What Is It Like To Be A Bat?

by Thomas Nagel

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What is it like to be a bat?
Thomas Nagel
[From The Philosophical Review LXXXIII, 4 (October 1974):
435-50.]
Consciousness is what makes the mind-body problem really intractable. Perhaps that is why current
discussions of the problem give it little attention or get it obviously wrong. The recent wave of
reductionist euphoria has produced several analyses of mental phenomena and mental concepts designed
to explain the possibility of some variety of materialism, psychophysical identification, or reduction.1 But
the problems dealt with are those common to this type of reduction and other types, and what makes the
mind-body problem unique, and unlike the water-H2O problem or the Turing machine-IBM machine
problem or the lightning-electrical discharge problem or the gene-DNA problem or the oak
tree-hydrocarbon problem, is ignored.
Every reductionist has his favorite analogy from modern science. It is most unlikely that any of these
unrelated examples of successful reduction will shed light on the relation of mind to brain. But
philosophers share the general human weakness for explanations of what is incomprehensible in terms
suited for what is familiar and well understood, though entirely different. This has led to the acceptance of
implausible accounts of the mental largely because they would permit familiar kinds of reduction. I shall
try to explain why the usual examples do not help us to understand the relation between mind and
body—why, indeed, we have at present no conception of what an explanation of the physical nature of a
mental phenomenon would be. Without consciousness the mind-body problem would be much less
interesting. With consciousness it seems hopeless. The most important and characteristic feature of
conscious mental phenomena is very poorly understood. Most reductionist theories do not even try to
explain it. And careful examination will show that no currently available concept of reduction is
applicable to it. Perhaps a new theoretical form can be devised for the purpose, but such a solution, if it
exists, lies in the distant intellectual future.
Conscious experience is a widespread phenomenon. It occurs at many levels of animal life, though we
cannot be sure of its presence in the simpler organisms, and it is very difficult to say in general what
provides evidence of it. (Some extremists have been prepared to deny it even of mammals other than
man.) No doubt it occurs in countless forms totally unimaginable to us, on other planets in other solar
systems throughout the universe. But no matter how the form may vary, the fact that an organism has
conscious experience at all means, basically, that there is something it is like to be that organism. There
may be further implications about the form of the experience; there may even (though I doubt it) be
implications about the behavior of the organism. But fundamentally an organism has conscious mental
states if and only if there is something that it is to be that organism—something it is like for the
organism.
We may call this the subjective character of experience. It is not captured by any of the familiar, recently
devised reductive analyses of the mental, for all of them are logically compatible with its absence. It is not
analyzable in terms of any explanatory system of functional states, or intentional states, since these could

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be ascribed to robots or automata that behaved like people though they experienced nothing.2 It is not
analyzable in terms of the causal role of experiences in relation to typical human behavior—for similar
reasons.3 I do not deny that conscious mental states and events cause behavior, nor that they may be given
functional characterizations. I deny only that this kind of thing exhausts their analysis. Any reductionist
program has to be based on an analysis of what is to be reduced. If the analysis leaves something out, the
problem will be falsely posed. It is useless to base the defense of materialism on any analysis of mental
phenomena that fails to deal explicitly with their subjective character. For there is no reason to suppose
that a reduction which seems plausible when no attempt is made to account for consciousness can be
extended to include consciousness. With out some idea, therefore, of what the subjective character of
experience is, we cannot know what is required of physicalist theory.
While an account of the physical basis of mind must explain many things, this appears to be the most
difficult. It is impossible to exclude the phenomenological features of experience from a reduction in the
same way that one excludes the phenomenal features of an ordinary substance from a physical or chemical
reduction of it—namely, by explaining them as effects on the minds of human observers.4 If physicalism
is to be defended, the phenomenological features must themselves be given a physical account. But when
we examine their subjective character it seems that such a result is impossible. The reason is that every
subjective phenomenon is essentially connected with a single point of view, and it seems inevitable that
an objective, physical theory will abandon that point of view.
Let me first try to state the issue somewhat more fully than by referring to the relation between the
subjective and the objective, or between the pour-soi and the en-soi. This is far from easy. Facts about
what it is like to be an X are very peculiar, so peculiar that some may be inclined to doubt their reality, or
the significance of claims about them. To illustrate the connection between subjectivity and a point of
view, and to make evident the importance of subjective features, it will help to explore the matter in
relation to an example that brings out clearly the divergence between the two types of conception,
subjective and objective.
I assume we all believe that bats have experience. After all, they are mammals, and there is no more doubt
that they have experience than that mice or pigeons or whales have experience. I have chosen bats instead
of wasps or flounders because if one travels too far down the phylogenetic tree, people gradually shed
their faith that there is experience there at all. Bats, although more closely related to us than those other
species, nevertheless present a range of activity and a sensory apparatus so different from ours that the
problem I want to pose is exceptionally vivid (though it certainly could be raised with other species). Even
without the benefit of philosophical reflection, anyone who has spent some time in an enclosed space with
an excited bat knows what it is to encounter a fundamentally alien form of life.
I have said that the essence of the belief that bats have experience is that there is something that it is like
to be a bat. Now we know that most bats (the microchiroptera, to be precise) perceive the external world
primarily by sonar, or echolocation, detecting the reflections, from objects within range, of their own
rapid, subtly modulated, high-frequency shrieks. Their brains are designed to correlate the outgoing
impulses with the subsequent echoes, and the information thus acquired enables bats to make precise
discriminations of distance, size, shape, motion, and texture comparable to those we make by vision. But
bat sonar, though clearly a form of perception, is not similar in its operation to any sense that we possess,
and there is no reason to suppose that it is subjectively like anything we can experience or imagine. This
appears to create difficulties for the notion of what it is like to be a bat. We must consider whether any
method will permit us to extrapolate to the inner life of the bat from our own case,5 and if not, what
alternative methods there may be for understanding the notion.
Our own experience provides the basic material for our imagination, whose range is therefore limited. It
will not help to try to imagine that one has webbing on one's arms, which enables one to fly around at
dusk and dawn catching insects in one's mouth; that one has very poor vision, and perceives the
surrounding world by a system of reflected high-frequency sound signals; and that one spends the day

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hanging upside down by one's feet in an attic. In so far as I can imagine this (which is not very far), it tells
me only what it would be like for me to behave as a bat behaves. But that is not the question. I want to
know what it is like for a bat to be a bat. Yet if I try to imagine this, I am restricted to the resources of my
own mind, and those resources are inadequate to the task. I cannot perform it either by imagining
additions to my present experience, or by imagining segments gradually subtracted from it, or by
imagining some combination of additions, subtractions, and modifications.
To the extent that I could look and behave like a wasp or a bat without changing my fundamental
structure, my experiences would not be anything like the experiences of those animals. On the other hand,
it is doubtful that any meaning can be attached to the supposition that I should possess the internal
neurophysiological constitution of a bat. Even if I could by gradual degrees be transformed into a bat,
nothing in my present constitution enables me to imagine what the experiences of such a future stage of
myself thus metamorphosed would be like. The best evidence would come from the experiences of bats, if
we only knew what they were like.
So if extrapolation from our own case is involved in the idea of what it is like to be a bat, the
extrapolation must be incompletable. We cannot form more than a schematic conception of what it is like.
For example, we may ascribe general types of experience on the basis of the animal's structure and
behavior. Thus we describe bat sonar as a form of three-dimensional forward perception; we believe that
bats feel some versions of pain, fear, hunger, and lust, and that they have other, more familiar types of
perception besides sonar. But we believe that these experiences also have in each case a specific
subjective character, which it is beyond our ability to conceive. And if there's conscious life elsewhere in
the universe, it is likely that some of it will not be describable even in the most general experiential terms
available to us.6 (The problem is not confined to exotic cases, however, for it exists between one person
and another. The subjective character of the experience of a person deaf and blind from birth is not
accessible to me, for example, nor presumably is mine to him. This does not prevent us each from
believing that the other's experience has such a subjective character.)
If anyone is inclined to deny that we can believe in the existence of facts like this whose exact nature we
cannot possibly conceive, he should reflect that in contemplating the bats we are in much the same
position that intelligent bats or Martians7 would occupy if they tried to form a conception of what it was
like to be us. The structure of their own minds might make it impossible for them to succeed, but we
know they would be wrong to conclude that there is not anything precise that it is like to be us: that only
certain general types of mental state could be ascribed to us (perhaps perception and appetite would be
concepts common to us both; perhaps not). We know they would be wrong to draw such a skeptical
conclusion because we know what it is like to be us. And we know that while it includes an enormous
amount of variation and complexity, and while we do not possess the vocabulary to describe it adequately,
its subjective character is highly specific, and in some respects describable in terms that can be understood
only by creatures like us. The fact that we cannot expect ever to accommodate in our language a detailed
description of Martian or bat phenomenology should not lead us to dismiss as meaningless the claim that
bats and Martians have experiences fully comparable in richness of detail to our own. It would be fine if
someone were to develop concepts and a theory that enabled us to think about those things; but such an
understanding may be permanently denied to us by the limits of our nature. And to deny the reality or
logical significance of what we can never describe or understand is the crudest form of cognitive
dissonance.
This brings us to the edge of a topic that requires much more discussion than I can give it here: namely,
the relation between facts on the one hand and conceptual schemes or systems of representation on the
other. My realism about the subjective domain in all its forms implies a belief in the existence of facts
beyond the reach of human concepts. Certainly it is possible for a human being to believe that there are
facts which humans never will possess the requisite concepts to represent or comprehend. Indeed, it would
be foolish to doubt this, given the finiteness of humanity's expectations. After all there would have been
transfinite numbers even if everyone had been wiped out by the Black Death before Cantor discovered
them. But one might also believe that there are facts which could not ever be represented or

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comprehended by human beings, even if the species lasted for ever—simply because our structure does
not permit us to operate with concepts of the requisite type. This impossibility might even be observed by
other beings, but it is not clear that the existence of such beings, or the possibility of their existence, is a
precondition of the significance of the hypothesis that there are humanly inaccessible facts. (After all, the
nature of beings with access to humanly inaccessible facts is presumably itself a humanly inaccessible
fact.) Reflection on what it is like to be a bat seems to lead us, therefore, to the conclusion that there are
facts that do not consist in the truth of propositions expressible in a human language. We can be
compelled to recognize the existence of such facts without being able to state or comprehend them.
I shall not pursue this subject, however. Its bearing on the topic before us (namely, the mind-body
problem) is that it enables us to make a general observation about the subjective character of experience.
Whatever may be the status of facts about what it is like to be a human being, or a bat, or a Martian, these
appear to be facts that embody a particular point of view.
I am not adverting here to the alleged privacy of experience to its possessor. The point of view in question
is not one accessible only to a single individual. Rather it is a type. It is often possible to take up a point of
view other than one's own, so the comprehension of such facts is not limited to one's own case. There is a
sense in which phenomenological facts are perfectly objective: one person can know or say of another
what the quality of the other's experience is. They are subjective, however, in the sense that even this
objective ascription of experience is possible only for someone sufficiently similar to the object of
ascription to be able to adopt his point of view—to understand the ascription in the first person as well as
in the third, so to speak. The more different from oneself the other experiencer is, the less success one can
expect with this enterprise. In our own case we occupy the relevant point of view, but we will have as
much difficulty understanding our own experience properly if we approach it from another point of view
as we would if we tried to understand the experience of another species without taking up its point of
view.8
This bears directly on the mind-body problem. For if the facts of experience—facts about what it is like
for the experiencing organism—are accessible only from one point of view, then it is a mystery how the
true character of experiences could be revealed in the physical operation of that organism. The latter is a
domain of objective facts par excellence—the kind that can be observed and understood from many points
of view and by individuals with differing perceptual systems. There are no comparable imaginative
obstacles to the acquisition of knowledge about bat neurophysiology by human scientists, and intelligent
bats or Martians might learn more about the human brain than we ever will.
This is not by itself an argument against reduction. A Martian scientist with no understanding of visual
perception could understand the rainbow, or lightning, or clouds as physical phenomena, though he would
never be able to understand the human concepts of rainbow, lightning, or cloud, or the place these things
occupy in our phenomenal world. The objective nature of the things picked out by these concepts could be
apprehended by him because, although the concepts themselves are connected with a particular point of
view and a particular visual phenomenology, the things apprehended from that point of view are not: they
are observable-from the point of view but external to it; hence they can be comprehended from other
points of view also, either by the same organisms or by others. Lightning has an objective character that is
not exhausted by its visual appearance, and this can be investigated by a Martian without vision. To be
precise, it has a more objective character than is revealed in its visual appearance. In speaking of the move
from subjective to objective characterization, I wish to remain noncommittal about the existence of an end
point, the completely objective intrinsic nature of the thing, which one might or might not be able to
reach. It may be more accurate to think of objectivity as a direction in which the understanding can travel.
And in understanding a phenomenon like lightning, it is legitimate to go as far away as one can from a
strictly human viewpoint.9
In the case of experience, on the other hand, the connection with a particular point of view seems much
closer. It is difficult to understand what could be meant by the objective character of an experience, apart
from the particular point of view from which its subject apprehends it. After all, what would be left of

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what it was like to be a bat if one removed the viewpoint of the bat? But if experience does not have, in
addition to its subjective character, an objective nature that can be apprehended from many different
points of view, then how can it be supposed that a Martian investigating my brain might be observing
physical processes which were my mental processes (as he might observe physical processes which were
bolts of lightning), only from a different point of view? How, for that matter, could a human physiologist
observe them from another point of view?10
We appear to be faced with a general difficulty about psychophysical reduction. In other areas the process
of reduction is a move in the direction of greater objectivity, toward a more, accurate view of the real
nature of things. This is accomplished by reducing our dependence on individual or species-specific points
of view toward the object of investigation. We describe it not in terms of the impressions it makes on our
senses, but in terms of its more general effects and of properties detectable by means other than the human
senses. The less it depends on a specifically human viewpoint, the more objective is our description. It is
possible to follow this path because although the concepts and ideas we employ in thinking about the
external world are initially applied from a point of view that involves our perceptual apparatus, they are
used by us to refer to things beyond themselves—toward which we have the phenomenal point of view.
Therefore we can abandon it in favor of another, and still be thinking about the same things.
Experience itself however, does not seem to fit the pattern. The idea of moving from appearance to reality
seems to make no sense here. What is the analogue in this case to pursuing a more objective
understanding of the same phenomena by abandoning the initial subjective viewpoint toward them in
favour of another that is more objective but concerns the same thing? Certainly it appears unlikely that we
will get closer to the real nature of human experience by leaving behind the particularity of our human
point of view and striving for a description in terms accessible to beings that could not imagine what it
was like to be us. If the subjective character of experience is fully comprehensible only from one point of
view, then any shift to greater objectivity—that is, less attachment to a specific viewpoint—does not take
us nearer to the real nature of the phenomenon: it takes us farther away from it.
In a sense, the seeds of this objection to the reducibility of experience are already detectable in successful
cases of reduction; for in discovering sound to be, in reality, a wave phenomenon in air or other media, we
leave behind one viewpoint to take up another, and the auditory, human or animal viewpoint that we leave
behind remains unreduced. Members of radically different species may both understand the same physical
events in objective terms, and this does not require that they understand the phenomenal forms in which
those events appear to the senses of members of the other species. Thus it is a condition of their referring
to a common reality that their more particular viewpoints are not part of the common reality that they both
apprehend. The reduction can succeed only if the species-specific viewpoint is omitted from what is to be
reduced.
But while we are right to leave this point of view aside in seeking a fuller understanding of the external
world, we cannot ignore it permanently, since it is the essence of the internal world, and not merely a
point of view on it. Most of the neobehaviorism of recent philosophical psychology results from the effort
to substitute an objective concept of mind for the real thing, in order to have nothing left over which
cannot be reduced. If we acknowledge that a physical theory of mind must account for the subjective
character of experience, we must admit that no presently available conception gives us a clue how this
could be done. The problem is unique. If mental processes are indeed physical processes, then there is
something it is like, intrinsically,11 to undergo certain physical processes. What it is for such a thing to be
the case remains a mystery.
What moral should be drawn from these reflections, and what should be done next? It would be a mistake
to conclude that physicalism must be false. Nothing is proved by the inadequacy of physicalist hypotheses
that assume a faulty objective analysis of mind. It would be truer to say that physicalism is a position we
cannot understand because we do not at present have any conception of how it might be true. Perhaps it
will be thought unreasonable to require such a conception as a condition of understanding. After all, it
might be said, the meaning of physicalism is clear enough: mental states are states of the body; mental

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events are physical events. We do not know which physical states and events they are, but that should not
prevent us from understanding the hypothesis. What could be clearer than the words 'is' and 'are'?
But I believe it is precisely this apparent clarity of the word 'is' that is deceptive. Usually, when we are
told that X is Y we know how it is supposed to be true, but that depends on a conceptual or theoretical
background and is not conveyed by the 'is' alone. We know how both “X” and “Y ” refer, and the kinds of
things to which they refer, and we have a rough idea how the two referential paths might converge on a
single thing, be it an object, a person, a process, an event or whatever. But when the two terms of the
identification are very disparate it may not be so clear how it could be true. We may not have even a rough
idea of how the two referential paths could converge, or what kind of things they might converge on, and
a theoretical framework may have to be supplied to enable us to understand this. Without the framework,
an air of mysticism surrounds the identification.
This explains the magical flavor of popular presentations of fundamental scientific discoveries, given out
as propositions to which one must subscribe without really understanding them. For example, people are
now told at an early age that all matter is really energy. But despite the fact that -'they know what 'is'
means, most of them never form a conception of what makes this claim true, because they lack the
theoretical background.
At the present time the status of physicalism is similar to that which the hypothesis that matter is energy
would have had if uttered by a pre-Socratic philosopher. We do not have the beginnings of a conception of
how it might be true. In order to understand the hypothesis that a mental event is a physical event, we
require more than an understanding of the word 'is'. The idea of how a mental and a physical term might
refer to the same thing is lacking, and the usual analogies with theoretical identification in other fields fail
to supply it. They fail because if we construe the reference of mental terms to physical events on the usual
model, we either get a reappearance of separate subjective events as the effects through which mental
reference to physical events is secured, or else we get a false account of how mental terms refer (for
example, a causal behaviorist one).
Strangely enough, we may have evidence for the truth of something we cannot really understand. Suppose
a caterpillar is locked in a sterile safe by someone unfamiliar with insect metamorphosis, and weeks later
the safe is reopened, revealing a butterfly. If the person knows that the safe has been shut the whole time,
he has reason to believe that the butterfly is or was once the caterpillar, without having any idea in what
sense this might be so. (One possibility is that the caterpillar contained a tiny winged parasite that
devoured it and grew into the butterfly.)
It is conceivable that we are in such a position with regard to physicalism. Donald Davidson has argued
that if mental events have physical causes and effects, they must have physical descriptions. He holds that
we have reason to believe this even though we do not—and in fact could not—have a general
psychophysical theory.12 His argument applies to intentional mental events, but I think we also have some
reason to believe that sensations are physical processes, without being in a position to understand how.
Davidson's position is that certain physical events have irreducibly mental properties, and perhaps some
view describable in this way is correct. But nothing of which we can now form a conception corresponds
to it; nor have we any idea what a theory would be like that enabled us to conceive of it.13
Very little work has been done on the basic question (from which mention of the brain can be entirely
omitted) whether any sense can be made of experiences' having an objective character at all. Does it make
sense, in other words, to ask what my experiences are really like, as opposed to how they appear to me?
We cannot genuinely understand the hypothesis that their nature is captured in a physical description
unless we understand the more fundamental idea that they have an objective nature (or that objective
processes can have a subjective nature).14
I should like to close with a speculative proposal. It may be possible to approach the gap between
subjective and objective from another direction. Setting aside temporarily the relation between the mind

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and the brain, we can pursue a more objective understanding of the mental in its own right. At present we
are completely unequipped to think about the subjective character of experience without relying on the
imagination—without taking up the point of view of the experiential subject. This should be regarded as a
challenge to form new concepts and devise a new method—an objective phenomenology not dependent
on empathy or the imagination. Though presumably it would not capture everything, its goal would be to
describe, at least in part, the subjective character of experiences in a form comprehensible to beings
incapable of having those experiences.
We would have to develop such a phenomenology to describe the sonar experiences of bats; but it would
also be possible to begin with humans. One might try, for example, to develop concepts that could be used
to explain to a person blind from birth what it was like to see. One would reach a blank wall eventually,
but it should be possible to devise a method of expressing in objective terms much more than we can at
present, and with much greater precision. The loose intermodal analogies—for example, 'Red is like the
sound of a trumpet'—which crop up in discussions of this subject are of little use. That should be clear to
anyone who has both heard a trumpet and seen red. But structural features of perception might be more
accessible to objective description, even though something would be left out. And concepts alternative to
those we learn in the first person may enable us to arrive at a kind of understanding even of our own
experience which is denied us by the very ease of description and lack of distance that subjective concepts
afford.
Apart from its own interest, a phenomenology that is in this sense objective may permit questions about
the physically basis of experience to assume a more intelligible form. Aspects of subjective experience
that admitted this kind of objective description might be better candidates for objective explanations of a
more familiar sort. But whether or not this guess is correct, it seems unlikely that any physical theory of
mind can be contemplated until more thought has been given to the general problem of subjective and
objective. Otherwise we cannot even pose the mind-body problem without sidestepping it.
NOTES:
1 Examples are J. J. C. Smart, Philosophy and Scientific Realism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963); David K.
Lewis, 'An Argument for the Identity Theory', Journal of Philosophy, LXIII (1966), reprinted with addenda in David
M. Rosenthal, Materialism & the Mind-Body Problem, (Engelwood Cliffs, NJ.: Prentice-Hall, 1971); Hilary Putnam,
'Psychological Predicates', in Art, Mind, & Religion, ed. W. H. Capitan and D. D. Merrill (Pittsburgh: University of
Pittsburgh Press, 1967), reprinted in Materialism, ed. Rosenthal, as 'The Nature of Mental States'; D. M. Armstrong, A
Materialist Theory of the Mind (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1968); D. C. Dennett, Content and Consciousness
(London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969). I have expressed earlier doubts in 'Armstrong on the Mind', Philosophical
Review, LXXIX (1970), 394-403; a review of Dennett, Journal of Philosophy, LXIX (1972); and chapter 11 above.
See also Saul Kripke, 'Naming and Necessity'. in Semantics of Natural Language, ed. D. Davidson and G. Harman
(Dordrecht: Reidel, 1972), esp. pp. 334-42; and M. T. Thornton, 'Ostensive Terms and Materialism', The Monist, LVI
(1972), 193-214.
2 Perhaps there could not actually be such robots. Perhaps anything complex enough to behave like a person would
have experiences. But that, if true, is a fact which cannot be discovered merely by analyzing the concept of experience.
3 It is not equivalent to that about which we are incorrigible, both because we are not incorrigible about experience
and because experience is present in animals lacking language and thought, who have no beliefs at all about their
experiences.
4 Cf. Richard Rorty, 'Mind-Body Identity, Privacy, and Categories', Review of Metaphysics, XIX (1965), esp. 37-8.
5 By 'our own case' I do not mean just 'my own case', but rather the mentalistic ideas that we apply unproblematically
to ourselves and other human beings.
6 Therefore the analogical form of the English expression 'what it is like' is misleading. It does not mean 'what (in our
experience) it resembles', but rather 'how it is for the subject himself'.

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7 Any intelligent extraterrestrial beings totally different from us.
8 It may be easier than I suppose to transcend inter-species barriers with the aid of the imagination. For example, blind
people are able to detect objects near them by a form of sonar, using vocal clicks or taps of a cane. Perhaps if one
knew what that was like, one could by extension imagine roughly what it was like to possess the much more refined
sonar of a bat. The distance between oneself and other persons and other species can fall anywhere on a continuum.
Even for other persons the understanding of what it is like to be them is only partial, and when one moves to species
very different from oneself, a lesser degree of partial understanding may still be available. The imagination is
remarkably flexible. My point, however, is not that we cannot know what it is like to be a bat. I am not raising that
epistemological problem. My point is rather that even to form a conception of what it is like to be a bat (and a fortiori
to know what it is like to be a bat) one must take up the bat's point of view. If one can take it up roughly, or partially,
then one's conception will also be rough or partial. Or so it seems in our present state of understanding.
9 The problem I am going to raise can therefore be posed even if the distinction between more subjective and more
objective descriptions or viewpoints can itself be made only within a larger human point of view. I do not accept this
kind of conceptual relativism, but it need not be refuted to make the point that psychophysical reduction cannot be
accommodated by the subjective-to-objective model from other cases.
10 The problem is not just that when I look at the Mona Lisa, my visual experience has a certain quality, no trace of
which is to be found by someone looking into my brain. For even if he did observe there a tiny image of the Mona
Lisa, he would have no reason to identify it with the experience.
11 The relation would therefore not be a contingent one, like that of a cause and its distinct effect. It would be
necessarily true that a physical state felt a certain way. Saul Kripke in Semantics of Natural Language, (ed. Davidson
and Harman) argues that causal behaviorist and related analyses of the mental fail because they construe, e.g., 'pain' as
a merely contingent name of pains. The subjective character of an experience ('its immediate phenomenolocal quality'
Kripke calls it (p. 340)) is the essential property left out by such analyses, and the one in virtue of which it is,
necessarily, the experience it is. My view is closely related to his. Like Kripke, I find the hypothesis that a certain
brain state should necessarily have a certain subjective character incomprehensible without further explanation. No
such explanation emerges from theories which view the mind-brain relation as contingent, but perhaps there are other
alternatives, not yet discovered.
A theory that explained how the mind-brain relation was necessary would still leave us with Kripke's problem of
explaining why it nevertheless appears contingent. That difficulty seems to me surmountable, in the following way.
We may imagine something by representing it to ourselves either perceptually, sympathetically, or symbolically. I shall
not try to say how symbolic imagination works, but part of what happens in the other two cases is this. To imagine
something perceptually, we put ourselves in a conscious state resembling the state we would be in if we perceived it.
To imagine something sympathetically, we put ourselves in a conscious state resembling the thing itself. (This method
can be used only to imagine mental events and stares—our own or another's.) When we try to imagine a mental state
occurring without its associated brain state, we first sympathetically imagine the occurrence of the mental state: that is,
we put ourselves into a state that resembles it mentally. At the same time, we attempt perceptually to imagine the
nonoccurrence of the associated physical state, by putting ourselves into another state unconnected with the first; one
resembling that which we would be in if we perceived the nonoccurrence of the physical state. Where the imagination
of physical features is perceptual and the imagination of mental features is sympathetic, it appears to us that we can
imagine any experience occurring without its associated brain state, and vice versa. The relation between them will
appear contingent even if it is necessary, because of the independence of the disparate types of imagination.
(Solipsism incidentally, results if one misinterprets sympathetic imagination as if it worked like perceptual
imagination: it then seems impossible to imagine any experience that is not one's own.)
12 See 'Mental Events' in Experience and Theory, ed. Lawrence Foster and J. W. Swanson (Amherst: University of
Massachusetts Press, 1970); though I do not understand the argument against psychophysical laws.
13 Similar remarks apply to my paper 'Physicalism', Philosophical Review, LXXIV (1965), 339-56, reprinted with
postscript in Modern Materialism, ed. John O'Connor (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1969).
14 This question also lies at the heart of the problem of other minds, whose close connection with the mind-body
problem is often overlooked. If one understood how subjective experience could have an objective nature, one would

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understand the existence of subjects other than oneself.
15 I have not defined the term 'physical'. Obviously it does not apply just to what can be described by the concepts of
contemporary physics, since we expect further developments. Some may think there is nothing to prevent mental
phenomena from eventually being recognized as physical in their own right. But whatever else may be said of the
physical, it has to be objective. So if our idea of the physical ever expands to include mental phenomena, it will have
to assign them an objective character—whether or not this is done by analyzing them in terms of other phenomena
already regarded as physical It seems to me more likely, however, that mental-physical relations will eventually be
expressed in a theory whose fundamental terms cannot be placed clearly in either category.