In its most peculiar and extreme philosophical form, skepticism refers to the doctrine that we have no reason to believe anything, and so should believe nothing. That, however, is on its face an unsustainable argument. Believing nothing is impossible. Even the belief that you are justified in believing nothing is a belief. And even when we refuse to conclude, we do so only against the background of other conclusions. No one could possibly be a genuinely beliefless skeptic, even in principle.
The “skepticism” upon which liberal science is based is something quite different. (To distinguish it from the kind which says that we should never conclude anything, philosophers often call it “fallibilism.”) This kind of skepticism says cheerfully that we have to draw conclusions, but that we may regard none of our conclusions as being beyond any further scrutiny or change. “Go ahead and conclude whatever you want; just remember that all of your conclusions, every single one of them, may need to be corrected.” This attitude does not require you to renounce knowledge. It requires you only to renounce certainty, which is not the same thing. In other words, your knowledge is always tentative and subject to correction. At the bottom of this kind of skepticism is a simple proposition: we must all take seriously the idea that any and all of us might, at any time, be wrong.
Taking seriously the idea that we might be wrong is not exactly a dogma. It is, rather, an intellectual style, an attitude or ethic. What is to be said for this ethic? Not much, on its face. It is not provable. There is nothing especially rational (or irrational) about it. It is not an intellectually neutral view of the world or a view that rises above faith, since it is a kind of faith—faith in the belief that we are all fallible “Why, doubt itself is a decision of the widest practical reach,” William James rightly said. “The coil is about us, struggle as we may. The only escape from faith is mental nullity.” One cannot overstress this point, although often no amount of emphasis seems to drive it home: to adopt the attitude that you can never be completely sure you are right is a decision, a positive step—not a void where commitment should be, but a kind of commitment (to taking seriously that one might be wrong). If you are not inclined to doubt, you never even reach skepticism—it is simply not an issue; you simply believe without asking questions.
What, then, is so important about the emergence, eventually the triumph, of the skeptical ethic? The answer is this: Hidden in the pages of the skeptical philosophers’ tomes is a radical social principle. It is the principle of public criticism.
When people accept the notion that none of us is completely immune from error, they also implicitly accept that no person, no matter who he is or how strongly he believes, is above possible correction. If at any moment I can be wrong and you can be wrong and so can everybody else, all without being aware of it, then none of us can claim to have finally settled any dispute about the state of the external world. No one, therefore, is above critical scrutiny, nor is any belief.
The result is this: A society which has accepted skeptical principles will accept that sincere criticism is always legitimate. In other words, if any belief may be wrong, then no one can legitimately claim to have ended any discussion—ever.
In other words: No one gets the final say.
Another conclusion also follows. If any person may be in error, then no one can legitimately claim to be above being checked by others—ever. Moreover, if anyone may be in error, no one can legitimately claim to have any unique or personal powers to decide who is right and who is wrong.
In other words: No one has personal authority.
Here is a result which Socrates would have relished and which Plato—the Plato of The Republic—fought with every resource of his genius. Here is error enthroned as inevitable and inescapable, sitting in state above the philosopher-king no less than above the ignorant laborer or the cynical sophist. In most human societies for most of history, the search for knowledge had always been anchored by some propositions or some authorities—a Bible or other texts, priests or philosopher-kings or other persons—which were believed to be reliable and beyond error, and which therefore were not open to serious questioning. With the skeptical revolution, the anchor was sawed off. Nothing would be out of bounds for critical scrutiny. No one would be entitled to declare what was true knowledge and what was false opinion.
And here is where one might naturally think we are in trouble. If we may all be wrong, how are we ever to decide who is right? Why did the skeptical fires not leave society in disarray, unable to believe anything, as seemed to happen during the skeptical crisis of Montaigne’s day? The answer is: because the fires cleared the ground for a new and extraordinarily powerful game—the game of liberal science.
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We turn, then, to the revolution proper: a political revolution of the first importance. Now, when I talk about the skeptical revolution, the philosophical one of Descartes and Hume and the others is not mainly the one I mean. What Hume and the philosophers—the theorists of knowledge—were doing was radical and important. But their adventure was an outgrowth of broader changes in the intellectual climate of the day. Even as the theorists were busy showing that certain knowledge is impossible, the scientists and scholars of the Enlightenment were showing that uncertain knowledge is possible.
That process was already under way ten years after Descartes died. The physicist Freeman Dyson wrote:
The Royal Society of London in 1660 proudly took as its motto the phrase Nullius in Verba, meaning “No man’s word shall be final.” The assertion of papal infallibility, even in questions of faith and morals having nothing to do with science, grates harshly upon a scientist’s ear. We scientists are by training and temperament jealous of our freedom. We do not in principle allow any statement whatever to be immune from doubt.
Liberal science is a big and complicated thing. No one could begin to describe it fully. However, with nullius in verba we have reached one of the two great foundation stones of the liberal intellectual system.
I contend that these peculiar rules are two of the most successful social conventions which the human species has ever evolved. Put them into effect, and you have laid the groundwork for a knowledge-producing and dispute-resolving system that beats all competitors hands down. They are the basis of liberal inquiry and of science. Everything that follows in this essay is ultimately an attempt to defend them, and the attacks of the creationists and humanitarians and others are ultimately attempts to undermine them.
First, the skeptical rule. If people follow it, then no idea, however wise and insightful its proponent, can ever have any claim to be exempt from criticism by anyone, no matter how stupid and grubby-minded the critic. The skeptical rule is,
No one gets the final say: you may claim that a statement is established as knowledge only if it can be debunked, in principle, and only insofar as it withstands attempts to debunk it.
This is, more or less, what the great twentieth-century philosopher of science Karl R. Popper and his followers have called the principle of falsifiability. Science is distinctive, not because it proves true statements, but because it seeks systematically to disprove (falsify) false ones. In practice, of course, it is sometimes hard, if not impossible, to say whether a given statement is falsifiable or not. But what counts is the way the rule directs us to try to act. In principle, if you do not try to check ideas by trying to debunk them, then you are not practicing science. You are entitled to claim that a statement is objectively true only insofar as it is both checkable and has stood up to checking, and not otherwise. Decisions about what is and is not true are always provisional, standing only until debunked.
Second, the empirical rule. If people follow it in deciding who is right and who is wrong, then no one gets special say simply on the basis of who he happens to be. The empirical rule is,
No one has personal authority: you may claim that a statement has been established as knowledge only insofar as the method used to check it gives the same result regardless of the identity of the checker, and regardless of the source of the statement.
In other words, whatever you do to check a proposition must be something that anyone can do, at least in principle, and get the same result. Who you are doesn’t count; the rules apply to everybody, regardless of identity. A test is valid only insofar as it works for anyone who tries it. Where different checkers (debunkers) get different results, no one’s result supersedes anyone else’s, and no result can be declared. The test remains inconclusive. (It is important to note that “no personal authority” says nothing against expertise. It only says that no one, expert or amateur, gets to claim special authority simply because of who he happens to be or what he is saying. Whatever you do to become an expert must thus be something that others also could do. You may have a Ph.D., but I could get one. The views of experts, no less than those of laymen, are expected to withstand checking.)
Those two rules define a decision-making system which people can agree to use to figure out whose opinions are worth believing. Under this system, you can do anything you wish to test a statement, as long as you follow the rules, which effectively say:
• The system may not fix the outcome in advance or for good (no final say). • The system may not distinguish between participants (no personal authority).
The rules establish, if you will, a game—like chess or baseball. And this particular game has the two distinctive characteristics that define a liberal game: if you play it, you can’t set the outcome in advance, and you can’t exempt any player from the rules, no matter who he happens to be.
[ Excerpt from "Kindly Inquisitors" by Jonathan Rauch. ]
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Postmodern conceptions of knowledge violate both of these principles.
"Shut up and listen," "listen and believe," and "my truth" violate the Skeptical rule. We are told that we are not allowed to question truth claims, particularly among specific groups - e.g. standpoint epistemology - and that to do so is upsetting, harmful, bigoted or somethingphobic.
But we can question it.
"Other ways of knowing" and "[special interest] Science" (e.g. Feminist Glaciology) violates the Empirical rule by asserting that there can be knowledge that certain groups have access to that others, especially "dominant groups," not just do not, but cannot. Universality, and objectivity itself - even as a desirable goal - is now asserted to be "colonialist," "white supremacist" and insufficiently "inclusive" in order to preserve undeserved power.
But we're entitled to ignore it.
All of these corruptions and falsehoods were introduced and are sustained by exploiting humanitarian instincts: it's hurtful to criticize Islam, it's bigoted to describe biology accurately, its unfair to teach evolution, embryology and the Bering Strait migration, and insufficiently "inclusive" by not granting equal time to creationism, Bari tribe procreation mythology (multiple men's sperm contributes to the formation of the baby), and Buffalo People mythology.
They will insist that these rules are themselves the problem and create this hurt, bigotry and unfairness. But we must have the courage not to circumvent or make exceptions for these rules. Because what they're saying is that there are things that are unquestionable, and people who are infallible.
What follows from that, as past - and present - experience tells us, is authoritarianism.