Well...
Traditionally, scientific realism states confidently that the world, as described by science, is the real world. It can also be described with the help of two doctrines, the ontological and epistemological. Ontologically, being a branch of metaphysics dealing with the nature of being, or epistemologically, a theory of knowledge, especially with regard to its scope, methods, and validity. We often think of epistemological situations when investigating what distinguishes justified belief from opinion.
There are several arguments taking charge against scientific realism, of which include underdetermination and pessimistic meta-induction, or inductive reasoning applied to scientific theories. Underdetermination, which is also at times referred to as the indeterminacy of data to theory, occurs when more than one theory is compatible with the evidence, we can then say that the evidence underdetermines the theory. In other words, a theory, with the inclusion of said theory’s evidence, will be underdetermined if and only if there is a contending theory that is at the very least, somewhat uniform with the evidence of the original theory. Since the evidence accompanying the original theory is unable to show that it’s hypothesis is not idiosyncratically true, then there is no reason the believe the theory over one equally as permissible. Quinean underdetermination is slightly different and states that any theory can be reconciled with any recalcitrant evidence by making suitable adjustments in our other assumptions about nature (Curd & Cover, 328). The method employs four different positive relations simultaneously which are arguably unrelated. The theory must be logically compatible with the evidence, logically entail the evidence, explain the evidence, and be empirically supported by the evidence.
There exist four forms of underdetermination, strong, weak, deductive, and inductive. A theory is strongly underdetermined when it is impossible to develop evidence which could lead to an acceptance of both the alpha theory and its competitor. Weak underdetermination occurs when the amount of evidence at one’s immediate disposal fails to prove the theory in question, while evidence discovered sometime into the future has the possibility of doing so. Further differentiation includes deductive and inductive forms of underdetermination. Deductively, two theories will be underdetermined when procurable evidence fails to thoroughly assert the opposite of either theory. Inductively, while the theories in question are compatible with one another, there is no way to discern which of the two is of a more effective quality.
Pessimistic meta-induction, also called the argument from scientific revolutions, is another argument which also pursues to refute avenues of scientific realism in an epistemological fashion. Subversion of a theory is achieved through pointing out key past documented counterexamples in the same way a lawyer would reference a historical verdict in favor of their own client’s ruling. This leads us to believe that all present theories will inevitably conclude to be false, which in turn alludes to thinking that there are no reasons to accept scientific theoretical postulations, nor are current scientific theories true or almost true. Larry Laudan claims that in order to succeed, a scientific realist must accept two theses. One, if a theory, T, is approximately true, it will be empirically successful and two, the empirical success of a theory, T, provides justification for the approximate truth of T. However, he argues that an approximation of the truth is far to vague to determine the theory’s empirical successfulness. Laudan also provides several counterexamples that were once empirically effective but are now considered to be false, among these are optical aether, circular inertia, and of course the once fabled crystal ball. Certain theories are of course refutable, but others like the Standard Model are still perfectly viable and have been proven to be approximately true with astounding increases in accuracy over the past century.
Physicist Lisa Randall views meta-induction as obsolete. When asked if there was a prospect of another Einstein-style moment that upends our entire understanding of the universe she said “Yes, in the sense that we could find some big things that underlie what we currently see. When we upend things in physics these days, it’s not necessarily that the old things were wrong. It’s just that underlying it is a more complete theory. Quantum mechanics tells us that a ball is made up of atoms, but Newton’s laws still work just fine. You can predict that ball’s trajectory without knowing that the ball is made up of atoms.”
“It sounds kind of technical, but problems like why gravity is so weak point to something dramatic. It could be extradimensional space, it could be a change in the nature of what we think are the symmetries of space and time. We clearly are missing something big. That isn’t necessarily something to be proud of, but it tells us that there is something waiting out there” (Revkin, 158).
The common-sensical views portrayed by scientific realism definitely help justify our beliefs that our best scientific theories are true or approximately true. This nature makes maintaining a form of scientific realism reasonable. While the rationalization of science is based on accordance with reason and logic, anti-realist beliefs tend to stray from the obvious for reasons deemed juxtapositional. The best explanation, for example, for the fact that measuring Avogadro's number (a constant specifying the number of molecules in a mole of any given substance) using such diverse phenomena as Brownian motion, alpha decay, x-ray diffraction, electrolysis, and blackbody radiation gives the same result is that matter really is composed of the unobservable entities we call molecules (Zynda, 2). If this were false, it would be surprisingly coincidental to find that these examples all displayed similar behaviors similar to anything else composed of a molecular composure. Yet, when we filter out all distractions and arbitrary information, we see that most, if not all theories comply accordingly with related coincidences and are more likely than not, derived from these coincidences all together.
Sources and further readings,if you are still awake:
Curd, Martin., and J.A. Cover. Philosophy of Science. New York: W.W. Norton and Company Inc., 1998.
Ladyman, James. Understanding Philosophy of Science. New York: Routledge, 2003.
Laudan, Larry "A Confutation of Convergent Realism." Philosophy of Science 48.1 (1981): 19-49.
Revkin, Andrew. "Where We're Going." Rolling Stone 15 Nov. 2007: 158.
Zynda, Lyle. “Scientific Realism vs. Constructive Empiricism.” Princeton University. Princeton, NJ. 5 Apr. 1994.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
tang, snot, and a mud brick oven
Having amassed an educated guess of 10,000 or so meals (give or take) with my siblings throughout the duration of our respective lives, the most culturally shocking, or more genteelly put, culturally dilating of the myriad clambakes were explicitly those consumed abroad in northeastern Africa.
My virgin passport, became the beholder of a freshly licked Egyptian Visa stamp upon entry into the once ancient pharaonic sovereign state. My knowledge of Arabic had proven to be linguistically inadequate when immersed in “real life” situations following an inevitably meaningless conversation with an Egyptian National Railways conductor concerning the whereabouts of the 10:00 PM sleeper to Aswan. An elderly Brit divulged that the train was running 10 minutes late and would be there shortly, provided other locomotive interruptions were absent. I assessed the kung fu grip I had on the straps of my backpack was causing an early onset of rheumatoid arthritis within the joints of my 18 year old digits. Easing up on my belongings, I scrounged around for a few Egyptian pounds in what I preferred to call my waist belt security pouch carryall, oftentimes known as a fanny pack back in the U S of A.
Boasting a dismal 1 inch of rainfall that year, Cairo had already feverishly parched my throat, at 10 in the evening nonetheless. A vender holding his own on the platform had a variety of drinks that all looked suspiciously delicious, reminiscent of Japanese candy, however I stuck with what I knew. Unfortunately all I seemed to know was the all too familiar late 1950’s Kraft invention notably known as Tang which mysteriously disappeared from most American grocer and country market shelves sometime in the mid 90’s, I now knew the whereabouts of the elusive Tang. Biting the bullet, I purchased several packets of the old wives tale dishwasher detergent doppelgänging as a thirst quencher to mix with a larger container of water, the bottled variety, of which a liter or so remained.
After giving my transparent blue Nalgene bottle a vigorous shake to mix up the citrus powder infused H2O, I inspected its contents to find plenty of Tang particles hadn’t dissolved and were settling near the bottom like yeast in an aged cream stout or sediments in a poorly decanted pinot. After a few wafts my nose detected tannins of crap and notes of funk, sure enough my first sip tasted like someone had sprayed California Orange Air Freshener directly in my mouth. The Tang was decanted, needless to say, from my water bottle to another large container; Earth. My train had arrived by this time and was duly boarded by the platform of patrons awaiting its arrival. Aswan and Nubia were a mere 13 hours from Cairo by way of the southbound iron horse caravan filled with onlookers of the desert, some trying to catch a few winks, while others and myself attempt to fathom oceans of sand by light of the nearly full moon.
A few days after my arrival in Aswan, my sister Elizabeth, with whom I was staying, mentioned that we would be dining with a Nubian woman by the name of Zuba. One of many Nubian women my sister had been working with for the past several years, Zuba spoke not a word of English and had invited us to her home for afternoon conversation followed by an authentic Nubian meal in the evening prepared solely by Zuba herself. Elizabeth would surely be my translator having studied Arabic for nearly 8 years now, as well as the Nubian dialect for nearly half of those.
Zuba’s home resided outside of Aswan on the eastern shore of the Nile within one of the remaining Nubian providences. On the quick fairy boat trip across the river, I reminisced about my list of “things to do while I’m in Egypt” that I had drawn up a week before the adventure began. “Try as many different foods as possible” was near the top of the list, I didn’t have it with me to denote its precise enumeration, but it was definitely within the top 3, to my recollection. Elizabeth had dined with Zuba on several occasions and knew the menu wasn’t too verbose.
“And what is Zuba preparing for our grand exotic feast?”
“Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, and fool. Rice, I bet.”
“Molokawhat? Rice? Ok. Rice. Awesome.”
“Haha, Molokhiyya. It’s cut up molokhiyya leaves boiled in chicken stock with a sauce composed of lots of garlic and ground coriander fried in oil, added to the soup with some lemon juice. Tomatoes maybe. You’ll see.”
“Well, I’m starving. And molokjambolaya... er... you know... sounds excellent.”
Zuba’s home was expansive, made of sun dried bricks, and had many open air areas in the hallways connecting the different portions of the abode, accompanied by a larger roofless courtyard area in the center. The word primitive was frequently on my mind, but always followed by fantasies of moving in, or building my own mud bricked home on the banks of the Nile. I was thoroughly compelled to drop out of college right then and there to study my own self loathing for life as it was previously known to me. My brain smoothly switched to passive misanthropic mode as it began discarding a society filled with 52 inch plasma televisions, cell phones, laptops, and e-commerce to gladly accept the humble hospitality of Zuba and her family, whom offered me the warmest of welcomes with an amiability that knew no bounds.
Elizabeth and I sat on the floor of Zuba’s “dining room,” a smaller offshoot of the courtyard, with earth flooring and personal art and leather work hanging on two of the three walls. Dinner was just as my sister predicted. Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, fool -- which was mashed fava beans with garlic, cumin, and oil -- and rice. Aish shamsi’s literal translation was “sun bread.” Resembling 2 inch flat pita loaves, the aish shamsi is left to rise in the sun before baking in Zuba’s handmade mud brick oven. I tried some of the sun bread, first with no additions, and it was almost identical to a pita, although it was a bit more robust and fresh than something you would find at Whole Foods. I then ripped another hefty piece of shamsi from the loaf and went in for the kill, scooping a generous scoop of molokhiyya from the serving dish it was held up in. The excess slowly dripped from the torn bread with the consistency of snot from a bawling toddler’s nose. I could have used a sieve to separate the coarse molokhiyya leaves and garlic from the mucoid luggie broth they had been festering in. As my sister and Zuba got a kick out of the petrified look on my face, I decided to keep on keepin’ on and down the sucker. The slime nearly caused an abdominal evacuation, but I managed to keep it down. I deemed it was time to pursue a new avenue of nourishment. Sure, there was a McDonald’s in Luxor, but I didn’t cross the pond for a Big Mac.
My virgin passport, became the beholder of a freshly licked Egyptian Visa stamp upon entry into the once ancient pharaonic sovereign state. My knowledge of Arabic had proven to be linguistically inadequate when immersed in “real life” situations following an inevitably meaningless conversation with an Egyptian National Railways conductor concerning the whereabouts of the 10:00 PM sleeper to Aswan. An elderly Brit divulged that the train was running 10 minutes late and would be there shortly, provided other locomotive interruptions were absent. I assessed the kung fu grip I had on the straps of my backpack was causing an early onset of rheumatoid arthritis within the joints of my 18 year old digits. Easing up on my belongings, I scrounged around for a few Egyptian pounds in what I preferred to call my waist belt security pouch carryall, oftentimes known as a fanny pack back in the U S of A.
Boasting a dismal 1 inch of rainfall that year, Cairo had already feverishly parched my throat, at 10 in the evening nonetheless. A vender holding his own on the platform had a variety of drinks that all looked suspiciously delicious, reminiscent of Japanese candy, however I stuck with what I knew. Unfortunately all I seemed to know was the all too familiar late 1950’s Kraft invention notably known as Tang which mysteriously disappeared from most American grocer and country market shelves sometime in the mid 90’s, I now knew the whereabouts of the elusive Tang. Biting the bullet, I purchased several packets of the old wives tale dishwasher detergent doppelgänging as a thirst quencher to mix with a larger container of water, the bottled variety, of which a liter or so remained.
After giving my transparent blue Nalgene bottle a vigorous shake to mix up the citrus powder infused H2O, I inspected its contents to find plenty of Tang particles hadn’t dissolved and were settling near the bottom like yeast in an aged cream stout or sediments in a poorly decanted pinot. After a few wafts my nose detected tannins of crap and notes of funk, sure enough my first sip tasted like someone had sprayed California Orange Air Freshener directly in my mouth. The Tang was decanted, needless to say, from my water bottle to another large container; Earth. My train had arrived by this time and was duly boarded by the platform of patrons awaiting its arrival. Aswan and Nubia were a mere 13 hours from Cairo by way of the southbound iron horse caravan filled with onlookers of the desert, some trying to catch a few winks, while others and myself attempt to fathom oceans of sand by light of the nearly full moon.
A few days after my arrival in Aswan, my sister Elizabeth, with whom I was staying, mentioned that we would be dining with a Nubian woman by the name of Zuba. One of many Nubian women my sister had been working with for the past several years, Zuba spoke not a word of English and had invited us to her home for afternoon conversation followed by an authentic Nubian meal in the evening prepared solely by Zuba herself. Elizabeth would surely be my translator having studied Arabic for nearly 8 years now, as well as the Nubian dialect for nearly half of those.
Zuba’s home resided outside of Aswan on the eastern shore of the Nile within one of the remaining Nubian providences. On the quick fairy boat trip across the river, I reminisced about my list of “things to do while I’m in Egypt” that I had drawn up a week before the adventure began. “Try as many different foods as possible” was near the top of the list, I didn’t have it with me to denote its precise enumeration, but it was definitely within the top 3, to my recollection. Elizabeth had dined with Zuba on several occasions and knew the menu wasn’t too verbose.
“And what is Zuba preparing for our grand exotic feast?”
“Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, and fool. Rice, I bet.”
“Molokawhat? Rice? Ok. Rice. Awesome.”
“Haha, Molokhiyya. It’s cut up molokhiyya leaves boiled in chicken stock with a sauce composed of lots of garlic and ground coriander fried in oil, added to the soup with some lemon juice. Tomatoes maybe. You’ll see.”
“Well, I’m starving. And molokjambolaya... er... you know... sounds excellent.”
Zuba’s home was expansive, made of sun dried bricks, and had many open air areas in the hallways connecting the different portions of the abode, accompanied by a larger roofless courtyard area in the center. The word primitive was frequently on my mind, but always followed by fantasies of moving in, or building my own mud bricked home on the banks of the Nile. I was thoroughly compelled to drop out of college right then and there to study my own self loathing for life as it was previously known to me. My brain smoothly switched to passive misanthropic mode as it began discarding a society filled with 52 inch plasma televisions, cell phones, laptops, and e-commerce to gladly accept the humble hospitality of Zuba and her family, whom offered me the warmest of welcomes with an amiability that knew no bounds.
Elizabeth and I sat on the floor of Zuba’s “dining room,” a smaller offshoot of the courtyard, with earth flooring and personal art and leather work hanging on two of the three walls. Dinner was just as my sister predicted. Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, fool -- which was mashed fava beans with garlic, cumin, and oil -- and rice. Aish shamsi’s literal translation was “sun bread.” Resembling 2 inch flat pita loaves, the aish shamsi is left to rise in the sun before baking in Zuba’s handmade mud brick oven. I tried some of the sun bread, first with no additions, and it was almost identical to a pita, although it was a bit more robust and fresh than something you would find at Whole Foods. I then ripped another hefty piece of shamsi from the loaf and went in for the kill, scooping a generous scoop of molokhiyya from the serving dish it was held up in. The excess slowly dripped from the torn bread with the consistency of snot from a bawling toddler’s nose. I could have used a sieve to separate the coarse molokhiyya leaves and garlic from the mucoid luggie broth they had been festering in. As my sister and Zuba got a kick out of the petrified look on my face, I decided to keep on keepin’ on and down the sucker. The slime nearly caused an abdominal evacuation, but I managed to keep it down. I deemed it was time to pursue a new avenue of nourishment. Sure, there was a McDonald’s in Luxor, but I didn’t cross the pond for a Big Mac.
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