Category: Metaphysics

The bookshelves of the world abound with self-help tomes. Many profess to help with emotional woes, such as sadness, and make vague promises about happiness.  Philosophers have long been in the business of offering advice on how to be happy. Or at least how not  to be too sad.

Each spring semester I teach Modern Philosophy and cover our good dead friend Spinoza. In addition to an exciting career as a lens grinder, he also managed to avoid being killed by an assassin. However, breathing in all that glass dust contributed to his untimely death. But enough about his life and death, it is time to get to the point of this essay.

As Spinoza saw it, people are slaves to their emotions and chained to what they love, such as fame, fortune and other people. This inevitably leads to sadness: the people we love betray us or die. That fancy Tesla that once brought joy might become associated with a fascist. That million-dollar beach house can be swept away by the rising tide. A great job can be lost as a company seeks to boost its stock prices by downsizing the job fillers. And so on, through all the ways things can go badly.

While Spinoza was a pantheist and believed that everything is God and God is everything, his view of human beings is like that of the philosophical mechanist: humans are not magically exempt from the laws of nature. He was also a strict determinist: each event occurs from necessity and cannot be otherwise. There is no chance or choice. So, for example, Trump could not have lost the 2024 election As another example, I could not have written this essay in any other manner, so I had to make that remark about Trump winning in 2024 rather than mentioning his 2020 defeat.   

Buying into determinism, Spinoza took the view that human behavior and motivations can be examined as one might examine “lines, planes or bodies.” More precisely, he took the view that emotions follow the same necessity as all other things, thus making the effects of the emotions predictable provided one has enough knowledge.  Spinoza then used this idea as the basis for his “self-help” advice.

According to Spinoza all emotions are responses to the past, present or future. For example, a person might feel regret because she believes she could have made her last relationship work if she had only put more effort into it. As another example, a person might worry because he thinks that he might lose his job in the next round of downsizing at his company. These negative feelings rest, as Spinoza sees it, on the false belief that the past could have been otherwise and that the future is undetermined. Once a person realizes nothing could have been any different and the future cannot be anything other than what it will be, then that person will suffer less from emotions. Thus, for Spinoza, freedom from the enslaving chains is the recognition and acceptance that what was could not have been otherwise and what will be cannot be otherwise.

This view does have a certain appeal, and it does make sense that it can have some value. In regard to the past, people do often beat themselves up emotionally over past mistakes and wonder about how things might have been different.  These regrets can bind a person and thus trap them in the past as they spend hours wondering “what if?” This is not to say that feeling regret or guilt is wrong. Far from it. But lamenting about the past to the detriment of the now is a problem.  It is also a problem to believe that things could have been different when they, in fact, could not have been different.

This is also not to say that a person should not reflect on the past. After all, a person who does not learn from her mistakes is doomed to repeat them. People can, of course, also be trapped by the past because of what they see as good things. They are chained to what they (think) they once had or once were (such as being the big woman on campus back in college).

In regard to the future, it is easy to be trapped by anxiety, fear and even hope. It can be reassuring to embrace the view that what will be will be and to not worry and be happy. This is not to say that one should be foolish about the future, of course.

There is, unfortunately, one fatal and obvious problem with Spinoza’s advice. If everything is necessary and determined, his advice makes no sense: what is, must be and cannot be otherwise. To use an analogy, it would be like shouting advice at someone watching a cut scene in a video game. This is pointless, since the person cannot do anything to change what is occurring. What occurs must occur and cannot be otherwise. For Spinoza, while we might think life is like a game, it is like a cut scene: we are spectators and not players controlling the game.

The obvious counter is to say “but I feel free! I feel like I am making choices!” Spinoza was aware of this objection. In response, he claims that if a stone were conscious and hurled through the air, it would think it was free to choose to move and land where it does. People think they are free because they are “conscious of their own actions, and ignorant of the causes by which those actions are determined.” In other words, we think we are free because we do not know better. Going back to the video game analogy, we think we are in control as we push the buttons, but this is because we do not know how the game works. We are just along for the ride and not in control.

Since everything is determined, whether a person heeds Spinoza’s advice is also determined. If you do, then you do and you could not do otherwise. If you do not, you could not do otherwise. As such, his advice seems beyond useless. This is a stock paradox faced by determinists who give advice: their theory says that people cannot choose to follow their advice as they will just do what they are determined to do. That said, it is possible to salvage some useful advice from Spinoza.

The first step is to reject his view that I lack free will.  I have a stock argument for this that goes as follows. Obviously, I have free will or I do not. It is equally obvious that there is no way to tell whether I do or not. From an empirical standpoint, a universe with free will looks and feels just like a universe without free will: you just observe people doing stuff and apparently making decisions while thinking and feeling that you are doing the same.  Suppose someone rejects free will and they are wrong. In this case they are not only mistaken but also consciously rejecting real freedom. 

Suppose someone rejects free will and they are correct. In that case, they are right. But not in the sense that they made the correct choice. They are determined to have that view and it would just so happen that it matches reality.

If I can choose, then I should obviously choose free will. If I cannot choose, then I will think I chose whatever it is I am determined to believe. If I can choose and choose to think I cannot, I am in error. Since I cannot know which option is correct, it seems best to accept free will. If I am free, I am right. If I am not free, then I am mistaken but have no choice.

Given the above argument, I accept that I have agency. This makes it possible for me to meaningfully give and accept (or reject) advice. Turning back to Spinoza, I obviously cannot accept his advice that I am enslaved by determinism. However, I can accept some of his claims, namely that I am acted upon by my attachments and emotions. As he sees it, the emotions are things that act upon us. On my view, they would  be things that impinge upon our agency. As I love to do, I will use an analogy to running.

I thought about this  essay on a run and also focused on the fact that feelings of pain and tiredness were impacting me like the way cold or rain might. In the case of pain and tiredness, the attack is from inside. In the case of the cold or rain, the attack is from the outside. Whether the attack is from inside or out, the attack is trying to make the choice for me, to rob me of my agency as a runner and make me give up. If the pain, cold or rain makes me stop, then I am not acting. I am being acted upon. If I choose to stop, then I am acting. If I choose to go on, I am also acting. And acting rightly.  As a runner I know the difference between choosing to stop and being forced to stop.

Being aware of this is useful for running. Thanks to decades of experience I understand, in a way Spinoza might approve, the workings of pain, fatigue and so on. To use a specific example, I know that I am acted upon by pain and I understand how it works. As such, the pain is not in control, I am. If I wish, I can run myself to ruin (and I have done just this). Or I can be wiser and avoid damaging myself.

Turning back to emotions, feelings impinge upon me in ways analogous to pain and fatigue. I do not have full control over how I feel as the emotions simply occur, perhaps in response to events or perhaps simply as the result of an electrochemical imbalance. To use a specific example, like most people I will sometimes feel depressed and know I have no reason to feel this. It is like the cold or fatigue in that it is just impinging on me. As Spinoza argued, my knowledge of how this works is critical to dealing with it. While I cannot fully control the feeling, I understand why I feel that way. It is like the cold I felt running in the Maine winters. It is a natural phenomenon that is, from my perspective, trying to destroy me. In the case of the cold, I can wear warmer clothing and stay moving. Knowing how it works enables me to choose how to combat it. Likewise, knowing how negative feelings work enables me to choose how to combat them. If I am depressed for no reason, I know it is just my brain trying to kill me. It is not pleasant, but it does not get to make the decisions for me. Fortunately, our good dead friend Aristotle has some excellent advice for training oneself to handle emotions.

That said, the analogy to cold is particularly apt. The ice of the winter can kill even those who understand it and know how to resist it. Sometimes the cold is just too much. Likewise, the emotions can be like the howling icy wind and be too much for the mind. We are, after all, only human and have our limits. Knowing this is a part of wisdom. Sometimes you just need to come in from the cold or it will kill you. Have some hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

It is July 16, 2214. I am at Popham Beach in what I still think of as Maine. I am standing in the sand, watching the waves strike the shore. Sand pipers run in the surf, looking for lunch. I have a two-hundred-year-old memory of another visit to this beach. In that memory, the water is cold on the skin and there is a mild ache in the left knee, a relic of a quadriceps tendon repair. Today there is no ache. What serves as my knee is a biomechanical system free of all aches and pains. I can, if I wish, feel the cold by adjusting my sensors. I do so, and what was once data about temperature becomes a feeling in what I still call my mind. I downgrade my vision to that of a human, then tweak it so it perfectly matches the imperfect eyesight of the memory. I do the same for my hearing and turn off my other sensors until I am, as far as I can tell, merely human. I walk into the water, enjoying the feeling of the cold. My companion asks me if I have ever been here before. I pause and consider this question. I have a memory from a man who was here in 2014. But I do not know if I am him or if I am but a child of his memories. But it is a lovely day…too lovely for metaphysics. I say “yes, long ago”, and wait patiently for the setting of the sun.

In science fiction one form of immortality is downloading memories from an old body to a new one. This, of course, rests on the assumption that a person is their memories. Philosophers have long considered whether a person is her memories. John Locke claimed a person is their consciousness and, in a science fiction move, considered the possibility that memories could be transferred from one soul to another. While Locke’s view can be a bit confusing (he distinguishes between person, body, soul and consciousness while not being entirely clear about how memory relates to consciousness), he seems to think a person is their memory. As far back as a person’s memory goes, they go and this brings along moral accountability. Being a Christian, Locke was concerned about judgment day and needed a mechanism of personal identity that did not depend on the sameness of body. Being an empiricist, he also needed an empirical basis. Memory contained within a soul seemed to take care of both concerns.

As noted earlier, Locke anticipates the science fiction idea of memory transfer and considers the problem that arises if memory makes personal identity and if memory could be transferred or copied. His solution can be seen as a divine cheat: he claims God, in His goodness, would not allow this to happen. However, he does discuss cases in which one (specifically Nestor) loses all memory and thus ceases to be the same person, though the same soul might be present.

So, if Locke is right about memory being the basis of personal identity and wrong about God not allowing the copying of memory, then if my memories were transferred to another consciousness, then it would be me. So, in my opening story, if the being standing on the beach in 2214 had my memory from 2014, then we would be the same person, and I would be 248 years old.

David Hume, another dead British empiricist, presented a problem for Locke’s account: intuitively, people believe they can extend their identity beyond their memory. That is, I do not suppose that it was not me just because I forgot something. Rather, I suppose it was me and that I merely forgot. Hume took the view that memory is used to discover personal identity and then he went off the rails and declared it was all about grammar rather than philosophy.

Another stock problem with the memory account is that if memory can be copied, it can be copied many times. The problem is that what serves as the basis of personal identity is supposed to be what makes me who I am and distinct from everyone else. If what is supposed to provide my distinct identity can be duplicated, then it cannot be the basis of my distinct identity. Locke, as noted above, “solves” this problem by divine intervention. However, without this intervention there seems to be no reason why my memory of Popham Beach from 2014 could not be copied many times if it could be copied once. As such, the entity on the beach in 2214 might just have a copy of my memory, just as it might have a copy of the files stored on the phone I was carrying then. The companion mentioned in the short tale might also have those same memories, but they both cannot be me.

The entity on the beach might even have an actual memory from me, a literal piece of my brain. However, this might not make it the same person as me. To use an analogy, it might also have my watch or my finger bone from 2014, but this would not make it me.

Interestingly (or boringly) enough, the science fiction scenario really does not change the basic problems of identity over time. We must determine what makes me the person I am and what makes me distinct from all other things, be that a scenario involving the Mike from 2014 or the entity on the beach in 2214. For that entity on the beach to be me, it would need to possess whatever it is that made me the person I was in 2014 (and, hopefully, am now) and what distinguished that Mike from all other things, that is, my personness and my distinctness.

Since we do not know what these things are (or if they even are at all), there is no way to say whether that entity in 2214 could be me. It is safe, I think, to claim that if it is just a copy of something from my memories, then it is not me. At best, it would be a child of my memory. It would, as philosophers have long argued, have the same sort of connection to Mike 2014 that Mike 2014 had to Mike 2013. It is also worth considering that as Hume and Buddha have claimed, that there really is no self, so that entity on the beach in 2214 is not me, but neither am I.

When I was young, I had my first out of body experience (OBE for short). While I did not know about them at the time, I later learned that my experience matched the usual description: I felt as if the center of my awareness and perception had left my body. It seemed as if I could perceive from this out-of-body location, albeit with greater vividness (retrospectively, it seemed like high definition). After that, I had OBEs from time to time, especially when I was under great stress, such as in graduate school.

When I was a kid, I only had two explanations for the experiences. One was supernatural: my soul was leaving my body. The other was paranormal: somehow, I had some special sensory ability. As I learned philosophy and science, I came up with other explanations. As a bit of fun philosophy, I’ll go through some.

When I learned about metaphysical dualism and Descartes, I had a theory that would explain my experience. For dualists, there are two types of stuff: the mental and the physical. The mind is made of mental stuff which thinks but is not extended in space. The body is made of physical stuff that does not think but is extended in space. On the dualist view, a person is their mind, and this mind somehow interacts (or syncs) with the body. Since the mind is distinct from the body, it could presumably leave and still interact (or sync) with the physical world. Roughly put, an OBE would be having the ghost leaving the shell but then returning to the l living body.

This account of the OBE does face all the challenges of metaphysical dualism and some of its own. In terms of the usual problems, there is the difficulty in proving the existence of such a mind and the classic mind-body problem of accounting for how the mind and body interact. In terms of a specific problem with dualist OBE, there is the obvious problem of how a disembodied mind would perceive the physical world without its body. If it could do this, then there would be no need for sense organs and people would not lose their senses due to damage or disease.

Another approach to the OBE experience is to make use of Occam’s Razor, which can be taken as the metaphysical principle that entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity. That is, if there are competing explanations for a phenomenon, then the one with the fewest posited metaphysical entities has an advantage. The principle is also applied to the number of assumptions required by explanations, and it is sometimes crudely put as the notion that the simplest explanation is best.

In the case of my OBE experiences, an application of Occam’s Razor would cut away the metaphysical account in favor of one with fewer entities or assumptions. In this case, the more economical explanation would be that my experiences were the result of unusual activity in my nervous system that created the impression that my awareness was outside my body. Since such “malfunctions” do occur without the need to postulate a wandering soul, this explanation has the most scientific appeal. It is also disappointing; like learning a magic trick is not magic, but misdirection and deceit. Fortunately, it can be fun to briefly pretend to ignore the most plausible explanation and consider some other philosophical options. After the fun is over, the most plausible explanation should, of course, be reseated on its throne.

One interesting possibility is that the mind has the capacity to receive sensory data in non-standard ways. That is, our epistemic capabilities extend beyond our sense organs, or we are someone able to acquire sensory data from an unusual perspective. OBE experiences involve, at least in my case, only sight and hearing and these involve energy. It could be imagined that the nervous system is able to shift its perception point by manipulating this energy. The easy and obvious counter to this is that studies of the nervous system would have presumably found evidence of such a strange system. Since there seems to be no biological mechanism for this, this explanation is defective.

It also fun to consider the philosophical view known as phenomenology or idealism. This view was most famously held by Berkeley.  His view made it into the popular consciousness with the question: “if a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it, does it make a sound?” The answer, for Berkeley, was that there is always someone there to hear it. This someone is, of course, God and He perceives everything all the time. This might explain why when you shower, you might feel like someone is watching. 

Getting back on track, Berkeley’s philosophical view is a rejection of dualism. Unlike the metaphysical materialist who rejects the mind and accepts matter, Berkeley accepted the mind and rejected matter. For him, what we regard as physical objects are collections of ideas in minds. For example, the device that you are using to read this is not a physical machine and it is “made” of ideas. On this view, all experiences are OBE as there are no bodies in which to have experiences. However, one could have experiences as if one was outside one’s body.

Another way to look at phenomenology is to think of virtual reality. On this view reality is all virtual with no physical entities. This provides a way to explain OBEs, they could be glitches in perception. To use a video game first person shooter analogy, the game is supposed to set the camera so that it is as if you are seeing the world from the eyes of your character. This camera can glitch due to a software error, causing you to see the game world from a point “outside” your character’s head. This would be a game OBE. If phenomenology is correct, then perhaps OBEs are these sorts of glitches as the point of perception is briefly in the wrong place. Since the world is clearly imperfect, such glitches are not inconceivable. Alternatively, it need not be glitch, perhaps this sort of perceptual capability is a feature and not a bug.

While I would like to regard my OBEs as supporting metaphysical dualism (and thus the possibility of existence after death), the best explanation is the least fun, that it is a malfunction of the brain and a strange hallucination.

While the classic werewolf is a human with the ability to shift into the shape of a wolf, movies usually show a transformation into a wolf-human hybrid. The standard werewolf has a taste for human flesh, a vulnerability to silver and a serious shedding problem. Some werewolves have impressive basketball skills, but that is not a standard werewolf ability.

There have been various efforts to explain werewolf myths and legends. Some of the scientific (or at least pseudo-scientific) theories include mental illness or disease. On these accounts, the werewolf does not transform into a wolf-like creature; they are afflicted people. These non-magical werewolves are possible but are more tragic than horrific.

There are also supernatural accounts of werewolves, many involving vague references to curses. In many tales, the condition can be transmitted, perhaps by a bite or even by texting. These magical beasts are not possible unless, of course, this is a magical world.

There has even been some speculation about technology-based shifters, perhaps nanotechnology that can rapidly re-structure a living creature without killing it. But these would be werewolves of science fiction.

Interestingly enough, there could also be philosophical werewolves (which, to steal from Adventure Time, could be called “whywolves”) that have a solid metaphysical foundation. Well, as solid as metaphysics gets.

Our good dead friend Plato (who was probably not a werewolf) laid out a theory of Forms. According to Plato, the Forms are supposed to be eternal, perfect entities that exist outside of space and time. As such, they are even weirder than werewolves. However, they neither shed nor consume human flesh, so they have some positive qualities relative to werewolves.

For Plato, all the particular entities in this imperfect realm are what they are in virtue of their instantiation of Forms. This is sometimes called “participation”, perhaps to make the particulars sound like they have civic virtue. To illustrate this with an example, my husky Isis was a husky because she participated in the form of Husky. This is, no doubt, among the noblest and best of dog forms. Likewise, Isis was furry because she instantiated the form of Fur (and shared this instantiation with all things she contacted, such was the depth of her generosity).

While there is some nice stuff here in the world, it is evident that all the particulars lack perfection. For example, while Donald Trump’s buildings are clearly quality structures, they are not perfect buildings. Likewise, while he does have a somewhat orange color, he does not possess perfect Orange (John Boehner is closer to the Form of Orange yet still lacks perfection).

Plato’s account of the imperfection of particulars, like Donald Trump, involves the claim that particulars instantiate or participate in the Forms in varying degrees. When explaining this to my students, I usually use the example of photocopies of various quality. The original is analogous to the Form while the copies of varying quality are analogous to the particulars.  Another example could be selfies taken of a person using cameras of various qualities. I find that the youth relate more to selfies than to photocopies.

Plato also asserts that particulars can instantiate or participate in “contrasting” Forms. He uses the example of how things here in the earthly realm have both Beauty and Ugliness, thus they lack perfect Beauty. For example, even the most attractive supermodel still has flaws. As such, a person’s beauty (or ugliness) is a blend of Beauty and Ugliness. Since people can look more or less beautiful over time (time and gravity are both very mean), this mix can shift and the degree of participation or instantiation can change. This mixing and shifting of instantiation can be used to provide a Platonic account of werewolves (which is not the same as having a Platonic relation with a werewolf).

If the huge assumptions are made that a particular is what it is because it instantiates various Forms and that the instantiations of Forms can be mixed or blended in a particular, then werewolves can easily be given a metaphysical explanation in the context of Forms.

For Plato, a werewolf would be a particular that instantiated the Form of Man but also the Form of Wolf. As such, the being would be part man and part wolf. When the person is participating most in the Form of Man, then he would appear (and act) human. However, when the Form of Wolf became dominant, her form and behavior would shift towards that of the wolf.

Plato mentions the Sun in the Allegory of the Cave as well as the light of the moon. So, it seems appropriate that the moon (which reflects the light of the sun) is credited in many tales with triggering the transformation from human to wolf. Perhaps since, as Aristotle claimed, humans are rational animals, the direct light of the sun means that the human Form is dominant. The reflected light of the full moon would, at least in accord with something I just made up, result in a distortion of reason and thus allow the animal Form of Wolf to dominate. There can also be a nice connection here to Plato’s account of the three-part soul: when the Wolf is in charge, reason is mostly asleep.

While it is the wolf that usually takes the blame for the evil of the werewolf, it seems more plausible that this comes from the form of Man. After all, research on wolves shows that they have been given a bad rap. So, whatever evil is in the werewolf comes from the human part. The howling, though, is all wolf.

On an episode of the Late Show, host Stephen Colbert and Jane Lynch had an interesting discussion of guardian angels. Lynch, who starred as a guardian angel in “Angel from Hell”, related a story of how her guardian angel held her in a protective embrace during a low point of her life. Colbert, ever the rational Catholic, noted that he believed in guardian angels despite knowing they do not exist. The question of the existence of guardian angels is yet another way to consider the classic problem of evil.

In general terms, a guardian angel is a supernatural, benevolent being who serves as a personal protector. The nature of  this guarding varies. For some, the guardian angel is supposed to serve in the classic “angel on the shoulder” role and provide good advice. For others, the angel provides a comforting presence. Some even claim that guardian angels take a very active role, such as reducing a potentially fatal fall to one that merely inflicts massive injury. My interest is, however, not with the specific functions of guardian angels, but with the question of their existence.

In the context of monotheism, a guardian angel is an agent of God. As such, this ties them into the problem of evil. The general problem of evil is the challenge of reconciling the alleged existence of God with the existence of evil. Some take this problem to decisively show that God does not exist. Others contend that it shows that God is not how philosophers envision Him in the problem, so that He is not omniscient, omnibenevolent or omnipotent. In the case of guardian angels, the challenge is to reconcile their alleged existence with evil.

There are presumably thousands or millions of cases each day in which a guardian angel could have saved the day with little effort. For example, a guardian angel could tell the police the location of a kidnapped or missing child. As another example, a guardian angel could keep a ladder from slipping. They could also do more difficult things, like preventing cancer from killing children or deflecting bullets away from school children. Since none of this ever happens, the obvious conclusion is that there are no guardian angels of this type.

However, as with the main problem of evil, there are ways to address this problem. One option, which is not available in the case of God, is to argue that guardian angels have very limited capabilities and are weak supernatural beings. Alternatively, they might operate under very restrictive rules. One problem with this reply is that weak angels are indistinguishable in their effects from non-existent angels. Another problem ties this into the broader problem of evil: why wouldn’t God deploy a better sort of guardian or give them broader rules? This, of course, just brings up the usual problem of evil.

Another option is that not everyone gets an angel. Jane Lynch, for example, might get an angel that hugged her. Alan Kurdi, the young boy who drowned trying to flee Syria, did not get a guardian angel. While this would be an explanation of sorts, it still just pushes the problem back: why would God not provide everyone in need with a guardian? We humans are, of course, limited in our resources and abilities, so everyone cannot be protected all the time. However, an omnipotent God does not face this challenge.

It is also possible to make use of a stock reply to the problem of evil and bring in the Devil. Perhaps Lucifer deploys his demonic agents to counter the guardian angels. So, when something bad happens to a good person, it is because her guardian angel was defeated by a demon. While this has a certain appeal, it would require a world in which God and the Devil are closely matched, thus allowing the Devil to defy God and defeat His other angels. This, of course, just brings in the general problem of evil: unless one postulates two roughly equal deities, God is on the hook for the Devil and his demons. Or rather, God’s demons since He created them.

Guardian angels fare no better than God in regards to the problem of evil. That said, the notion of benevolent, supernatural personal guardians predates monotheism. Socrates, for example, claimed to have a guardian who would warn him of bad choices (which Stephen Colbert also claims to have).

These sorts of guardians were not claimed to be agents of a perfect being, and so avoid the problem of evil. Supernatural beings that are freelancers or who serve a limited deity can reasonably be expected to be limited in their abilities and it would make sense that not everyone would have a guardian. Conflict between opposing supernatural agencies also makes sense, since there is no postulation of a single supreme being.

While these supernatural guardians do avoid the problem of evil, they run up against the problem of evidence: there does not appear to be adequate evidence for the existence of such supernatural beings. In fact, the alleged evidence for them is better explained by alternatives. For example, a little voice in one’s head is better explained in terms of the psychological rather than the supernatural (a benign mental condition rather than a supernatural guardian). As another example, a fall that badly injures a person rather than killing them is better explained in terms of the vagaries of chance than in terms of supernatural intervention.

Given the above discussion, there seems to be little reason to believe in the existence of guardian angels. The world would be radically different if they did exist, so they do not. Or they do so little as to make no meaningful difference, which is hard to distinguish from them not existing at all.  

I certainly do not begrudge the belief in guardian angels. If that belief leads them to make better choices and feel safer in a dangerous world, then it is a benign belief. I certainly have comforting beliefs as well, such as the belief that most people are basically good. Perhaps these beliefs are our guardian angels.

In philosophy, the classic problem of universals is determining in virtue of what (If anything) a particular individual is a member of a category. Some philosophers, such as Armstrong, Plato, and myself believe that at least some categories are metaphysically real and are thus as realists about properties. For example, if mass is a real quality, then entities with mass are grouped into that category in virtue of possessing that metaphysical property. A realist does not need to accept that all categories have a metaphysical foundation. For example, I take race and gender as human made ideas rather than being grounded in metaphysical entities. To use a less contentious example, I also take the property of being a citizen of the United States to be a social construct rather than a real metaphysical entity.

When talking about particulars being in categories, there are two general ways to view this. One is a matter of grouping: the property is what puts an entity into that category. There is also the matter of the entity being what it is in terms of the quality. These two can amount to the same thing but can be distinguished conceptually. For example, there is what it is for a green thing to be in the category of green things and the matter of what it to be green. Again, one might determine that these amount to the same thing. To illustrate, Plato would (probably) say that the Form of Beauty groups beautiful things into that category and makes a beautiful individual beautiful. I have not, of course, gotten into the epistemic aspect of this, such as how we know that something is in a category. I have also not addressed alternatives to metaphysical realism about properties. But for the sake of what follows, I will assume properties are real so that I can get on to discussing substances and substrata.

Philosophers such as Aristotle and Descartes accepted the existence of substance and define it as something that exists in a manner that does not depend on other entities. This can quickly get messy, but to keep it simple think of an everyday object like an apple.  It can exist as a distinct entity, apart from other things. Yes, I know that apples come from trees and depend on the existence of dimensions such as time; but I am keeping it simple here. The ability for an apple to exist on its own contrasts with that of its properties. To illustrate, I can buy an apple at Publix and take it home. I can take a bite out of it, taking that piece from the apple. But no matter how I bite it, I cannot bite away the property of mass or shape and have just mass or shape in my stomach. As such, properties are taken by many philosophers as not being substances. You can have an apple in your stomach, but you cannot have just apple shape or apple mass in your stomach. Because of this sort of thinking, philosophers such as John Locke have reluctantly accepted substance, calling it “something I know not what.” Others, of course, have rejected substance. If you accept properties as existing as part of substances, there is then the matter of whether the substance is just a bundle of properties or if there is another metaphysical entity that “binds” the properties together into a substance.

While bundle theorists have the advantage of metaphysical economy, they face the problem of explaining what connects the properties together into a single entity. Substrata theorists, like me, claim that there is a second type of metaphysical entity, the substrata. It has the function of binding properties together to form objects. While I have argued in favor of substrata at length, teaching the subject again in my Metaphysics class provided me with a metaphor that might help explain the matter.

Think of properties as being like paints and objects being like paintings. For those who just believe in properties and reject substrata, a painting would just be paint. Metaphorically, one would paint a painting by painting nothing; there would just be paint touching paint, forming a painting. Naturally, one could talk about letting some paint dry and then painting on that paint like a canvas, but there would be the question of what the first paint was painted on.

For those who accept substrata, the canvas (or other surface) would be like the substratum and the properties would be like paint: one paints on the canvas and the canvas plus the paint forms the painting. Naturally, metaphors and analogies tend to fall apart quickly when pressed. For example, one could say that one just needs to paint on the canvas until the paint dries, then peel the paint off. While this would be a flimsy painting, a painting made entirely of paint could thus exist. At least after it had been painted on a canvas. One could also reject the paint analogy or modify it in some manner so a painting could just be paint without a canvas. But the canvas and paint metaphor has a certain appeal.