Crash Course Philosophy Lesson 1-3 (Revised)

Lesson 1: What is Philosophy

You and I are about to embark on a journey. A journey of inquiry into the whole
world. Your world. In an effort to figure out what gives it meaning, what makes is
beautiful, where it's evils come from, and ultimately, what is the very nature of reality
itself.

Along the way, we are going to question every aspect of your own personal life. Why
do you do what you do, why do you think what you think, why do you feel what you
feel. Now, if you've joined me on Crash Course before, you might say we've already
learned all that stuff, uh, like in Psychology, and Biology, and Anatomy & Physiology.

And it's true, science can definitely help us understand our thought and and feelings
and actions, but on this particular journey, we're going to be exploring aspects of the
human condition that can be explained only be hormones or neurotransmitters, by
personal experiences or hereditary conditions. Because all of those chemicals and
experiences that make us who we are can actually raise as many questions as they
answer.

Like, if all of my decisions really are just the result of how I was raised and what
chemicals I have flowing through my brain, then are any of my choices actually free?
And, if I'm not truly free to make my own decisions, or choose my own actions, then
how can I be held accountable for them? Yeah, it's gonna be that kind of journey.

Rather than just looking at the world and describing what we see, we'll be evaluating
it. We will take nothing as given, set our assumptions aside (or at least, try really hard
to), and do our best to see the world as if we've never seen it before.

And, for what it's worth, we'll also be talking about Batman, and what what Dick
Grayson can teach us about the concept of identity. And we'll learn how The Matrix
can help us understand the life and writing of Renee Descartes. Also, we'll try to
answer unanswerable questions and puzzle over paradoxes that have plagued geniuses
for thousands of years.

It's gonna be hard, and enlightening, and frustrating, and if I do my job properly, it'll
stick with you long after you and I have parted ways, because we are going to do
Philosophy.
These days, people use the word philosophy to describe some opinion they might
have, or an approach they have to a certain topic. Like, you might have a philosophy
when it comes to golf, though I personally do not. But we are going to use this word
to more narrowly, to describe a way of approaching the world that traces its roots
back to Ancient Greece, five hundred years before the the Common Era.

This was a time of great intellectual movement around the world. Buddhism and
Jainism were developing in Asia at the same time philosophical thought was emerging
in Greece. There, scholars were tangled up in a distinction they were just beginning to
make, between philos and mythos, or what we'd now roughly call science and
storytelling.

At that time, there were bards, like Homer, who were trying to understand and
explain the world through stories. While the earliest philosophers were using methods
that were more analytical and scientific, although they didn't really have the concept of
science back then.

So Philosophia, literally, the love of wisdom, was a new way of trying to make sense of the
world. When the earliest philosophers used the world philosophy, they basically
meant the academic study of anything. Which, like, I guess could include golf.

But in what we might call the first universities in the Western world, Plato's Academy,
and it's rival, Aristotle's Lyceum, math, biology, physics, poetry, political science, and
astronomy, were all considered to be philosophy. Eventually, scholars began thinking
of these fields differently, as separate disciplines. Studies that had strong empirical
elements came to be considered science-- a search for answers. But philosophy came
to be understood more as a way of thinking about questions. Big questions.

And today, twenty-five-hundred years after the Ancient Greeks first brought them up,
philosophers still love asking questions. Oftentimes, the same questions, and they
don't mind that they never get an answer.

So, what are these big questions that have managed to intrigue, and stump,
philosophers for so long? One of the first might best be phrased as, what is the world
like? Sounds simple enough to answer, right? Like, just look around and see all the
stuff. Well, this is like.

But the philosophical approach isn't just based on observation. It has other, much
more complex questions packed inside it. When a philosopher wonders what the
world is like, she might really be asking, what's the nature of reality? Like, is the world
just made up of matter and energy, or is there something else going on? And if it is
just matter and energy, then where did it all come from? Is there a God? And if so
then what is he, or she, or it, like?

For that matter, when you're asking about the world, can you also be asking about the
nature of yourself as a citizen of the world? So, what kind of being am I? Do I have a
soul? Is there something immaterial about me that will survive after I die?

All of these questions are ways of exploring what philosophers call Metaphysics, one
of the three main branches of Philosophy. An effort to understand the fundamental
nature of the world, of the universe, and of being.

Now, if those questions are heady enough for you, we, as students of philosophy, also
have a whole, separate set of questions that are about how we know the answers to
any of this stuff. This particular strain of philosophy, which is like, knowing about
knowing, is Epistemology, literally the study of knowledge. The second major field of
Philosophy.

It poses questions like, is the world really what I think it is? Like really, is everything I
see and think and experience, is actually true? If it isn't then what is true, and what's
the best way to go about figuring out the truth? Is science the best way, or are there
more ethereal paths to truth, paths that science can never really travel?

And let's say that after a lot of searching and question-asking, I being to develop some
ideas, like an inkling about what might be true. Then, how do I know if I'm right?
How will I ever know I'm wrong? Can I ever be certain about anything?!

Now at this point I wouldn't blame you if you're thinking, "Am I real? Do I know
anything?" Well, as questions go, these might not seem super practical, but there's
another area of philosophy that helps frame your thinking around what you actually
do. Like, you you should act and what you should attach meaning to. It's called Value
Theory, and it's usually divided into two main branches.

The first is Ethics. You've heard of it. It's the things that politicians are always said to
lack and Jedi are supposed to have in great supply. Though, don't get me started on
the prequels.

In Philosophy, though, Ethics isn't just a code of what's right and what's wrong. It's
the study of how humans should live with each other. Rather than just sitting around
judging people, Ethics involves posing questions like, how should I live? Is there any
reason that I should treat, say, strangers differently than the people I love? And, for
that matter, do I owe anything to myself? What about animals or the Earth? And if I
do have any of these obligations at all, where do they come from? Who says?

Ultimately, whatever system you use to decide what's good or evil, as human behavior
goes, is determined by your values. That's why Ethics is considered part of Value
Theory.

But the other part of Value Theory isn't about what's right. It's about what's beautiful.
Aesthetics is the study of beauty and art. Now, the concept of beauty is talked about
practically everywhere, from the media to art school to barber college. But for
philosophers, the pursuit of Aesthetics involves considering what beauty is... and
whether it even exists.

Aesthetics is a part of Value Theory because beauty and art are things we value and
evaluate. And many people who study this particular kind of philosophy, known as
aestheticians, believe there is such a thing as the beautiful. Something that doesn't just
depend on what you happen to find attractive, but something that's just objectively
true.

And finally, there's one more aspect of Philosophy that I should mention, because it
doesn't ask questions, so much as help us find answers. Yes! Finally, some answers!
And that thing, which I happen to think can be beautiful in it's own way, is Logic.

Logic is the philosopher's toolbox. It contains the saw and hammers, the microscopes
and beakers, that philosophers use to go about answering their questions in a clear
and systematic way. Logic is about reasoning. Giving strong arguments that don't fall
victim to fallacies, which are, as you will learn, the mortal enemies of philosophical
precision.

Ok, so Metaphysics, Epistemology, Value Theory, they might all seem pretty airy and
abstract, but don't worry, because you have already done philosophy, though you
might not realize it. You do it in almost every aspect of your life. Every time you
argue with your parents, or wonder if you should date someone, or decide to eat a
salad instead of a ham and cheese Hot Pocket, you are doing philosophy, because
you're thinking about the world and your place in it. You're figuring out what you
value, why you value it, and what you should do about it.

So here's our plan: We're gonna learn about the major fields of Philosophy, posing
questions and considering possible answers along the way, and each time, we will use
a two-step method.
First, we'll really try to understand. You're not gonna agree with all of the ideas that I
present to you, and I won't agree with them either. That's not the point. The point in
Step One is to really try to get inside of an idea, to understand as charitably as
possible.

Then, in Step Two, you'll subject your understanding to some serious critical
evaluation. Basically, you'll try to knock down what you think you know about a
particular view of the world. And you'll do this whether you agree with the view or
not. Why? Because only when you challenge your understanding of how some people
view the world can you decide for yourself if theirs is a view worth having.

Which leads to me to my final point. Philosophy is not your usual field of study. I'm
not going to be teaching you a body of knowledge where success means you know a
bunch of stuff. Success in this course will mean that you know how to think. All we
have are questions and all you have is a brain. And the goal of philosophy is for you
to use your brain to come up with the answers that make the most sense to you.

You'll learn how to formulate arguments to support your ideas so you can explain
why you think you're right. Which, if you've ever been on the Internet, you know is
something that not a lot of people are good at. And in order to do that, you're gonna
need to understand philosophical reasoning: the tools we use to investigate life's most
perplexing questions. And that is where we're going to be headed the next time we
meet.

For now you've learned about the historical origins of Philosophy in Ancient Greece,
and it's three main divisions: Metaphysics, Epistemology, and Value Theory. We also
talked about Logic and how you're going to use it to understand and critically evaluate
a whole host of different world views. But not about golf.
Lesson 2: How To Argue - Philosophical Reasoning
Aristotle once described humans as “the rational animal.” Well, actually, he said that
“man is the rational animal,” but we don’t have to be sexist just because he was. And
if you’ve ever gotten into an argument with someone about religion or politics or
which Hemsworth is the hottest, then you’ve experienced how irrational people can
be about their opinions.

But what Aristotle meant is that rationality is our distinguishing characteristic – it’s
what sets us apart from the beasts. And no matter how much you disagree with
someone about God or Obama or Chris Hemsworth, you can at least grant that they
are not beasts. Because, most of the time at least, people can be persuaded. By
arguments.

You use arguments all the time -- in the comments, at family dinners, with your
friends -- you probably just don’t think of them the same way that philosophers do.
When you try and convince your parents to loan you the car, or when you’re talking
up Crash Course to your friends, you are using arguments. Thanks, by the way.

Each time you tell someone to do or believe something -- or when you’re explaining
why you do or believe something -- you are giving an argument. The problem is, the
vast majority of people aren’t really good at arguments. We tend to confuse making a
good argument with, like, having witty comebacks, or just making your points more
loudly and angrily, instead of building a case on a solid foundation of logic. Which can
be harder than it sounds.

But learning about arguments and strong reasoning will not only make you a better
philosopher, it will also set you up to be a more persuasive person. Someone who
people will listen to. Someone who’s convincing. So, yeah, these skills are beneficial
no matter what you want to do with your life. So you might as well know how to
argue properly.
If you want to learn how to argue, then you should probably start about 2400 years
ago, when Plato was laying out how reason can, and should, function in the human
mind. He believed that we all have what he called a tripartite soul – what you might
think of as your “self,” or your psyche, divided into three parts.

First, there’s the rational, or logical part of the soul, which represents cool reason.
This is the aspect of your self that seeks the truth and is swayed by facts and
arguments. When you decide to stop eating bacon for two meals a day because, as
delicious as it is it’s bad for you, then you make that decision with the guidance of the
rational part of your soul.

But then there’s the spirited aspect, often described as the emotional part of the self,
although that doesn’t really quite capture it. The spirited soul isn’t just about feeling --
it’s also about how your feelings fuel your actions. It’s the part that responds in
righteous anger at injustice, the part that drives your ambition, and calls upon you to
protect others. It gives you a sense of honor and duty, and is swayed by sympathy. So
if you decide to stop eating bacon because you just finished reading Charlotte’s Web,
and now you’re in love with Wilbur, then you’re being guided by the spirited part of
your soul.

But we share the next part of our soul with other animals, be they pig, or moose, or
aardvark. The appetitive part is what drives you to eat, have sex, and protect yourself
from danger. It is swayed by temptations that are carnal, and visceral. So at those
times when you go ahead and just EAT ALL THE BACON because it just smells so
dang good, the appetitive aspect of your soul is in control.

Now, Plato believed that the best human beings -- and I should point out here that
Plato most definitely did believe that some people were better than others -- are
always ruled by the rational part of their soul, because it works to keep the spirited
and the appetitive parts in check. People who allow themselves to be ruled by their
spirited or appetitive selves are base, he believed, and not fully, properly human.

Now, most of us don’t buy into the concept of the tripartite soul anymore -- or the
idea that some humans are less human than others. But we do understand that we’re
all motivated by physical desires, emotional impulses, and rational arguments. And
philosophers continue to agree with Plato that reason should be in the driver’s seat.
So, how do you know if you’re good at it? How can you test your reasoning? Well,
let’s head over to the Thought Bubble for some Flash Philosophy.

Throughout this course, we’re going to apply our philosophical skills by pondering
puzzles, paradoxes, and thought experiments. Because remember: Philosophers love
thinking about questions -- especially ones that don’t have ready answers. So think of
these exercises as philosophical wind-sprints -- quick tests of your mental abilities.

And here’s a doozy, from 20th century British thinker Bertrand Russell, one of the
pioneers of what’s known as analytic philosophy. Say there’s a town in which all men
are required by law to be clean-shaven. This town has only one barber, a man, who
must follow strict rules: Rule number one: He must shave all men who do not shave
themselves. Rule number two: He must not shave any man who does shave himself.
It’s the nightmare of every libertarian and every mustachio’d hipster. But here’s the
question: Does the barber shave himself?

Cause think about it: The barber only shaves men who don’t shave themselves. So if
he does shave himself, then he must not, because the barber’s not allowed to shave
guys who shave themselves. But, if he doesn’t shave himself, then he has to be shaved
by the barber, because that’s the law.

Russell came up with this puzzle to illustrate the fact that a group must always be a
member of itself. That means, in this case, that “all men who shave themselves” has
to include every guy who shaves himself, including the barber. Otherwise, the logic
that dictates the group’s existence just doesn’t hold up. And if the barber is a logical
impossibility, then he can’t exist, which means the reasoning behind his existence is
inherently flawed. And philosophy doesn’t tolerate flawed reasoning.

So, how do we make sure that we’re ruled by good, sound, not-flawed reason? By
perfecting the art of the argument. An argument, in philosophy, isn’t just a shouting
match. Instead, philosophers maintain that your beliefs should always be backed up
by reasons, which we call premises. Premises form the structure of your argument.
They offer evidence for your belief, and you can have as many premises as you like, as
long as they support your conclusion, which is the thing that you actually believe.

So, let’s dissect the anatomy of an argument. There are actually several different
species of arguments. Probably the most familiar, and the easiest to carry out, is the
deductive argument. The main rule of a deductive arguments is: if your premises are
true, then your conclusion must be true. And knowing that something is actually true
is very rare, and awesome.

So, here’s a boiled-down version of a good deductive argument:

Premise 1: All humans are mortal.
Premise 2: Socrates is a human.
Conclusion: Socrates is mortal.
This kind of reasoning, where one fact leads to another, is called entailment. Once we
know that all humans are mortal, and that Socrates is a human, those facts entail that
Socrates is mortal. Deduction begins with the general – in this case, what we know
about human mortality – and reasons down to the specific – Socrates in
particular. What’s great about deductive arguments is that the truth of the premises
must lead to the truth of the conclusion. When this happens, we say that the
argument is valid – there’s just no way for the conclusion to be false if the premises
are true.

Now check out this argument: All humans are mortal. Socrates is a human. Therefore,
Socrates was Plato’s teacher That argument is invalid, because nothing about human
mortality can prove that Socrates was Plato’s teacher. As you might have noticed,
there are plenty of mortal humans who never taught Plato. What’s interesting, though,
is that this argument does happen to have a true conclusion, which leads us to another
issue. And that is: Validity is not the same as truth. All ‘valid’ really means is that if the
premises are true, then your conclusion can’t be false. But that doesn’t mean that your
premises prove your conclusion to be correct. Like, in the case of whether Socrates
was Plato’s teacher, the premises are true, and the conclusion is true, but the argument
is still not valid -- because the premises don’t in any way prove the conclusion. It just
happens to be true.

So, if your premises don’t guarantee the truth of your conclusion, then you can end
up with some really crappy arguments. Like this one:
Premise 1:All cats are mammals
Premise 2: I’m a mammal
Conclusion: Therefore, I’m a cat
As much as part of me would like to be my cat, this is invalid because the conclusion
doesn’t entail from the premises... at all. I mean, all cats are mammals, but all
mammals aren’t cats. Which means there are such things as non-cat mammals, which
I am just one example of. And it probably goes without saying, but you can have a
perfectly valid argument and still have a false conclusion, if any of your premises are
false.

For example:
Premise 1: All humans have tails
Premise 2: My brother John is a human
Conclusion: Therefore, John Green has a tail!
The argument is totally valid! – Because the premises entail the conclusion! The
reasoning totally stands up! It’s just that one of the premises is flawed. Since I’m
reasonably certain that John doesn’t have a tail -- I’ve seen him in a bathing suit -- this
argument is not deductively sound. And a deductively sound argument is one that’s
free of formal flaws or defects. It’s an argument whose premises are all true, and that’s
valid, which means its conclusion is guaranteed to be true. So, sound arguments
should always be your goal.

The reason that deduction is prized by philosophers -- and lots of other important
kinds of thinkers -- is that it’s the only kind of argument that can give you a real
certainty. But it’s limited, because it only works if you’re starting with known, true
premises, which are hard to come by. And for what it’s worth, deductive truths are
usually pretty obvious. They don’t tend to lead us to startlingly new information, like
the fact that I’m not a cat, or that John doesn’t have a tail. So instead of starting with
premises that are already certain, like deduction does, you’re gonna have to know how
to determine the truth of, and your confidence in, your premises. Which means you’re
going to have to acquaint yourself with the other species of arguments, which we’re
gonna do next time.

But today, we talked about the value of reason, the structure of arguments, and we
took a close look at one kind of argument: deductive reasoning.
Lesson 3: How To Argue – Induction and Abduction
How do you know that aspirin will take care of your headache? Why do you really
wanna see that new Marvel movie, even though you haven't heard anything about it,
good or bad? Your ability to do things like predict how a medication will affect you, or
what movie you might like, or even things like what the perfect gift might be for your
best friend, or what's the fastest way to get to campus, all of this stuff, you know
through induction.

Deductive arguments are great because they give us certain answers, but unfortunately
much of the world cannot be summed up in a neat deductive proof. Deduction
requires a fair amount of general information to give you a specific conclusion that is,
frankly, probably kind of obvious.

So philosophy, and basically, y'know, life as well, require that you have other ways of
reasoning. In addition to knowing how one fact leads to another, you also need to
take what you've experienced before and use that to predict what might happen in the
future. And you need to be able to rule out what can't be true, so you can focus on
what can.

Through these kinds of reasoning you're not only able to figure out stuff like how to
fix your headache and why your roommate might be acting weird, you can also come
up with better, more skillful arguments and counterarguments, which are some of the
most important maneuvers in the philosophical game.

And maybe the best part is, you already know how to use these techniques. In fact, I
bet you used them this very day. You know this.
If you possess any ability to really predict the future, it lies in your ability to reason
inductively. Inductive reasoning relies on the predictability of nature to reveal that the
future is likely to resemble the past, often in important ways.

For example, there's tons of research to support the knowledge that aspirin,
acetylsalicylic acid, is an effective treatment for pain, like headaches. And you
probably have personal experience with the effects of aspirin, too. So you believe that
this aspirin tablet will cure the headache you have right now because countless aspirin
tablets have cured countless headaches in the past. Likewise, you wanna see the new
Marvel movie because you liked most of the other ones, so you believe that they'll
continue to deliver for you, entertainment-wise.

But it's important to remember that unlike deduction, where true premises entail true
conclusions, inductive premises only mean that the conclusion is likely to be true.
Inductive arguments don't provide you with certainty. Instead, they work in terms of
probabilities. And they're useful for more than just predicting what's going to happen,
for example:

Premise 1: Most men in ancient Athens had beards.

Premise 2: Socrates was a man who lived in ancient Athens.
Conclusion: Therefore, Socrates probably had a beard.

This is an inductive argument because it starts with what we already know about the
grooming habits of ancient Athenian men, and about the time and place in which
Socrates lived, and makes an educated guess based on that information. There's no
guarantee that the conclusion is correct, but what's known would seem to support it.

Reasoning like this is incredibly useful, which is why it's so common. But, there's also
a problem. The future doesn't always resemble the past, and every pattern has its
outliers. So induction always has the potential to produce false results; aspirin might
not work on a really bad headache, the new Marvel movie might be awful, and, yeah,
maybe a specific guy in Athens had a beard, but it's possible he didn't.

While the world tends to work according to predictable rules, sometimes those rules
are violated. And you know what you need when that happens: a little flash
philosophy. Off to the thought bubble.

Contemporary American philosopher Nelson Goodman confronts the problems with

induction using a thought exercise about a hypothetical substance called grue.
According to Goodman's scenario, grue is anything that's the color green before a
certain time, a time we will call t. And another property of grue is that while it's green
before time t, it's blue after it.

Now let's assume that we're living in a time before t. t could happen a hundred years
from now or tomorrow, but we know that all the emeralds we've ever seen are green.
So inductive reasoning lets us conclude that all emeralds are green and will remain
green after time t since emeralds have never been known to change color. But all
emeralds are grue because it's not yet time t and they're green, which is part of the
definition of grue. So we have no choice but to conclude that emeralds will be blue
after time t arrives.

Now we've got a problem because inductive reasoning has lead us to conclude that
emeralds will be blue after time t, but inductive reasoning also tells us that they'll
remain green. Goodman's riddle reminds us that inductive evidence can be flawed or
contradictory. It can make you think that you can predict the future when, of course,
you can't.
So, there are times when you need to get at the truth in other ways, like by eliminating
what's obviously not true and considering what's most likely. And for this, we turn
our attention to one of the most important philosophical figures of 19th century
England, Sherlock Holmes.

In chapter six of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Sign of the Four, Mr. Holmes says, and I
quote, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth." This is probably the best, most succinct description
ever given of the kind of reasoning known as abduction. Which I know sounds like
we're talking about kidnapping or something, but abduction is a thought process
sometimes described as "inference to the best explanation."

Abduction doesn't reason straight from a premise to a conclusion, as we've seen in

deduction and induction. Instead, it reasons by ruling out possible explanations until
you're left with the most plausible one given the evidence. Consider this:

Premise 1: Anna told you she failed her physics midterm.

Premise 2: Anna hasn't been in physics class since your teacher graded the exams.
Premise 3: Anna has been in sociology class, which meets right after physics.
Conclusion: Anna dropped physics.

Now, with only these premises, we can't deductively or inductively prove our
conclusion - that she dropped physics. But it's a justifiable conclusion because given
what we know, dropping the class is the most plausible explanation of events. We
know she's not sick because she's still going to sociology, and we know she had a
good reason to withdraw from the class because she was unlikely to pass. Concluding
that she dropped the course makes the most tidy use of our information without
leaving any loose ends. So let's look at another one:

Premise 1: You and your roommate ate sushi last night.

Premise 2: You both wake up with violent stomach aches.
Conclusion: You and your roommate ate some bad sushi.

The mere fact that you're both sick doesn't prove that the sushi caused the sickness, but
given that you both ate the same thing and you both have the same symptoms, absent
other information like that a stomach virus is going around your dorm, the best
explanation is that the sushi caused your intestinal anguish.

Now, like induction, abduction doesn't give us certainty. But it is a really useful way to
get through puzzling situations when you don't have clear evidence from the past to
help you out. Doctors use abduction a lot when they're diagnosing illnesses, and
detectives use it when piecing together evidence. You probably use it pretty often,
too. Just beware, because abduction must be used carefully. It uses only information
you have at hand, that's why doctors and detectives work so hard to dig up more data
and recreate events from the past, so they can help draw better conclusions.

Alright, now that we've looked at some argument types, let's find out how
philosophers use arguments to interact with each other. Because philosophers don't
argue like other people do. It's not like the conversation you have around the dinner
table about whether the Patriots are better than the Seahawks, or why
plain M&M's are superior to peanut, which is clearly a preposterous position to take.
Philosophers hold each other to different, higher standards.

They don't teach each other to get away with saying "I reject your argument because I
don't like its conclusion," or "that's preposterous, peanut M&M's are so good."
Instead, if you disagree with a conclusion, you need to give reasons, just like the first
person did when they made their case.

Both people involved in this kind of exchange are known as interlocutors because we
have to name everything. The first one advances an argument and the second one can
either accept it or offer a counterargument, which is just what it sounds like, an
argument offered in opposition to another argument.

Think back to Socrates and the beard. You think Socrates had a beard and your
reasoning is most men in his time and place had them. I, however, think you're
wrong, so I give you a counterargument. Gorgias, a contemporary of Socrates, said
Socrates couldn't grow a beard and that he would sneak into barbershops and steal
discarded clippings to fashion fake beards for himself. Therefore Socrates didn't have
a (real) beard.
And I just want to point out that this is an actual philosophy conspiracy theory.
Gorgias was a real guy who differed with Socrates on many things and the dispute was
said to have gotten personal. According to accounts of the time, Gorgias actually
spread the rumor that Socrates wore, like, a beard wig in an effort to shame and
discredit his rival. I mean, how could you be a good thinker if you weren't a good
beard-grower?

Gorgias' gossip didn't go over well with everyone, and in this instance, let's say you are
skeptical about it, too. So you counter my counterargument with a counter-
counterargument: Gorgias was known for being a gossip and for hating Socrates and
trying to make him look bad. His fake beard tale seems wildly unlikely. Therefore, we
can't take Gorgias' statement seriously, so we should fall back on the best information
we have, which is that most of the men in his time and place had beards.

And as you can see, arguments of different styles can be used in the same exchange.
Like, the original argument about Socrates probably having a beard was inductive, but
this last counterargument is abductive, and that's fine. Arguments are meant to be
useful, so we don't have to use the same kind of reasoning when we argue.

This way of exchanging ideas through dialogue was popularized by Socrates and so
has become known as the Socratic method. Socrates thought dialogue was the best
way to learn and to get at truth. And it's important to note that while philosophers
have a reputation for being an argumentative lot, they don't think of the
Socratic method as something that results in a winner and a loser. Rather, it's an
exercise that brings both interlocutors closer to the truth. The goal of the philosopher
is not to win, but to find truth, so you shouldn't be disappointed if someone presents
a counterargument that you can't find a response to. When that happens, a good
philosopher will be grateful to their interlocutor for helping them reject false beliefs
and build stronger ones.

Today, you learned about two more types of philosophical reasoning, induction and
abduction. You've seen their strengths and their weaknesses, and you've also learned
about counterarguments and the Socratic method.