nevertheless taken action. Carl's demise was therefore ineluctable, and so because ¬(¬A ◇→ ¬C) (C) it cannot be the case that (C). Furthermore, we can strengthen the case against Carl and for causal redundancy by supposing that, after Anna fired her gun, Bob went ahead and shot Carl anyway, or by supposing that he fired his gun after Anna fired hers, but before the bullet from her gun killed Carl.  However, the actions of neither killer—in contradiction to the scenario above—are necessary; instead, each killer, per se, is seemingly sufficient for this fate. I say 'seemingly' because the apparent delimited sufficiency of this model is simply a function of diagrammatic parsimony. The world, on the other hand, provides no such categorical delineation, only innumerable entangled causes.

Counterfactual theories of causation must contend as well with the odd case in which the alleged counterfactual event is simply absent. Let us suppose that Bob—in his haste to prepare for a vacation—forgets to feed his fish before departing. Are we justified in concluding that his not doing something—his not feeding them—should be the cause for their subsequent demise? After all, it does seem as though, absent Bob's forgetfulness, his fish wouldn't have died. We might reason counterfactually therefore that had Bob not done nothing, the putative causal consequent would not have obtained, which we can logically state as ¬B □→ ¬E. But this ignores a fundamental problem: what exactly is the ontological character of B? The short list of possibilities comprises: (a) a non-actual possible event; (b) an actual displacing event; and finally, (c) a simple fact.

The likeliest candidate seems to be (a) simply because not feeding fish is not something that Bob or anyone else does—despite a misleading grammatical inflection that can seem to impart semantic weight—but rather something that one does not. The event in question then exists only as the fact (c) that Bob did something else. That something else is the displacing event (b) and it is has been argued that (a) simply is (b). But such an argument is tragically indistinct since we would not expect a counterfactual to disclose a symmetrically feasible form analogous to the hypothetical event in question.

Let us suppose nevertheless that Bob's packing lunch (or some sub-event within or duration thereof) should be regarded as the veridical cause of his not feeding his fish. We should thence claim that were it not for his packing he would have fed his fish. But why should we not suppose with the very same confidence that Bob—alleviated of his packing chores—would not have spent the time arranging his matchsticks? After all, such is an endeavor suggested by the very same authority of evidence. Furthermore, neither (a) nor (b) constitute anything which might be confused for a cause and all three possibilities are an affront to physics.

But why should we consider contra-causal outcomes solely in terms of Bob at all? It is understandable that we should have this doxastic bias; but the argument is counterfactual, and the event deviance offers no assurance of comparative modesty.

 
     t1      t2      t3                                                       t1       t2        t3
 Ⓐ//──▶Ⓒ                                    ──/▶──/▶──/▶──▶
   \ /       /                                                     /        /       ↗/
   ╰──▶─▶                                 ──▶──▶○Ⓗ
            (3a)                                                        (3b)

Suppose that as figure (3a) depicts there is an event A that is always followed by B and C, such that whenever event A occurs, B occurs and then C occurs. From this regularity it would appear that the regularity of this conjunction is eligible for the accusation of backtracking inasmuch as one could claim that C □→ B and suffer no fear of disconfirmation because, as depicted, such a condition would always obtain. Furthermore, absent any information to the contrary, C□→B would exhibit similar regularity. If we should prefer a forward-tracking interpretation—out of presumptive temporal bias, or to give account for B's occurrence, for instance—we might prefer instead, and again without countervailing evidence, that B □→ C. Andyet the backtracking condition persists here too, along with ordinary forward-tracking temporal progression. One could even infer a transitively causal time loop through BAC. It is true that, in terms of sufficiency and necessity, that A causally accounts for C such that ¬A□→ ¬C a condition that B cannot match. It stands to reason nevertheless that if B obtains whenever A occurs, and if B can in fact sustain its fraudulent causal credentials indefinitely, in virtue of what is A entitled to causal authenticity?


We might similarly argue on the basis of figure (3b), that: ¬C □→ ¬D and ¬C □→ ¬B. It is of course true, as in (a), that if it weren't for C, it wouldn't be for D; the claim that ¬C□→ ¬B in figure (b) exhibits a rather different relation: one that tracks back through time. The antecedent of ¬C □→ ¬B causally circumvents B's inhibitory authority over H; thus ¬B □→ (H D). This in turn then implies H □→ D. But if H □→ D is true then ¬C □→ ¬D is not. However, from the vantage of t2, it is seemingly impossible that ¬C □→ ¬D could be wrong, since it is rather obviously true that B □→ ¬H. The problem seems rather to inhere in the backtracking claim ¬C □→ ¬B. If this modal proposition is invalid, it does not follow, however, that C □→ ¬B. The situation would be correctly described instead by the possibility operator,  the notation of which is just C ◇→ ¬B. But C ◇→ ¬B precludes neither C ◇→ B nor ¬C ◇→ ¬B, the latter of which, predictably, admits the possibility of E's occurring in its absence. This is a troublesome logical exigency, since ¬C ◇→ D both denies ¬C □→ ¬B and affirms ¬C □→ B. Although ¬C □→ ¬B may seem unimportant compared to the more intuitive ¬B □→ ¬C or perhaps even dispensable, it is inescapably troublesome—whatever the temporal structure might be—that a case should eventuate wherein B occurs and C does not; conversely, under no circumstance could C occur without B's occurring. This, however, is precisely what is implied by ¬C ◇→ D.

It does not follow from these data however, that backtracking is possible or even meaningful; the likely culprit is the logical schema. Lewis was careful to avoid opening his theory to accusations of "back-tracking"; to that end, he prudently avoided temporally-asymmetric constructions. "We very easily slip back into our usual sort of counterfactual reasoning, and implicitly assume that facts about earlier times are counterfactually independent of facts about later times," he observed. Nonetheless, Lewis did account for the asymmetry of causality; these relations are handled by dependency hypotheses whose counterfactual constructions mediate agent-contingent state-responses. But Adam Elga discovered these machinations did not extend to thermodynamical processes. Although Lewis claimed "it is of the first importance to avoid big, widespread, diverse violations of actual law," his ambiguous assertion of possible world law-compliance is less than emphatic. "Careful attention to the dynamical properties of thermodynamically irreversible processes shows that in many ordinary cases, Lewis’s analysis fails to yield this asymmetry," Elga noted.

It is generally acknowledged that transitivity too creates problems for—or perhaps simply does not persist in—counterfactual conditionals at all. The archetypal specimen in the academic literature, however, is far from persuasive. By conventional reasoning it is true that 'if Hoover were a communist he would have been a traitor' and that 'if Hoover were born in Russia he would be a communist,' but that the consequent of the first supposition does not follow from the antecedent of the second, since the condition of being a Russian is seemingly insufficient to ensure one's being traitorous. But so too is being a Hoover; therefore whatever suffices to validate the first supposition in question might therefore give it transitive legitimacy. Nevertheless, given the depth and breadth of the salient cotenability domain, this example (which goes back to Stalnaker) is simply unconvincing.

Suppose instead that I perform an action A—flipping a light switch, say—and that in doing so, I illuminate the room. Suppose moreover (in accordance with the Davidsonian pedagogical tradition) that my flipping the light switch also scares off a prowler of whose presence I am unaware. We can interpret the causal character of this sequence of events thus:

            A ──── B                                          A ──▶B
            ╰─────▶ C                                       \         ↘ 
                                                                         ╰ C
                   (4a)                                                    (4b)

Figure (4a) adequately represents event C's dependency on action A. My flipping on the light switch is, after all, a necessary condition of the prowler's being alerted by the light. This condition only obtains, however, if my flipping the switch does in fact bring about B, the illumination of the room. So B is also a necessary condition of C, as depicted in figure (4b). It is rather obvious, however, that A is only a necessary cause of C if it is a necessary cause of B. Its necessity therefore suggests a transitive interpretation of the causal chain. Thus we can allow that (A B C) A C. If I were pressed to identify the reason for which I flipped the light switch, I might plausibly claim that I did A in order that B occur; that is, I flipped the switch in order to turn on the light in the room. This explanation is satisfactory in the sense that it accounts for A, but it cannot account for C, since this consequence obtained without either my knowledge or intention. It remains the case, however, that I could just as credibly identify as the reason that the prowler was scared off the fact that the room was illuminated. And so the reason the light went on, by this manner of reasoning, was because I flipped the light switch. But the reason I flipped the light switch is so that the light would turn on. What suffices to constitute a reason is thus vague:

The counterfactual interpretation of causality borrows the intuitive reasoning processes and linguistic structures by which we make sense of everyday occurrences. The concept of regret, for instance, is intelligible only in terms of counterfactual supposition. When multiple sufficient conditions preclude a particular desired outcome, it is common for us not only to rescind the blame we would otherwise attach to the cause of our initial disappointment, but to excuse from causal implication every such intervening event.

I might, for instance, be inclined to blame a friend for forgetting to bring the tickets to a ball game. However, should the game be subsequently canceled on account of rain, I might let him off the hook. But the latter event only modifies the causal character of the former by making it an unnecessary causal condition—not an insufficient causal condition—for my disappointment. I might go further, and say something like, "it wasn't meant to be." Whether this statement is uttered with the conviction of its idiomatic force matters little for we do not ordinarily consider events—before they occur—to be inevitable. But even after their occurrence we ordinarily consider events to be inevitable only if their happening were compelled by forces outside the domain of plausible human intervention.

Indeterminism complicates the picture. Suppose Bob and I are playing blackjack and that Bob wins a million dollars. If I had got Bob's hand, I say, I'd have won a million dollars. But this counterfactual is unacceptably vague; it does not account for the apparent ontologically displacement implied by such a case.  We could of course simply suppose that Bob, for his part, had got my hand. Such a condition could have obtained, for instance, if the dealer had shuffled the deck differently, or if the deck had been cut between different cards. These contrivances don't strike us as deviantly implausible—at least not in the way as does, for example, the claim that I would have won a million dollars if only the game of blackjack had been formulated against the number twenty-two instead of twenty one. But deferring to the actions of the dealer isn't necessarily a safe bet; it could be the case that the dealer is a cheat. The safest bet, in any case, lies within us, since a volitional adjustment is conceptually simpler than any conceivable machination in the world.

We might suppose instead that, were it the case that Bob was seated in my chair and I in his that I would have won the million dollars, that I might have, indeed could have, taken that seat were it not for my late arrival, that I would have been on time were it not for the traffic accident on the expressway, and so on. Yet the notion that I could have been the difference-maker nevertheless persists.  Since it seems that the relevant requisite amendments to the world are entirely within the domain of my own volition, and whatever causal ripples slip into the world at large do not in any case interfere with the putative consequences to which they are attached. The claim that I would have won a million dollars if I had taken Bob's seat is preferable to the claim that I would have won a million dollars if I were Bob simply because it is easier to sit in Bob's chair than it is to be Bob, a claim which lacks even the dignity to qualify for impossibility.

If the possibility represented by the branching histories at time t1 is indeed ontological then the forward-looking modality specifies much more than the promise of epistemic regularity. The agent could have done otherwise. Sometimes this claim is saddled with the stipulation that doing otherwise would necessarily present a counterfactual identical in intentional terms such that one's compliance with Moore's gambit would entail as well his violating the dictates of desire. There is here again the temptation to interpret counterfactual events as explanatory fictions. This is modally possible in the indicative mood; the agent's knowledge state for w, however, can be expressed subjunctively so that β(w) K(w) and w K(w). But there is no meaningful modal interpretation under the epistemic conditions prevailing and so (Aq p) collapses to (p p) taking the counterfactual logic with it.

Under indeterminism, if we picked the numbers 1, 2, 3, and won a million dollars, we should then reason that if it were the case that we had picked the numbers 1, 3, 2 then although we might have nevertheless won, the chances of our having done so are close to zero, because whether we conclude that our respective numerical choices were or were not, in any sense, the same, we would have nevertheless crossed the threshold of causal deviation. Of course, this is the unconditional guarantee of indeterminism; there is simply no conceptually intelligible modal condition that would obviate this problem—not even the fraudulent counterfactual supposition that borrows its antecedent from reality. The unlikely possibility that this alternative should result again in my winning disallows the conclusion that 'things would have been different.'

It is not just that indeterminism offers no reason to believe that non-deterministic events are consistent with free will—though it does. It is instead that indeterminism is widely considered to be incompatible with free will entirely and to threaten a nonsensical fate for the world. That the world is not a chaotic jumble of events seems to be a very good reason to conclude that indeterminism is false. "The conception of indeterminism that now emerges," Richard Taylor wrote, "is not that of a free person, but of an erratic and jerking phantom, without any rhyme or reason at all." But Taylor's pessimism is hard to take seriously since his account disproves itself.

While probability theory can make sense of some of the practical problems of chance, it is nevertheless the case—as De Finetti unwaveringly insisted—that the notion of randomness itself is ultimately inexplicable in Bayesian terms. Wesley Salmon says that trying to attach probability to indeterministic chance "is as pointless as it is unjustified." Even Judea Pearl argues for nothing stronger than subjective degrees of belief. "Bayesian methods provide a formalism for reasoning about partial beliefs under conditions of uncertainty. In this formalism, propositions are given numerical parameters signifying the degree of belief accorded them under some body of knowledge, and the parameters are combined and manipulated according to the rules of probability theory," he noted, leaving plenty of room for indeterministic happenings.

Lewis showed that P(A Oj) is not necessarily equal to P(Oj | A). This distinction evinces the limitations of evidentiary decision theories—where these two expressions are always equal. Lewis's argument, unsurprisingly, makes use of possible worlds and modal reasoning. However, explicit concepts of subjective conditionals—common in other CDTs are given to dependency hypotheses in Lewis's philosophy. Brad Armendt summarizes his method: "Lewis recommend[s] that the agent consider various sets of counterfactual conditionals describing possible causal patterns the world might have that are relevant to the actions and consequences in question. Which of these causal patterns obtains is taken to be outside the agent's control, and in both theories the agent is told to weight the values he gives to the possible consequences by his degrees of belief in the competing conjunctions of causal counterfactual conditionals." This is a glimpse at the tortuous logic required to establish causality. Most recent developments in causal decision theory (CDT) broadly adopt the closely-related methodologies of Fishburn, Lewis, Skyrms, Gibbard, and Harper. These CDTs have in common a framework based on the agent's set of beliefs that the world is in a state not caused by his or her actions. One elaboration of this strategy is Lewis's dependency hypothesis, defined as "a maximally specific proposition about how the things [the agent] cares about do and do not depend causally on his present actions. Or in other words, "If I could have, then I would have.”