[continued from previous message]   
      
   conscious. It got together with more cells, and they formed an animal   
   that was even more conscious…   
      
   The biggest challenge to panpsychism: the combination problem   
   But wait a second. There’s a problem for the panpsychist here. If the   
   tiniest particles have conscious experiences, how exactly do they   
   combine to produce a more complex thing with its own conscious   
   experience? What’s more, how do we explain things like tables or chairs?   
   Panpsychists generally do not argue that those things are conscious   
   subjects but how do we explain why they aren’t, while the collection of   
   atoms known as a human is?   
      
   This is known as the "combination problem," and it’s typically seen as   
   the biggest challenge to panpsychism. Any panpsychist owes you an   
   explanation of why they think the littlest bits are conscious, and   
   humans are conscious, but the table is not.   
      
   Our old friend Giordano Bruno anticipated this way back in the 16th   
   century. He argued that even though the tiniest "corpuscles" inside a   
   table are conscious, they do not produce a unified conscious subject   
   when they come together in the form of an inorganic object. "I say,   
   then, that the table is not animated as a table, nor are the clothes as   
   clothes," he wrote, but "in all things there is spirit, and there is not   
   the least corpuscle that does not contain within itself some portion   
   that may animate it."   
      
   Panpsychists like Leidenhag make the same move today. "I think it   
   follows our intuitions to say that a table isn’t conscious because the   
   parts are not interacting together there’s no real unity going on with a   
   table," she told me. "Whereas with a plant, there really is clear   
   unity."   
      
   In other words, a plant is a goal-directed system with unity of purpose.   
   Its parts are all working together as a team to perform the essential   
   processes that keep the system running. That’s very different from a   
   table, where particles are squished together but are not collaborating.   
      
   A small budding flower on a fuzzy stem, outlined by golden sunlight.   
   A small budding flower on a fuzzy stem, outlined by golden sunlight.   
   That sounded to me like Leidenhag was saying that the table is not   
   conscious because it’s not alive. So I asked her if she thinks that   
   aliveness and consciousness are one and the same.   
      
   "What I would say is aliveness is one name for the process by which   
   conscious parts unify to form new conscious wholes," she replied. "So I   
   could say that a single electron is not alive, but it is conscious. And   
   when it is part of a living system, it creates a bigger consciousness."   
      
   Leidenhag acknowledges that she can’t prove an electron is conscious or   
   that panpsychism is right about consciousness. But, she told me, "I   
   think it’s the most plausible of a bunch of implausible views about   
   consciousness."   
      
   Strawson said the same thing. "It’s the least worst view," he laughed.   
      
   Here’s the really funny thing: Panpsychists and materialists will both   
   concede that they can’t disprove the other camp’s view, because we don’t   
   have definitive evidence either way. Yet both believe their own view is   
   the simplest and likeliest explanation the most "parsimonious," as   
   Strawson and Seth each told me.   
      
   Panpsychism has the advantage of letting us sidestep the hard problem.   
   But materialism has an advantage, too: no combination problem. So, does   
   one come out ahead?   
      
   The difference between them may be more methodological than anything   
   else. Materialism restricts itself to what it can establish empirically,   
   testable detail by testable detail, with the hope of groping its way   
   toward a broad theoretical framework. Panpsychism has historically let   
   itself dream big, starting out with the broad theory and hoping to fill   
   in the details later. What’s exciting is that scientists like Levin are   
   now combining the methodology of materialism with the theory of   
   panpsychism, seeing how they might fit together. These scientists are   
   digging right underneath the wall that was erected in the 17th century   
   the one that split matter from mind. Where that will lead is anyone’s   
   guess.   
      
   What are the ethical implications? Does panpsychism mean I can’t eat   
   anything?   
      
   A few years ago, I was chatting about panpsychism with a friend. I   
   mentioned that I don’t know if the theory is true, but I hope it is.   
   When my friend asked why, I said simply, "So many little buddies   
   everywhere!"   
      
   To me, panpsychism offered an enchanted view of the world. I suspected   
   that if it were the prevailing view, people might be less likely to feel   
   lonely or to destroy nature, because they’d see kin everywhere.   
      
   But my friend had a totally different reaction. He was horrified by the   
   idea of panpsychism. "Think of how much suffering there could be in the   
   world!" he said.   
      
   His reaction points to the big ethical question looming over   
   panpsychism: If it’s right, then how the hell are we supposed to live?   
   If everything is conscious, then can we not eat anything?   
      
   For one thing, panpsychism doesn’t argue that everything is equally   
   conscious. Different things are conscious to different degrees, so we   
   might feel different levels of moral obligation to them.   
      
   "It has made me a more committed vegetarian because it’s just made me   
   more sensitive to the consciousness of other creatures. It forces you to   
   think about your moral reasoning," Leidenhag told me. But, she added, "I   
   don’t think that it makes it impossible for you to go about your life   
   consuming things."   
      
   While the consciousness of a given creature may matter a lot, morally   
   speaking, lots of other things matter, too. Consider our relationship to   
   the creature: Have we made it dependent on us by domesticating it, or   
   does it live in the wild? Has it had the chance to live a full life? Is   
   it fundamentally hostile to us? Bedbugs may have some degree of   
   consciousness, but that doesn’t mean you’re a moral monster if you call   
   an exterminator. Your own ability to survive and thrive is also part of   
   the moral calculus. It’s probably inevitable that sometimes the   
   interests of different conscious beings are going to be in tension with   
   each other, or flat-out incompatible; when that happens, we have to make   
   choices as best we can.   
      
   And what about some advanced artificial intelligence we may invent in   
   the future? Could it become as conscious as a biological creature,   
   despite being made of silicon? To a panpsychist, who believes there’s   
   nothing about mind that requires organic matter it’s in inorganic   
   matter, too the answer is yes.   
      
   "I think it’s nuts that people think that only the magic meanderings of   
   evolution can somehow create minds," Levin said. "In principle, there’s   
   no reason why AI couldn’t be conscious."   
      
   In that case, how should we think about our obligations to the vast   
   spectrum of conscious beings that exist and might one day exist amongst   
   us? Do we need to expand our moral circle the imaginary boundary we draw   
   around those we consider worthy of moral consideration?   
      
   "You could say the new Golden Rule is: Be nice to goal-directed   
   systems," Levin said. "It’s actually not that different from ‘treat thy   
   neighbor as thyself.’ To the extent that that creature cares about what   
   happens to it, you should care about what happens to it. Try to scale   
   your compassion appropriately."   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)