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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
The Limitations of
the Open Mind
Jeremy Fantl
1
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
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© Jeremy Fantl 2018
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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
Contents
Preface ix
viii CONTENTS
References 203
Index 223
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Preface
In his 2016 keynote address to the Society of Christian Philosophers (SCP), Richard
Swinburne argued, among other things, that “homosexual sexual acts” are morally
wrong because God has forbidden them; that homosexuality should be actively
discouraged and treatment should be sought; and that the “husband is head of the
family, and so wife and children have an obligation to obey him.”
Reactions to the talk varied. But many of Swinburne’s defenders made the same
accusation: Swinburne’s critics did not engage with Swinburne’s arguments. One critic,
it was claimed,
like all other touchy-feely leftists, produces no argument against [Swinburne’s
premises]. Instead [sic] all that is offered are claims that this contention is offensive,
coupled with some nauseating pearl clutching.
(Martel, Conservatrarian, et al. 2016, emphasis added)
Another critic
doesn’t take on Swinburne’s arguments at all. This is entirely a ‘who/whom’ statement.
(Dreher 2016, emphasis added)
And, finally,
I, and many others in the room, had problems with Swinburne’s paper. But it’s
Philosophy. Don’t disrespect the opinions of someone else by getting hurt—
properly critique their argument and explain why they’re wrong.
(Anonymous 2016, emphasis added)
The italicized demands are directed toward those who are objecting to Swinburne’s
presentation or publicly expressing views in opposition to Swinburne’s conclusions.
However, there may be some obligation to engage with arguments against what you
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x PREFACE
I take it that the ideal of argumentation, according to Obama, is something like this: if
someone is expressing some offensive speech or making an argument for a prob-
lematic claim, you are either able to figure out where the speech goes wrong, or not. If
you can figure out where it goes wrong, then you should argue with them so that you
can correct the speech, change people’s minds, and stop the spread of the falsehood.
If you can’t figure it out, then it just might not be wrong, and so you should engage
with the speech in order to learn from the speaker. Presumably Obama would add
that arguing with the person is the way that you figure out in the first place what’s
wrong with the speech.² Either way, you should engage.
Obama’s argumentative ideal is not one we always live up to. In a 2014 study,
Deidre Le Fevre, Viviane Robinson, and Claire Sinnema detail the difficulty people
have participating in what they call “genuine inquiry” when dealing with cases of
disagreement and difficult interpersonal relationships. Genuine inquiry is what they
call personal interactions that are “motivated . . . by a desire to learn,” that come with
a recognition that “one’s beliefs could be incomplete and misinformed,” and that
involve “a willingness to think again despite having formulated a view” (2).³ Le Fevre
et al. do not specify whether the obligation to participate in genuine inquiry is moral
or epistemic, and I defer discussion of the status of any putative obligation until
Chapter 5. But it is clear that, according to Le Fevre et al., it is an obligation; there is a
PREFACE xi
⁴ It is also required that a sufficient number of the situations that make premise 1 true are also situations
that make premise 3 true.
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xii PREFACE
The book is divided into two parts. The first part is epistemological and primarily
devoted to the clarification and defense of the first premise and elucidation of the
notions of closed-mindedness and open-mindedness. The second part of the book is
ethical and devoted to defense of the second and third premises—the moral, social,
and political consequences of the fact that you can know that relevant counter-
arguments are misleading even if you don’t know where they go wrong.
In Chapter 1 I argue for what I call “Platonic” conceptions of open-mindedness
and closed-mindedness. Open-mindedness is not simply a matter of being willing to
change your mind in the face of relevant counterarguments. Willingness to change
your mind is always conditional on a relevant counterargument having certain
features. You have to be willing to change your mind conditional on spending
significant time with the argument, finding each step compelling, and being unable
to expose a flaw. If you are unwilling to reduce your confidence in your position
conditional on spending significant time with the argument, finding each step
compelling, and being unable to expose a flaw, then you are closed-minded toward
the argument. If you are willing to do this, then you may be open-minded toward the
argument provided you don’t violate various procedural norms and aren’t disposed
to allow various affective factors to influence your beliefs.
On this Platonic conception of open-mindedness, we can explain how it’s possible
to hold an outright or “full” belief even while being open-minded toward arguments
against that belief. It’s possible to fully believe something while recognizing that you
might not be able to figure out what’s wrong with arguments to the contrary. If you
also are willing to reduce your confidence if you can’t figure out what’s wrong with
some counterargument, then you count as open-minded on the Platonic conception.
Whether it’s rational to maintain full belief while being open-minded in this way is
another question, and the one to which much of the rest of the book is devoted.
In the second chapter I argue that Premise 1 is true: you can retain knowledge even
if you manifest closed-mindedness toward a relevant counterargument—even if you
spend significant time with an argument, find each step compelling, and are unable to
expose a flaw, but nonetheless do not lose confidence that your position is true. When
you are in this situation, to use the technical term I adopt, you retain confidence
despite finding the counterargument apparently flawless.
There are uncontroversial cases about which everyone should grant that know-
ledge can survive finding a counterargument apparently flawless: trick arguments
that 1 = 0, paradoxical arguments that nothing moves and that no one is bald,
perceptual arguments that a rabbit has spontaneously appeared in a previously empty
hat. But, I argue in Chapter 2, the premise is also true of counterarguments that
concern controversial matters of ethics, politics, religion, science, and philosophy.
This is because you often have what would otherwise count as knowledge-level
positive support for your controversial beliefs. And this support is often not defeated
by what turns out to be the rather weak evidence provided by the fact that you find a
relevant counterargument apparently flawless.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
PREFACE xiii
I don’t say much in the book about what level of evidence would otherwise count
as knowledge-level positive support for your controversial beliefs. That’s because
I don’t think that there’s much difference in how controversial propositions can be
known and how non-controversial propositions can be known. Known controversial
propositions are just known propositions that happen to also be controversial. Any
known proposition can become controversial as long as enough people come to
disagree with it. The question that interests me in this book is what can defeat that
knowledge. And I’m primarily interested in whether and when the mere fact that you
can’t expose a flaw in a counterargument counts as an important defeater in addition
to other potential defeaters in the area—for example, the mere fact that others
disagree with you. In Chapter 2 my answer is “not always.”
Even if knowledge can survive exposure to apparently flawless counterarguments,
it doesn’t always survive. Sometimes exposure to apparently flawless counterargu-
ments destroys knowledge. What kinds of apparently flawless counterarguments
does knowledge survive exposure to? I give a partial answer to this question in
Chapter 3. The apparently flawless counterarguments with the least defeating
power are those that it would be unsurprising to find apparently flawless even if
they were misleading. For example, if a knower is unversed in Bayesian epistemology,
it is unsurprising that the knower could be fooled into finding an argument that
makes use of Bayesian techniques apparently flawless even if the argument is
misleading. More generally, it’s unsurprising that knowers can be fooled by counter-
arguments that employ evidence types or argumentative moves that the knower lacks
sufficient expertise to reliably evaluate. Therefore, knowers should be inherently
distrustful of their reactions to such arguments and can retain knowledge in the
face of such arguments as long as their knowledge has a basis with which the knower
does have sufficient facility. Amateurism, I argue, can be epistemically efficacious.
This is why it is so important in academic work to give a full treatment of the case
for the opposition. It’s not simply because opponents are more easily convinced
when they see you show respect for their position. It’s because if you do a good job
presenting the case for the opposition, you train your reader in the skills and
background knowledge required to reliably evaluate your positive argument. If you
train your reader adequately, and they still find the steps in your argument compel-
ling and are unable to locate a flaw, then it becomes harder for them to closed-
mindedly dismiss your argument while retaining knowledge that you’re wrong.
In Chapter 4 I apply the conclusions of the previous chapters to two cases of
controversial belief: atheistic belief and the denial of psychic phenomena (psi). In
both cases, the felt obviousness—to the denier—of the non-existence of what they’re
denying figures large in the production of their knowledge, if they have it. Felt
obviousness can be knowledge-generating. This might be because it channels a
lifetime of empirical support for what feels obvious, or because it provides a priori
evidence, or is the guise in which our fundamental worldviews are presented to us, if
such fundamental worldviews can be sources of knowledge.
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xiv PREFACE
Of course, felt obviousness does not always ground knowledge. Sometimes it can
be defeated by contrary evidence or relevant counterarguments. In the case of
atheistic belief, relevant counterarguments come in the form of the various theistic
arguments (I focus on the fine-tuning argument). In the case of the denial of psychic
phenomena, relevant counterarguments come in the form of meta-analyses of a
number of controlled studies that purport to demonstrate the existence of psychic
phenomena. Often, these arguments survive immediate objections to them, and the
more refined objections may be beyond the atheist’s or the psi-denier’s abilities to
evaluate. But, given the conclusion of Chapter 3, this need not destroy prior know-
ledge that there is no God or that there is no such thing as psychic phenomena. Prior
knowledge can survive as long as atheists and psi-deniers have facility with the bases
of their beliefs that they lack when it comes to the evidence types and argumentative
moves involved in the relevant counterarguments.
The second part of the book is devoted to the consequences of the epistemological
conclusions of the first four chapters. Here’s the primary thesis: because there are
standard situations in which you know some counterargument is misleading, there
are standard situations in which you shouldn’t engage with that counterargument
either open-mindedly or closed-mindedly. You shouldn’t engage open-mindedly
because to do so is to be willing to reduce your confidence in response to an argument
you know has a false conclusion. You shouldn’t engage closed-mindedly because in
some standard situations the only way to do so requires you to be problematically
insincere, disrespectful, or ineffective.
This conclusion runs afoul of principles common to much work in informal logic,
political theory, and ethics: that you have at least pro tanto obligations to engage even
with those arguments and opinions you find obviously false and abhorrent. In
Chapter 5 I develop three general defenses of this standard position (which I go on
to refute in the subsequent chapters). First, an obligation to engage with relevant
counterarguments can be sourced in the nature of the practice of argumentation
itself. One potential reason this is so is that argumentation essentially aims at
rationally convincing others. But we can’t rationally convince others unless we
address their concerns, objections, and counterarguments. Therefore, insofar as
you are participating in argumentation, you ought to address relevant counterargu-
ments. My focus is on similarities between work in the informal logic literature on
norms of argumentation and Timothy Williamson’s seemingly unrelated work on
norms of assertion.
Second, an obligation to engage with relevant counterarguments can be sourced in
the good consequences that result from such engagement—in particular, the good
epistemic consequences for you or the society at large. This source derives in part
from Mill’s argument for universal freedom of expression. Because the only way
to ensure we are getting truth and avoiding falsehood is to allow unlimited free
expression even of views we find abhorrent or false, and because this good is only
achieved if those expressions are listened to and engaged with, there is just as much
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PREFACE xv
xvi PREFACE
PREFACE xvii
xviii PREFACE
criticisms, arguments, and suggestions to Scott Aikin, Teresa Allen, Erik Anderson,
John Baker, Nathan Ballantyne, Heather Battaly, Elizabeth Brake, Adrian Currie,
Al Casullo, Justin Caouette, David Christensen, Evangelian Collings, Todd Dilling,
Catarina Dutilh Novaes, Larry Fantl, Asia Ferrin, Robert Greenberg, Faye Halpern,
Gordon Hawkes, Cassie Herbert, Terry Horgan, Leo Iacono, Liz Jackson, Marc
Johansen, Nima Khodabandeh, Avery Kolers, Jon Kvanvig, Noa Latham, Caleb
Lee, Dave Liebesman, Beige Lussier, Mark Migotti, Paul Simard Smith, Declan
Smithies, Jay Spivack, Susan Spivack, Jason Stanley, Richard Steinberg, Elena
Tumasz-Jordan, Brian Weatherson, and Ron Wilburn. I’d especially like to thank
Berislav Marušić, Matthew McGrath, and Marion Smiley for reading and providing
detailed feedback on various chapters; two anonymous referees for Oxford Univer-
sity Press; my research assistants, Christina Stiso and Joshua Stein, for providing
feedback on the entire manuscript; Amanda Brown, founder of Blue Pencil Solutions,
for copyediting the body text; Rachel Katler for the cover art; and Norah Fantl for
providing the image of the speckled hen in Chapter 4.
Finally, I’d like to thank Brandeis University Professor Jerry Cohen. While I was a
freshman in his American Studies class on the 1960s, Professor Cohen on one day
convinced me that there was a conspiracy in the assassination of JFK and then on the
next day convinced me that there wasn’t. He thereby taught me that whenever we
find arguments apparently flawless, we should live in fear of ambush by hidden but
simple little facts.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
PART I
The Epistemology of
Open-Mindedness
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
1
Open-Mindedness
. . . we have set sail, and must go where the wind, or the argument, blows us.
(Plato 2000, 394d)
¹ See (Baehr 2011, 145 ff.) for examples in which subjects are open-minded with respect to cognitive
situations that don’t require evaluating arguments.
² Berislav Marušić makes a comparison to courage. Our concept of courage is bound up with specific
cases: heading into battle, running into a burning building, etc. It’s not clear that any formal account that
abstracts from specific cases is sufficient. My reaction to this comparison is the same as my reaction to the
similar view about formal accounts of open-mindedness. Only certain features of running into battle or
running into a burning building ground our judgments that those who do so are courageous.
³ Tennis pro Maria Sharapova was initially banned from International Tennis Federation events for two
years following positive tests for the prohibited drug meldonium (Ubha 2016). The suspension was later
reduced to fifteen months (Wilson 2016).
⁴ NFL quarterback Tom Brady was suspended for four games for his alleged involvement in the alleged
deflation of footballs below minimum required levels prior to the New England Patriots’ 2015 AFC
Championship Game against the Indianapolis Colts (Manfred 2015).
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
Manning⁵), much support of Donald Trump, etc. But it’s not every aspect of
paradigm cases that contributes to those cases exemplifying closed-mindedness.
We should look for those features of paradigm cases that ground the judgment
that open-mindedness is absent. That’s what I do in this chapter.
I share a majority view that to be open-minded is to have a disposition or a
“willingness” to do something:
Open-mindedness [is] engagement, that is, a willingness to make room for novel ideas
in one’s cognitive space and to give them serious consideration. (Kwong 2016b, 71)
What [open-mindedness] does demand, is a readiness to re-examine these views in
the face of alternative information and new evidence. Such re-examination involves a
willingness to think again despite having formulated a view. (Le Fevre et al. 2014, 2)
Open-mindedness appears to be a cognitive disposition: an open-minded person
is disposed to gain, lose, and revise beliefs in a particular, reasonable way.
(Arpaly 2011, 75)
An open-minded person is characteristically (a) willing and (within limits) able
(b) to transcend a default cognitive standpoint (c) in order to take up or take
seriously the merits of (d) a distinct cognitive standpoint. (Baehr 2011, 152)
To be open-minded is to be aware of one’s fallibility as a believer, and to be
willing to acknowledge the possibility that anytime one believes something, it is
possible that one is wrong. (Riggs 2010, 180)
Open-mindedness has to include the willingness . . . to re-examine one’s own
beliefs and, if called for, to let them go. (Cohen 2009, 56)
Properly understood, open-mindedness is a fundamental intellectual virtue that
involves a willingness to take relevant evidence and argument into account in
forming or revising our beliefs and values . . . (Hare 2003, 76)
Open-mindedness should be conceived . . . as requiring not neutrality or indeci-
sion about beliefs but a willingness to subject them to rational formation.
(Hare and McLaughlin 1994, 241)
These views include all the following among the things you must be willing⁶ to do in
order to be open-minded:
1. Acknowledge the possibility that anytime you believe something, it is possible
that you are wrong.
2. Transcend a default cognitive standpoint.
⁵ Al Jazeera America reported in 2015 evidence indicating that NFL quarterback Peyton Manning had
taken the banned substance HGH in 2011 (Hackman 2016). Manning was cleared by the NFL in 2016
(Schefter 2016).
⁶ I discuss later in this chapter how willingness relates to dispositions and to what extent being open-
minded requires various dispositions. Short answer: I remain neutral on whether open-mindedness
requires a mere disposition or something more robust. From here forward I use the language of
“willingness,” while leaving it open whether willingness is anything more than a mere disposition to do
what you’re willing to do.
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OPEN - MINDEDNESS
Some of these (nos. 8–12) have implications for what you believe. They require
you to form certain beliefs or get rid of certain beliefs, depending on what is rational
or called for. Others have no necessary implications for what you believe; they
require only that you adopt certain cognitive habits (nos. 3–7) or have certain
attitudes toward your beliefs (no. 1 and maybe no. 2). Are all these things required?
Are any? In Section 1.2 I proceed through some inadequate accounts of open-
mindedness before arriving at the Platonic conception I endorse. In Section 1.3
I compare the Platonic conception to a competitor and argue that the Platonic
account is preferable.
When I ask you to be open-minded toward an argument, I’m not asking you to
automatically give up your belief in response to the argument.⁷ When you promise to
hear me out open-mindedly, you’re not thereby promising to change your mind no
matter what. What am I asking, and what are you promising, if not to change your
mind? Open-Mindedness-as-Rational-Response provides the answer; I’m asking you
to respond to the argument as rationality requires, and you’re promising to do so.
Still, Open-Mindedness-as-Rational-Response is not an adequate account of open-
mindedness. This is why, when Wayne Riggs says of Hare’s view that, “as Hare
describes it, open-mindedness seems nothing short of rationality itself” (2010, 179),
it’s meant as a complaint or an objection. Equating open-mindedness with rational
response, as Riggs puts it, “runs afoul of the first desideratum of an interesting view of
open-mindedness: that it be a distinct and specific kind of excellence” (2010, 179).⁸
When I tell you to be open-minded, I don’t just tell you to avoid logical fallacies or to
make your confidence match the evidence. I give you advice—advice that’s more
substantial than the advice to merely respond rationally.⁹ The danger of blurring
different ways you might fail to be rational in responding to an argument is that
injunctions to be open-minded won’t have the substance we take them to have.
Riggs’ worry suggests a problem with the right-to-left direction of Open-
Mindedness-as-Rational-Response. If Riggs is right, there is something more to
open-mindedness than a disposition to respond rationally to an argument; open-
mindedness is rational response plus something. There is a companion worry to
that counts against the left-to-right direction of Open-Mindedness-as-Rational-
Response. If open-mindedness is “a distinct and specific kind of excellence,” then
closed-mindedness is a distinct and specific kind of imperfection. There are lots of
different kinds of irrationality and not all of them are failures to keep an open
mind. You can respond irrationally to an argument by affirming the consequent,
failing to see some obvious link between premise and conclusion, committing the
base rate fallacy, or making other well-meaning but irrational mistakes that cause you
to irrationally underrate the plausibility of the argument’s conclusion. In these cases,
⁷ In some contexts, my asking you to be open-minded implies that you are not responding rationally
and that you should. In other contexts, my asking you to be open-minded lacks the implication that you are
failing in any way. For example, I might ask you to keep an open mind right before I present what I know is
a fantastical suggestion.
⁸ A similar charge is leveled by Dennis Whitcomb et al. (2015, 4) against Peter Samuelson et al.’s (2013,
65) account of intellectual humility. I share their concerns. I share as well their commitment to distin-
guishing intellectual humility from the closely related virtue of open-mindedness, for reasons discussed
below.
⁹ Most virtue-theoretic notions admit of this advising possibility. You can modify my behavior by
informing me about which virtues I am not exemplifying, and I can deliberate about my actions by
reflecting on what the various virtues require of me. For example, I might wrongly take myself to be a
modest person and wonder why you seem to be put off by my well-intentioned reports of my professional
success. When you have a frank discussion with me about how my reports are coming off, it can inspire
self-reflection: “Am I modest enough? I thought I had to work on other character flaws, but maybe it’s
modesty I’m lacking.”
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OPEN - MINDEDNESS
¹⁰ See also (Kwong 2016a, 410): “open-mindedness amounts to the idea that we should take a distinct
novel standpoint seriously.”
¹¹ Thanks to Terry Horgan for referring me to Elgin’s book. Horgan suggests (in conversation) that one
kind of factor that might naturally be called “affective,” but still might have a justified role in our cognitive
lives is the “fishy smell” that some arguments present to us. Whether this smell is properly called “affective”
I don’t include it under my technical use of the term, because it is not necessarily self-protecting or
prejudicial in the right sort of way.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
¹² Stipulate for now that included among the procedural norms are norms requiring the presence of
various second-order attitudes about your beliefs of the sort endorsed by Riggs and Jonathan Adler: that
you are fallible and, thus, any of your beliefs are possibly wrong. Even so, satisfaction of these norms is not
enough for open-mindedness, as I argue below.
¹³ Thanks to Al Casullo for suggesting this way of open-mindedly violating procedural norms.
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OPEN - MINDEDNESS
In this case, though you are not closed-minded, you’re not quite open-minded,
either. You might be prevented from being open-minded, not by manifestation of the
vice of closed-mindedness, but by other characteristics that prevent you from fully
realizing an open-minded response. Closed-mindedness and open-mindedness,
then, though mutually exclusive, are not exhaustive. You are open-minded toward
an argument when both (i) affective factors do not dispose you against being
persuaded by an argument and (ii) you are not disposed to unreasonably violate
any procedural norms in your response to the argument. You are closed-minded
toward an argument when either (i) affective factors dispose you against being
persuaded by the argument or (ii) affective factors dispose you to violate some
procedural norms in your response to the argument. These accounts are an improve-
ment over Open-Mindedness-as-Rational-Response:
(Open-Mindedness-as-Unblocked-Belief ) You are open-minded toward an
argument iff both (i) affective factors do not dispose¹⁴ you against being persuaded
by the argument and (ii) you are not disposed to unreasonably violate any
procedural norms in your response to the argument.
(Closed-Mindedness-as-Blocked-Belief ) You are closed-minded toward an
argument iff either (i) affective factors dispose you against being persuaded by
the argument or (ii) affective factors dispose you to violate some procedural norms
in response to the argument.
I think that Open-Mindedness-as-Unblocked-Belief (or something like it) expresses
necessary conditions on open-mindedness and Closed-Mindedness-as-Blocked-
Belief (or something like it) expresses sufficient conditions for closed-mindedness.
But you can fail to be open-minded and you can be closed-minded even if unblocked.
There are other ways to closed-mindedly fail to be moved by an argument.
Your failure to be moved by an argument can be the product of your fundamental
worldview, epistemic standards, framework judgments, prior probability assign-
ments, or the like. Your response may¹⁵ be irrational. But whether you’re rational
or not, there’s no guarantee that your resistance is the product either of affective
factors or the violation of procedural norms.¹⁶ Even so, in some such cases, you are
¹⁴ The conditions are put in terms of dispositions because, prior to engagement with an argument,
affective factors may not have had the opportunity to prevent you from being persuaded and you may not
have had the opportunity to violate any procedural norms. But you still might fail to be open-minded
toward the argument. Thanks to Jon Kvanvig for raising this issue.
¹⁵ It also may not. Perhaps it’s rational, as Jennifer Faust (2008, 74) claims, to maintain views that are
products of framework judgments, fundamental worldviews, or deep epistemic standards. See also
(Schoenfield 2014, 199).
¹⁶ Clifford (1886) may think otherwise. In his cases of clear sin in the matter of belief, the believers err in
“stifling . . . doubts” (340) and “listening to the voice of prejudice and passion” (341). The conclusion
Clifford draws from these cases is that your belief must be proportioned to the evidence, as if the only way
that belief can fail to be proportioned to the evidence is if it is moved by self-serving stifling of doubts. I am
convinced by Harman’s (2011, 455) criticisms of this sort of view (her targets are (FitzPatrick 2008) and
(Moody-Adams 1994)).
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 23/4/2018, SPi
closed-minded.¹⁷ Suppose you and I are arguing about whether Oswald shot
JFK. You offer this familiar argument:¹⁸
• According to the official story, and in fact, it takes 2.3 seconds to reload and
shoot with Oswald’s gun.
• Therefore, it takes 6.9 seconds to fire three shots with Oswald’s gun: 3 2.3 = 6.9.
• Therefore, the official story that Oswald shot three times in 5.6 seconds is false.
¹⁷ Riggs (2010, 186) is sympathetic to the view that you are open-minded in such cases.
¹⁸ See, for example, (Jones 2015, 24): “Three shots at 2.3 seconds each resulted in a minimum time
frame of 6.9 seconds. And yet the Warren Report claimed Oswald fired . . . three shots total in 5.6
seconds.”
¹⁹ See, for example, (Myers 2007): “FBI firearm experts concluded that the minimum firing time
between shots . . . was 2.3 seconds—that’s a total minimum firing time for three shots of 4.6 seconds
(don’t forget, the clock starts running with the firing of the first shot)!”
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possessions in Canada along the Gulf and River of St. Lawrence.
They succeeded in gaining a foothold on the south shore of
Newfoundland, and from there frequently attacked the English
settlements to the north, until the Treaty of Utrecht compelled them
to give up their holdings. All that remains of French possessions in
this part of the world are the islands of Miquelon and St. Pierre just
south of Newfoundland. With the prohibition wave that swept over
North America, the port of St. Pierre has had a great boom as
headquarters of the bootlegging fleets of the North Atlantic. It has
grown rich by taxing the liquor traffic, so much so, in fact, that St.
John’s is casting envious eyes at its island neighbour, and making
plans to get into this profitable trade.
I had my first glimpse of the native cod as I entered St. John’s
harbour. Just as our steamer passed a motor dory lying off shore,
one of the men in her caught a big fish. He pulled it out of the water,
and after holding it up to our view, clubbed it on the head and threw it
into the boat. To-day I visited one of the fishing villages, where I saw
the day’s catches landed and talked with the fishermen.
I took a motor in St. John’s and drove out to Waterford Valley, up
over the gray rocky hills into the back country. On the heights I found
a blue pond, just below it another, and then another, like so many
steps leading from the heights down to the sea. The last pond ended
in a great wooden flume running down the rocky gorge to a little
power station that supplies electricity to the city of St. John’s.
Here I stopped to take in the view. Before me was a little bay,
perhaps a half mile long and a quarter of a mile wide, where the
stream from the hill ponds empties into the ocean. This was Petty
Harbour, a typical Newfoundland “outport.” On both sides of the
harbour rocky walls rose almost straight up to a height of three or
four hundred feet. The only outlets were the waters of the tiny bay
and the gorge through which I came. There was literally no level
land, only a few narrow shelves and terraces along the sides of the
hills. There were no streets, only a winding roadway down the slope.
The lower portion was too narrow for our motor, so that I had to go
part of the way down on foot. The houses were placed every which
way on the steep hillsides. Most of them had tiny dooryards, with a
patch of grass and sometimes a few flowers in front. Behind them, or
at the sides, were other patches of green, on some of which small
black and white goats, wearing pokes about their necks, were
feeding. Small as were the houses, each was neatness itself and
shiny with paint. Every one of the hundred or so houses was built by
its occupant or his father before him. Indeed, I am prepared to
believe, after what I have seen, that the Newfoundland fisherman is
the world’s greatest “handy man.” He builds not only his house, but
also his boats, landing stages, and fish-drying platforms; he makes
his own nets, raises his own vegetables, and often has a sheep or
two to furnish wool, which his wife will spin and weave into a suit of
clothes or a jersey.
Walk along with me the rest of the way down to the waterside.
You must step carefully on the path that leads over and between the
ridges of out-cropping rock. Behind us a troop of youngsters are
proving themselves true citizens of the kingdom of boyhood by
tooting the horn of our motor. I notice many children playing about,
and I ask where they go to school. In reply two little frame buildings
are pointed out on the hillsides, one the Church of England school,
and the other maintained by the Catholics. The children we see look
happy and well fed, and the little girls especially are neatly dressed
and attractive.
But here is a fisherman, drying cod, who offers to show us about.
With him we clamber down to the nearest stage, built out over the
rocks, its far end resting in water that is deep enough for the boats.
The stages are built of spruce poles and look like cliff-dwellers’
homes. At the end nearest the water is a little landing platform, with
steps leading down to the motor dory moored alongside.
A boat has come in with a load of fish. They are speared one by
one and tossed up to the landing stage, while one of the men starts
cleaning them to show us how it is done. He first cuts the throat to
the backbone, breaks off the head against the edge of the bench,
and then rips open the belly. He tosses the liver to the table and the
other organs to the floor, cuts out the greater part of the backbone,
and throws the split, flattened-out cod into a tub at his feet. It is all
done in a few seconds.
Outside there is now a great heap of cod. This fish has a gray-
greenish back, a white belly, and a great gaping mouth lined with a
broad band of teeth so fine that to the touch they feel like a file. One
big fellow a yard long weighs, we are told, perhaps twenty-five
pounds, but most of them will average but ten or twelve pounds.
These fish were caught in a net, or trap. When set in the water
the cod trap measures about sixty feet square. It is moored in the
sea near the shore. The fish swim into the enclosure, are caught
within its walls, and cannot make their way out. The size of the
meshes is limited by law, so that the young fish may escape. Three
fourths of the Newfoundland cod are taken in this manner. Fish traps
may cost from six hundred to one thousand dollars each, and
making them is the chief winter job of the fishermen.
Sometimes the cod are caught with trawls, or lines, perhaps
three or four thousand feet long, with short lines tied on at every six
feet. The short lines carry hooks, which are baited one by one, and
the whole is then set in the ocean with mooring buoys at each end.
The trawls are hauled up every day to remove the fish that have
been caught, and to bait up again.
I had thought a fisherman’s work done when he brought in his
catch, but that is really only the beginning. The Newfoundland
fisherman has nothing he can turn into money until his fish are salted
and dried. The drying process may take a month or longer if the
weather is bad. It is called “making” the fish. The flat split fish are
spread out upon platforms called “flakes.” The sun works the salt
down into the flesh, at the same time removing the moisture. Every
evening each fish must be picked up and put in a pile under cover,
and then re-spread on the flakes in the morning. The children are a
great help in this part of the work.
Wherever there is a slight indentation on the high
rock-faced coast you will find a fishing village with its
landing stages and drying “flakes,” built of spruce
poles and boughs, clinging to the steep shore.
It is in the perfection of the drying, rather than by size, that fish
are graded for the market. At one of the fish packing wharves in St.
John’s, I saw tons of dried cod stacked up like so much cord wood.
They all looked alike to me, but the manager said:
“Now, the fish in this pile are for Naples, those in that for Spain,
and those on the other side of the room will be sent to Brazil. It
would never do to mix them, as our customers in each country have
their own taste. Some like their fish hard, and some soft, and there
are other differences we have to keep in mind as we sort the fish and
grade them for export. The poorest fish, those you see in the corner,
are for the West Indies. The people there nearly live on our fish,
which will keep in their hot climate, but they can’t afford to buy the
best quality.”
I have just returned from a trip through caves richer than those of
Aladdin. They lie far under the ocean, and their treasures surpass
the wildest dreams of the Arabian Nights. The treasures are in iron
ore, from forty nine to fifty two per cent. pure, and so abundant that
they will be feeding steel mills for many generations to come.
I am speaking of the Wabana iron mines, located on, or rather
under, Conception Bay on the southeast coast of Newfoundland.
They are on an island seven miles long, three miles in width, and
three hundred feet high. Along about a generation ago deposits of
rich hematite ores were discovered in veins that ran down under the
water with a slope of about fifteen degrees. They were gradually
developed and within the last thirty years millions of tons of ore have
been taken out. The under-sea workshops have been extended
more than two miles out from the shore and it is believed that the
great ore body crosses the bay. The capacity yield at this time
averages about five thousand tons for every working day of the year,
and the location is such that the ore can be put on the steamers for
export almost at the mouth of the mines. The property is owned by
the British Empire Steel Company, made up of British, American,
and Canadian capital.
But let me tell you of my trip. I left my hotel in St. John’s in the
early morning. The rocky promontories that form the narrow entrance
to the harbour were canopied in light fog, under which fishing
schooners could be seen tacking back and forth, beating their way
out to the open sea beyond. As we drove out over the hills the
moisture gathered on the windshield of the motor-car so that we had
to raise it and take the fog-soaked air full in our faces. We went
through King’s Road, where many of the aristocracy of St. John’s
reside in big frame houses with many bay windows and much
gingerbread decoration. They were set well back from the street,
and, in contrast with most of the houses of the town, were
surrounded by trees.
As we reached the open country, rolling hills stretched away in
the mist. They were gray with rock or red-brown with scrub. Here
and there were patches of bright green, marking vegetable gardens
or tiny pastures for a cow or goat. The growing season in
Newfoundland is short, and the number of vegetables that can be
successfully raised is limited. I saw patches of cabbages, turnips,
and beets, and several fields of an acre or more that had yielded
crops of potatoes. Most of the fields were small, and some no bigger
than dooryards. All were fenced in with spruce sticks. The houses
were painted white, and had stones or turf banked up around their
foundations. A few farms had fairly large barns, but most had no
outbuildings except a vegetable cellar built into a hillside or half-sunk
in the ground.
Newfoundlanders follow the English fashion of driving on the left-
hand side of the road. It made me a bit nervous, at first, whenever
we approached another vehicle. It seemed certain that we would run
into it unless we swung to the right, but of course it always moved to
the left, giving us room on what an American thinks of as the “wrong
side of the road.”
We met an occasional motor-car, and many buggies, but every
few minutes we passed the universal vehicle of Newfoundland, the
two-wheeled “long cart,” as it is called. Strictly speaking, it is not a
cart at all, in our sense of the word, as it has no floor or sides. It
consists of a flat, rectangular frame of rough-hewn poles, balanced
like a see-saw across an axle joining two large wooden wheels. The
long cart is the common carrier of all Newfoundland. It is used on the
farms, in the towns, and in the fishing villages. One of these carts
was carrying barrels of cod liver oil to the refinery at St. John’s, while
on another, a farmer and his wife sat sidewise, balancing themselves
on the tilting frame.
After a drive of ten miles we reached Portugal Cove, where I
waited on the wharf for the little steamer that was to take me to Bell
Island, three miles out in the Bay. The men of the village were pulling
ashore the boat of one of their number who had left the day before to
try his luck in the States. The boat was heavy, and seemed beyond
their strength. Some one called out: “Come on, Mr. Chantey Man,
give us Johnny Poker,” whereupon one of the men led in a song. On
the last word, they gave a mighty shout and a mighty pull. The boat
moved, and in a moment was high and dry on the beach.
This was the chantey they sang:
The big pull comes with a shout on the final word “all.”
After a few minutes on the little mine steamer, I saw Bell Island
loom up out of the fog. Its precipitous shore rose up as high and
steep as the side of a skyscraper, but black and forbidding through
the gray mist. I was wondering how I could ever reach the top of the
island when I saw a tiny box car resting on tracks laid against the cliff
side, steeper than the most thrilling roller coaster. The car is hauled
up the incline by a cable operated by an electric hoist at the top of
the hill. I stepped inside, and by holding on to a rail overhead was
able to keep my feet all the way up. Nearly everybody and
everything coming to Bell Island is carried up and down in this cable
car.
From the top of the cliff, I drove across the island toward the
mines, and had all the way a fine view of the property. The mine
workings are spread out over an area about five miles long and two
miles in width. The houses of the miners are little box-like affairs,
with tiny yards. Those owned by the company are alike, but those
built by the miners themselves are in varying patterns.
The miners are nearly all native Newfoundlanders. They are paid
a minimum wage, with a bonus for production over a given amount,
so that the average earnings at present are about three dollars and
fifty cents a day. When the mines are working at capacity, about
eighteen hundred men are employed.
The offices of the company occupy a large frame structure. In
one side of the manager’s room is a great window that commands a
view of the works. Looking out, my eye was caught first by a storage
pile of red ore higher than a six- or seven-story building. No ore is
shipped during the winter because of the ice in the Bay, and the
heavy snows that block the narrow gauge cable railway from the
mines to the pier. Also, since the ore is wet as it comes out of the
mine, it freezes during the three-mile trip across the island. This
makes it hard to dump and load. Another difficulty about winter
operations above ground comes from the high winds that sweep
over the island, sometimes with a velocity of eighty miles an hour.
With the manager I walked through the village, passing several
ore piles, to one of the shaft houses. Trains of cars are hauled by
cable from the depths of the mine to the top of the shaft house,
where their contents are dumped into the crusher. From the crusher
the broken rock is loaded by gravity into other cars and run off to the
storage piles or down to the pier. The cable railways and crushers
are operated by electricity, generated with coal from the company’s
mines at Sydney, Nova Scotia. The same power is used to operate
the fans that drive streams of fresh air into the mines and to work the
pumps that lift the water out of the tunnels.
At the shaft house I put on a miner’s working outfit, consisting of
a suit of blue overalls, rubber boots, and a cap with its socket above
the visor for holding a lamp. These miners’ lamps are like the old
bicycle lanterns, only smaller. The lower part is filled with broken
carbide, on which water drips from a reservoir above and forms
acetylene gas.
I was amazed at the ore trains that came shooting up out of the
mine at from thirty to forty miles an hour, and trembled at the thought
of sliding down into the earth at such speed, but my guide gave the
“slow” signal and we began our descent at a more moderate rate.
I sat on the red, muddy bottom of an empty ore car. My feet
reached almost to the front and I could just comfortably grasp the
tops of the sides with my hands. It was like sitting upright in a
bathtub. As we plunged into the darkness, the car wheels roared and
rattled like those of a train in a subway. My guide shouted in my ear
that the shaft was fifteen feet wide, and about eight feet from ceiling
to floor. I noticed that some of the timber props were covered with a
sort of fungus that looked like frost or white cotton, while here and
there water trickling out of the rock glistened in the light of our lamps.
As we descended the air grew colder. It had a damp chill that bit
to the bone, and though our speed kept increasing there seemed to
be no end to the journey. Suddenly, out of the darkness I saw three
dancing lights. Were they signals to us of some danger ahead?
Another moment, and the lights proved to be lamps in the caps of
three miners, drillers who had finished their work for the day and
were toiling their way up the steep grade to the world of fresh air and
warm sunshine.
Another light appeared ahead. Our train slowed up and stopped
on a narrow shelf deep down in the earth and far under the ocean.
Just ahead, the track plunged steeply down again into the darkness.
We were at the station where the underground trains are controlled
by electric signals. On each side curved rails and switches led off
into branching tunnels.
For an hour or more we walked about in the under-sea workings.
At times we were in rock-walled rooms where not a sound could be
heard but the crunch of the slippery red ore under our rubber-booted
feet, or the sound of water rushing down the steep inclines. At other
times the rock chambers reverberated with the chugging and
pounding of the compressed air drills boring their way into the rock.
We went to the head of a new chamber where a gang was
loading ore into the cars. There was a great scraping and grinding of
shovels against the flinty rock as the men bent their backs to their
work. The miners’ faces were streaked with sweat and grimy with
smears of the red ore. I picked up a piece. It was not as big as a
dinner plate, but was almost as heavy as lead.
We rode out of the mine at top speed. Upon reaching the
surface, the air of the chilly foggy day felt positively hot, while the
sunlight seemed almost unreal after the dampness below.
Halifax has a fine natural harbour well protected
by islands and with sufficient deep water anchorage
for great fleets. The port is handicapped, however, by
the long rail haul from such centres of population as
Montreal and Toronto.
Cape Breton Island has a French name, but it is
really the land of the Scotch, where village pastors
often preach in Gaelic, and the names in their flocks
sound like a gathering of the clans.