Often metaphorical and allusive, the work of philosopher Daniel C. Dennett (1942-2024) will be remembered for its exploration of everyday thought.
Dennett was a man of many talents: sailor, sculptor, singer, pianist, storyteller, lover of ribald limericks, beloved mentor to academics of all ages, outspoken critic of religion, and the mastermind behind The Philosophical Lexicon (9th ed, 2008), a satirical dictionary of neologisms inspired by the names of prominent philosophers. And of course, he was also a leading philosopher, ranking second to Jerry Fodor in a 2016 poll of the most important Anglophone philosophers of mind since World War II.
As a writer, Dennett was known for his distinctive style and accessibility, making him unusually well-read outside of academic circles. However, while his work garnered attention, it was not always easily understood, and many found his ideas about the mind to be opaque. What was Dennett really after, and why was his work so significant?
Traditionally, Dennett’s importance has been framed as a shift in the philosophy of mind. Prior to his influence (BD – “before Dennett”), philosophers of mind focused on understanding ordinary thought and language. This method, known as “ordinary language philosophy,” analyzed how we use words like “pain” or “thought” in everyday contexts. In the post-Dennett era (AD), philosophy of mind increasingly embraced scientific perspectives, particularly those of neuroscience. As The Guardian obituary from April 2024 noted, Dennett played a key role in shifting Anglo-American philosophy away from its focus on language and concepts, forging a closer alliance with science.
This interpretation is supported by Dennett’s own account of his intellectual journey. He was drawn to Oxford in 1963 by the influence of Gilbert Ryle’s Concept of Mind (1949) and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations (1953), where he found inspiration in their approach to understanding the mind. However, it was a casual conversation with fellow students about the experience of having a “fallen asleep” arm that ignited his lifelong fascination with the science of the mind. As Dennett recounts in his autobiography I’ve Been Thinking (2023), this conversation led him to question whether the sensation was caused by pressure on blood vessels or nerves. His peers saw this as a philosophical puzzle, but Dennett was struck by their lack of interest in the physical phenomenon. Afterward, he headed to the library to learn more about anatomy and neurophysiology, marking the beginning of his scientific education.
While there is some truth to the received view that Dennett’s work signaled a shift toward scientific collaboration in philosophy of mind, this reading overlooks an essential aspect of his thought. Dennett never abandoned the central concerns of ordinary language philosophy. In fact, he argued that an understanding of folk psychology—the everyday, pre-scientific conception of the mind—remained crucial for the philosophy of mind.
Anil Gomes, an Oxford philosopher, pointed out in the London Review of Books (2023) that Dennett’s ideas align closely with the work of American philosopher Wilfrid Sellars, who distinguished between the “manifest image” (our everyday conception of reality) and the “scientific image” (the reality described by science). In this framework, Dennett’s work can be seen as attempting to reconcile these two perspectives.
Folk psychology is, in essence, the naive, natural conception of the mind that humans acquire in childhood. It assumes the existence of the self—a subject of thought and action, capable of holding beliefs, desires, intentions, and conscious experiences. The challenge for science is to reconcile this folk psychology with what neuroscience tells us about the brain.
Dennett’s central question, then, was whether scientific accounts could accommodate phenomena like the self, free will, and consciousness. Some theories, like “industrial strength realism” (ISR), assert that the self is a distinct entity, possibly located in the brain. Others, such as eliminativism, argue that the self is a fiction. Dennett rejected both views, arguing instead that the self, like other concepts in folk psychology, is an “abstracta”—an idea that doesn’t correspond to a specific, physical thing.
Using the analogy of a chair’s center of gravity, Dennett suggested that the self is not a thing, but a point around which we organize our mental life. Just as the center of gravity is real but not a physical object, the self is a useful conceptual tool to understand human behavior, even if it doesn’t correspond to a single entity in the brain.
Despite drawing on insights from neuroscience, Dennett’s account of the self was rooted more in reflective, philosophical thinking than in scientific data. His ideas were shaped by careful consideration of how we talk about the mind in everyday life.
Dennett’s reflections on the self were also deeply informed by storytelling. In his 1992 paper “The Self as a Centre of Narrative Gravity,” he uses the analogy of a computer programmed to write novels. When the machine outputs the sentence, “Call me Gilbert,” the name doesn’t refer to anything in particular. However, if this computer were placed in a robot, its actions and speech would begin to construct a narrative about the robot—a narrative of a self. Just as we attribute agency and identity to people through their stories, we can do the same with the robot. Dennett argued that the self emerges not from a physical entity but from the narrative we tell about a person’s behavior, actions, and experiences.
In summary, Dennett’s work represents a sophisticated integration of ordinary language philosophy, scientific inquiry, and narrative theory, offering a unique perspective on the self and consciousness. His ideas continue to influence contemporary philosophy of mind and remain a testament to his ability to intertwine the scientific and philosophical dimensions of human experience.
Among other things, selves possess beliefs, desires, and intentions. Mr. Brown believes it will rain tomorrow, Ms. Green hopes to visit Greece for her summer vacation, and Dr. Pink plans to prune her roses over the weekend. These intentional states—beliefs, desires, and intentions—are key to the manifest conception of the mind. But can they be accommodated within the scientific understanding of the mind? If so, how?
Jerry Fodor, once a close collaborator and later a challenger to Dennett, proposed a popular solution. Fodor suggested that beliefs, desires, and intentions are essentially sentences in a language of thought. For instance, believing it will rain tomorrow involves a brain state that represents tomorrow’s weather and influences behavior in ways characteristic of beliefs. Unlike natural language sentences, these mental states are inscribed in the brain itself.
The Churchlands, Paul and Patricia, took a different approach. They agreed with Fodor that intentional talk reflects the underlying causal structure of the mind but rejected the notion that beliefs, desires, and intentions can be scientifically validated. In their view, folk psychology’s reliance on these concepts will eventually be eliminated by neuroscience.
Dennett, however, rejected both Fodor’s realism and the Churchlands’ eliminativism. He argued that both views misunderstood the purpose of intentional-state talk. Drawing from mid-century philosophers like Ryle, Dennett contended that beliefs, desires, and intentions are not meant to identify the internal causes of behavior, but to make sense of it. The aim is not to reflect the brain’s causal structure but to interpret human agency.
Dennett’s perspective is encapsulated in his theory of ‘intentional systems.’ His approach involves treating an object as a rational agent, deducing the beliefs and desires it would have based on its context and goals, and predicting its behavior accordingly. This “intentional stance” doesn’t just describe how we attribute beliefs and desires to others but defines what those attributes are. A system qualifies as an intentional one—what Dennett calls a ‘true believer’—if its behavior fits the patterns necessary for the intentional stance.
Critics argue that Dennett’s theory amounts to a mere fiction, asserting that intentionality is a projection rather than an objective feature of reality. Dennett, however, defended his position, claiming that beliefs, desires, and intentions are real patterns—objective features of reality. He illustrated this with a thought experiment by philosopher Robert Nozick. Imagine Martians who can predict human behavior based solely on physics, without acknowledging the intentional aspects. While they can predict our actions, their failure to recognize the intentional patterns that underlie our behavior misses something important. Their understanding of reality, though scientifically comprehensive, would be incomplete.
Though Dennett’s account of intentionality remains controversial, it offers a powerful and elegant solution. It is grounded not in scientific psychology but in the demands of folk psychology, aligning with the traditions of Ryle and Wittgenstein.
Dennett’s views on consciousness are similarly debated. Some view him as an eliminativist, denying consciousness altogether. While elements of eliminativism can be found in his work, particularly in his 1978 paper on pain, Dennett was not a ‘consciousness denier.’ In his influential 1988 paper “Quining Qualia,” Dennett argued against a certain conception of consciousness—Qualia, with a capital Q—understood as intrinsic, private, and ineffable experiences. Dennett denied that such Qualia exist, arguing that experiences like the taste of coffee are not independent of our responses, but shaped by them.
Dennett’s rejection of Qualia doesn’t imply a denial of consciousness but a critique of the way consciousness is typically conceived. His view of consciousness aligns with metaphors such as ‘fame in the brain,’ where consciousness emerges from interactions between various brain processes. These metaphors serve as placeholders for more precise scientific understanding, though Dennett acknowledged the complexity of explaining them in empirical terms. He argued that science has made progress, particularly with the global neuronal workspace model, but the connection between these metaphors and scientific models is still evolving.
Dennett’s metaphors, including his description of consciousness as ‘fame,’ serve to bridge the gap between folk psychology and scientific theory. Consciousness, he suggested, is less like a medium of representation and more like an event gaining prominence in the brain. What matters are the effects—‘sequels’—of these representations, rather than their intrinsic properties.
This perspective on consciousness raises a key question: How do we define the boundary between unconscious processes and conscious experience? Dennett was skeptical that science could draw a clear line, likening it to the difficulty in distinguishing between local celebrity and true fame.
Dennett’s focus on the relationship between the folk and scientific images of the mind is what makes him stand out. He didn’t aim to disrupt the aims or methods of philosophy of mind but worked within the tradition of Ryle and Wittgenstein, emphasizing the legitimacy of folk psychology. Dennett believed that most of folk psychology’s commitments could be saved, with only the misleading philosophical glosses needing removal.
In this sense, Dennett’s contribution to philosophy of mind lies not in revising scientific theories but in clarifying and defending the foundations of our everyday understanding of the mind.