Test Bank for Introduction to Philosophy 9th Edition by

Perry
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Test Bank
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Instructor’s Manual and Test Bank

to accompany

Introduction to Philosophy:
Classical and Contemporary Readings

Ninth Edition

by Perry, Bratman, and Fischer

John Martin Fischer

Neal A. Tognazzini

D. Justin Coates

David Beglin

Andrew Law

New York • Oxford

Oxford University Press

2021
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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface 6

Sample Syllabi 8

Logical Toolkit 14

Writing Philosophy Papers 40

Reading Summaries

PART I: Philosophy 44

Bertrand Russell, “The Value of Philosophy” 44

Plato, “Apology: Defence of Socrates” 45

PART II: God and Evil 46

A. Why Believe?

Saint Anselm, “The Ontological Argument” 46

Saint Thomas Aquinas, “The Existence of God” 47
William Paley, “Natural Theology” 48
William James, “The Will to Believe” 49

B. The Problem of Evil

David Hume, “Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion” 50

Gottfried Leibniz, “God, Evil and the Best of All Possible Worlds” 51
William Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism” 52
Marlin Adams and Stewart Sutherland, “Horrendous Evils and
the Problem of Evil” 53
Eleonore Stump, “The Mirror of Evil” 54
Louise Antony, “For the Love of Reason” 55

PART III: Knowledge and Reality 56

A. Plato, Descartes, and the Problems of Skepticism

Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” 56

Robert Nozick, “The Experience Machine” 57
René Descartes, “Meditations on First Philosophy” 58
Keith DeRose and Ted A. Warfield, “Responding to Skepticism” 59
Peter Graham, “Beginning to Respond to Skepticism” 60

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B. Hume’s Problems and Some Solutions

David Hume, “An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding” 61

W. C. Salmon, “The Problem of Induction” 62

PART IV: Minds, Bodies, and Persons 63

A. The Traditional Problem of Minds and Bodies

David M. Armstrong, “The Nature of Mind” 63

Paul M. Churchland, “Eliminative Materialism” 64
Frank Jackson, “What Mary Didn’t Know” 65
Patricia Churchland, “Neurophilosophy” 66

B. Minds, Brains, and Machines

A. M. Turing, “Computing Machinery and Intelligence” 67

John R. Searle, “Minds, Brains, and Programs” 68

C. Personal Identity

John Perry, “A Dialogue on Personal Identity and Immortality” 69

Derek Parfit, “Personal Identity” 70
J. David Velleman, “So It Goes” 71
Daniel Dennett, “Where Am I?” 72
Marya Schechtman, “Personhood and Personal Identity” 74
Agnieszka Jaworska, “Respecting the Margins of Agency: Alzheimer’s
Patients and the Capacity to Value” 75

D. Freedom, Determinism, and Responsibility

Roderick M. Chisholm, “Human Freedom and the Self” 76

David Hume, “Of Liberty and Necessity” 78
Harry G. Frankfurt, “Alternate Possibilities and Moral Responsibility 79
John Martin Fischer, “Responsiveness and Moral Responsibility” 80
Harry G. Frankfurt, “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person” 81
Gary Watson, “Free Agency” 82
Christian Helmut Wenzel, “Free Will and Zhuangzi: An Introduction” 83

PART V: Ethics and Society 84

A. Utilitarianism

Jeremy Bentham, “The Principle of Utility” 84

John Stuart Mill, “Utilitarianism” 85

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E. F. Carritt, “Criticisms of Utilitarianism” 86

Mozi, “Excerpts from Mozi” 87
Peter Singer, “Famine, Affluence, and Morality” 88

B. Kantian Ethics

Immanuel Kant, “Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals” 89

Onora O’Neill, “Kantian Approaches to Some Famine Problems” 90

C. Aristotelian Ethics

Aristotle, “Nichomachean Ethics” 91

Rosalind Hursthouse, “Right Action” 92

D. Justice and Equality

John Rawls, “A Theory of Justice” 93

Robert Nozick, “Justice and Entitlement” 94
John Stuart Mill, “The Subjection of Women” 95
Annette Baier, “The Need for More Than Justice 96
Elizabeth Anderson, “What’s Wrong with Inequality?” 97

E. Contemporary Moral Problems

Judith Jarvis Thomson, “A Defense of Abortion” 98

Debra Satz, “Markets in Women’s Reproductive Labor” 99
Kwame Anthony Appiah, “Racisms” 100
Linda Martin Alcoff, “Racism and Visible Race” 101

PART VI: Existential Issues 102

A. Meaning in Life

Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus” 102

Thomas Nagel, “The Absurd” 103
Richard Taylor, “The Meaning of Human Existence” 104
Susan Wolf, “The Meanings of Lives” 105

B. Death

Thomas Nagel, “Death” 106

James Baillie, “Existential Shock” 107
John Martin Fischer, “Excerpt from Death, Immortality and
Meaning in Life” 108
Amy Olberding, “Sorrow and the Sage: Grief in the Zhuangzi” 109
Jenann Ismael, “The Ethical Importance of Death” 110

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Samuel Scheffler, “The Afterlife” 111

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Sample Exam Questions 112

Part I: Philosophy 112

Part II: God and Evil 117

Part III: Knowledge and Reality 143

Part IV: Minds, Bodies, and Persons 158

Part V: Ethics and Society 202

Part VI: Existential Issues 244

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Preface

Welcome to the Instructor’s Manual for our textbook, Introduction to Philosophy. This
Instructor’s Manual was introduced with the 4th edition, but we have updated it for the 9th
edition to reflect the slightly revised contents. We hope that this will continue to be a useful
resource for instructors who already use the text, and we hope that new instructors will also
discover its benefits.

The Book

The textbook is arranged topically and divided into seven parts: Philosophy; God and Evil;
Knowledge and Reality; Minds, Bodies, and Persons; Ethics and Society; Meaning and
Death; and Puzzles and Paradoxes. In each part, we have attempted to provide a balance
between historically important works and articles that are more contemporary. Although one
always has to be somewhat selective in deciding which pieces to include in an introductory
anthology, we sought to include as many classic discussions of these topics as space
permitted. Included at the end of each selection are study questions (except for the
selections in the seventh part of the book); we believe that these will be of considerable help
to students.

There are a number of ways in which this textbook is unique among introductory
anthologies. First, we have included a very large selection of excellent essays so that you can
focus your course as you see fit. Second, the last section of our textbook includes brief
discussions of a number of puzzles and paradoxes, many of which have played a central role
in major developments throughout the history of analytical philosophy. These short
discussions create an excellent opportunity for further classroom exploration. And third, we
have included some supplemental material that we think you will find both helpful and
highly innovative.

The Instructor’s Manual

The ideas and information that you will find on the following pages are, of course, merely
suggestions. But we hope that the information that we have included will lighten some of the
more time-consuming and administrative tasks of teaching so that you can focus the bulk of
your efforts on the students.

First, we have included some Sample Syllabi, or, perhaps, templates for some syllabi.
(You’ll have to flesh them out as you see fit.) Given the number of articles that are included
in the anthology, the possibilities for syllabi are practically endless, but we have provided
four. The first syllabus is organized around a “greatest hits” theme, the second has a
historical emphasis, the third a contemporary emphasis, and the fourth is more suited for a
course that introduces students to philosophy through film.

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Second, we have included Summaries of all the material in the textbook (except for the
puzzles and paradoxes at the end of the book). These are meant to aid you in deciding which
articles to include on your syllabus. If you are unsure whether an article would fit into the
structure of your course, take a look at our summary of it to help you decide. Of course, the
summaries are not intended as rigorous explanations of every point in a particular article. We
have attempted to provide you with the substance of each article without getting into the
details.

Finally, we have drafted a few Sample Exam Questions for each selection in the anthology
(again, with the exception of the puzzles and paradoxes). These take the form of short-
answer or essay questions (as opposed to multiple-choice, for example) and could be used
for exams, quizzes, or even homework assignments. We hope that these questions will ease
the often daunting task of writing exams. (The asterisked numbers next to these questions
indicate questions featured on the student website [see below].)

The Instructor’s Manual does not exhaust the supplementary material, however. We have
also launched a student website and blog that we hope will be useful to your students.

The Student Website

The student website is a place where students can get information about the textbook and
about philosophy in general. The URL for the student website is www.oup.com/us/perry9e.
Have a look!

Currently available are some short practice multiple-choice exams and discussion questions
that students can use to test their reading comprehension of the articles in the book.
Students will be able to access both the Logical Toolkit and our suggestions for writing
papers well (both of which appear in Part I of the book) through the website. We will also
include various links to other areas of the Web that have useful resources for students of
philosophy (for instance, the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy at http://plato.stanford.edu and
the Philosophy Talk radio show at http://www.philosophytalk.org).

We are constantly thinking of ways that we can improve the textbook and its supplementary
materials, and we love to hear from instructors who use the book in a classroom setting. Feel
free to contact us with any suggestions. Happy teaching!

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NOTE: What follows are some sample syllabi, or perhaps templates for syllabi, to aid in selecting pieces
that fit together well. Each syllabus can be easily modified for either the quarter or the semester system by
omitting or adding pieces. These are merely suggestions, and you should modify them as appropriate for your
particular circumstance.

Sample Syllabus 1
Greatest Hits

Plato, “Apology: Defence of Socrates”

Begin with a discussion of philosophy in general, its roots in Ancient Greece, and the
importance it places on examining our lives and the world around us.

Saint Thomas Aquinas, “The Existence of God”

Move on to discuss philosophy of religion, beginning with Aquinas’s historically
important arguments for the existence of God. If time allows, discuss some current
developments of the cosmological argument as put forward by philosophers such as
William Lane Craig.

David Hume, “Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion”

Everyone, theist and atheist alike, should come to terms with the problem of evil.
Hume’s piece is one of the classic discussions of this problem. Hume also touches
on other issues, such as the designer argument, along the way.

René Descartes, “Meditations on First Philosophy”

Move from philosophy of religion to epistemology, reading the most important work
in this field. Raise the problem of skepticism, especially as formulated in Meditations
1 and 2, and explain Descartes’s goal of building a solid foundation for knowledge.
Examine how Descartes responds to the skeptical arguments.

Keith DeRose and Ted A. Warfield, Excerpt from Skepticism Reader

DeRose and Warfield provide a general framework for skeptical challenges and cover
a few contemporary approaches to those challenges. Of particular value is their
discussion of the “Ah, Com On!” objection that many students articulate when first
hearing of skeptical hypotheses.

David M. Armstrong, “The Nature of Mind”

In the twentieth century, much interesting work about the nature of the mind was
focused on developing an account that is consistent with materialism. Armstrong’s
account is one of the most prominent of this sort.

Frank Jackson, “What Mary Didn’t Know”

In this paper, Frank Jackson invokes a creative and well-known thought experiment
to argue that physicalism must be false.

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Daniel Dennett, “Where Am I?”

This is an extremely interesting piece that touches on both the mind-body problem
and the metaphysics of identity through time.

John Perry, “A Dialogue on Personal Identity and Immortality”

Again, an entertaining way to discuss some of the issues about personal identity is by
reading this dialogue by John Perry.

John Stuart Mill, “Utilitarianism”

Having touched on philosophy of religion, epistemology, and metaphysics, finally
move on to ethics. Compare different ethical theories by first talking about
utilitarianism.

Immanuel Kant, “Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals”

Then discuss Kantianism.

Aristotle, “Nicomachean Ethics”

And finally discuss virtue ethics as it’s derived from Aristotle.

Peter Singer, “Famine, Affluence, and Morality”

Show your students what applied ethics is all about by reading this provocative piece
by Peter Singer. Guaranteed to start interesting classroom discussions.

John Rawls, “A Theory of Justice”

An excerpt from Rawls’ classic, The Theory of Justice.

Judith Jarvis Thomson, “A Defense of Abortion”

End with Thomson’s classic article.

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Sample Syllabus 2
Historical Emphasis

Plato, “Apology: Defense of Socrates”

There’s plenty to discuss in this classic Platonic dialogue.

David Hume, “Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion”

For a classic discussion of the problem of evil and other issues surrounding the
existence of God, Hume is an excellent resource.

René Descartes, “Meditations on First Philosophy”

You could really spend an entire term discussing Descartes’s Meditations and the
issues they raise.

David Hume, “An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding”

The traditional problem of induction is an extremely rich starting point for an
interesting discussion about the methods of science and the foundations of our own
knowledge.

Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave”

This classic analogy reveals much about Plato’s thinking. It also pairs nicely with the
selection from Zhuangzi, which might be thought of raising similar concerns as Plato
about the sensible world, but which takes those concerns in a very different
direction.

Mozi, “Excerpts from Mozi”

Mozi develops perhaps the world’s first consequentialist moral theory. In particular,
Mozi focuses on the idea of being impartial, and how doing so can improve the
world.

Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus”

Conclude with an existentialist classic.

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Sample Syllabus 3
Contemporary Emphasis

Richard Taylor, “The Meaning of Human Existence”

Some interesting recent work addresses the old question of the meaning of life, and
what better way to get an Introduction to Philosophy class started than by discussing
some of it. This piece by Richard Taylor is a great place to start.

Susan Wolf, “The Meanings of Lives”

Another interesting related piece is this one by Susan Wolf, in which she continues
the discussion of many of the issues Taylor raises.

David M. Armstrong, “The Nature of Mind”

In the twentieth century, much interesting work about the nature of the mind was
focused on developing an account that is consistent with materialism. Armstrong’s
account is one of the most prominent of this sort.

A. M. Turing, “Computing Machinery and Intelligence”

The advent of contemporary computers has raised many important philosophical
questions about the relationship between the human mind and a machine like a
computer. As one of the foundational figures in computer science, Turing has some
interesting things to say about these questions.

John R. Searle, “Minds, Brains, and Programs”

Searle argues that the analogy between humans and computers can only go so far in
this classic article on the philosophy of mind.

Roderick M. Chisholm, “Human Freedom and the Self”

Chisholm introduces what he takes to be the problem of human freedom, showing
how human freedom appears to conflict with both determinism and indeterminism.
He then develops a novel solution, one that requires some fairly radical claims about
the nature of the human person.

John Martin Fischer, “Responsiveness and Moral Responsibility”

Fischer offers an account of moral responsibility that provides an alternative point of
view to that of Roderick Chisholm. Fischer specifically argues that moral
responsibility does not require alternative possibilities and concludes that it is
therefore compatible with causal determinism.

John Rawls, “A Theory of Justice”

As one of the most important political philosophers of the twentieth century, John
Rawls provides many interesting ideas about the nature of justice.

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Robert Nozick, “Justice and Entitlement”

To continue the discussion about just societies, turn to Robert Nozick and learn
about his entitlement theory.

Annette Baier, “The Need for More Than Justice”

Consider Baier’s feminist critique of John Rawl’s account of justice. Use this to
transition from more theoretically oriented political and social philosophy to applied
work.

Debra Satz, “Markets in Women’s Reproductive Labor”

End with a discussion about some contemporary issues in the study of gender and
race. Here, Satz discusses the nature of women’s reproductive labor.

Kwame Anthony Appiah, “Racisms”

And here Appiah discusses different varieties of racism.

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Sample Syllabus 4
Film-Oriented

Reading 1 Thomas Nagel, “The Absurd”

Film 1 The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Reading 2 René Descartes, “Meditations on First Philosophy”

Film 2 The Matrix

Reading 3 John Perry, “A Dialogue on Personal Identity and Immortality”

Film 3 Total Recall

Reading 4 Derek Parfit, “Personal Identity”

Film 4 Memento

Reading 5 John Martin Fischer, “Responsiveness and Moral Responsibility”

Film 5 Minority Report

Reading 6 Kwame Anthony Appiah, “Racisms”

Film 6 Crash

Reading 7 Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus”

Film 7 Crimes and Misdemeanors

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Logical Toolkit

Logic and Philosophy

Philosophy is very much about asking questions. Does God exist? What can we know? What
keeps us the same through time and change? Is the mind distinct from the body? How do
we know what is right and what is wrong? Because not everyone is going to agree on the
correct answers to these questions, it is extremely important to give reasons why you think
one answer is better than another. In giving reasons why you believe (or why others should
believe) a particular answer, you are doing logic, even though you might not recognize it as
such. Logic is just a way of articulating more clearly the reasoning that we ordinarily do when
we tell someone why we believe something.

If we are to be persuaded that your position is correct, we need to have some way of
assessing the reasons that you give for believing your position. For instance, we need to
know whether your reasons really do lend support to the position. This is where learning a
bit of logical apparatus can come in quite handy. So let’s introduce some terminology.

Arguments

We’ll start with the basic idea of an argument. As we use the term in philosophy, an
argument is not just a verbal dispute about some matter. Rather, it is a way of articulating
reasons. Or, to be more precise:

An argument is a series of statements where the last statement supposedly follows from
or is supported by the first statements. The last statement is called the conclusion, and the
first statements are called the premises.

Here’s a relatively simple example:

1. Everyone who lives in Los Angeles lives in California.

2. Alvin lives in Los Angeles.
3. Therefore, Alvin lives in California.

Suppose we were trying to convince you that our friend Alvin lives in California. (Again, we
probably wouldn’t normally give you an argument to convince you of this, but this is a
simple example just to get the idea of an argument under our belts.) We might give you the
following reasons for believing that Alvin lives in California. First, we know that Alvin lives
in Los Angeles. And second, we know that Los Angeles is in California, so anyone who lives
in Los Angeles automatically lives in California. These two reasons are represented by
premises 1 and 2, and they are meant to support the conclusion, which is number 3.
Arguments in the articles that you read for class will most often not appear in this numbered
form, but they can all be reconstructed in this form so that the reasoning is easy to see.

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In this example, if you were to accept the two premises, you would have to accept the
conclusion. So our argument is, in a certain sense, a good argument. But there are different
ways that an argument can be good.

Validity

The first way an argument can be good is if its premises actually do support its conclusion.
Recall that our definition of an argument is a series of statements in which the conclusion
supposedly follows from or is supported by the premises. Well, there are some arguments with
conclusions that actually do follow from the premises, and there are some arguments with
conclusions that don’t actually follow from the premises, even though they supposedly do. The
first type of arguments are valid arguments, and the second type are invalid arguments. Or, a
bit more carefully:

An argument is valid if its conclusion follows from its premises.

Or, more carefully still:

An argument is valid if it satisfies the following condition: If its premises were true,
then its conclusion would have to be true.

The argument we gave previously is an example of a valid argument because if premises 1

and 2 were true, then 3 would have to be true. But the following is an example of an invalid
argument:

1. Everyone who lives in Los Angeles lives in California.

2. Alvin lives in California.
3. Therefore, Alvin lives in Los Angeles.

If we were to put forth this argument while trying to convince you that our friend Alvin lives
in Los Angeles, you shouldn’t be convinced. Why not? Simply because the reasons that we
gave for believing that Alvin lives in Los Angeles don’t actually support that conclusion. For
in this case, premise 1 could be true (it actually is true), and premise 2 could be true, but the
conclusion might still be false (Alvin could live in San Francisco, for instance). Thus this is
an invalid argument. The conclusion doesn’t actually follow from the premises. It’s not the
case that if its premises were true, then its conclusion would have to be true.

In philosophy, as in life, we’re mostly interested in putting forth valid arguments. At the very
least, our conclusions must really follow from our premises. But although validity is a good
first step, it’s not the only way that an argument can be good.

Soundness

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If we succeed in putting forth a valid argument, that’s a good start. But we want more from
our arguments. We also want our premises to actually be true. Recall that validity was about
the relationship between premises and conclusion: If the premises were true, then the
conclusion would have to be true. But sometimes that’s a big “if.” That is, sometimes we’re
not sure whether the premises are actually true. That’s the next thing we care about. If our
argument is valid and its premises are also true, then the argument is sound. More precisely:

An argument is sound if it is valid and has all true premises.

Or, more precisely still:

An argument is sound if it satisfies the following two conditions:

1. It is valid.
2. All of its premises are true.

Let us give another example to understand soundness better. Consider the following
argument:

1. Abortion is the killing of an innocent person.

2. Killing innocent people is morally objectionable.
3. Therefore, abortion is morally objectionable.

This is a much more interesting argument than the one we gave about our friend Alvin.
Indeed, it is likely to stir emotions. But we’re not going to discuss the moral rightness or
wrongness of abortion—we’re just using this argument as an example so that we can better
understand logic. Now, there are at least two ways that an argument can be good, so
whenever you are confronted with an argument such as this, you should always ask
yourselves two questions: First, is it valid? Second, is it sound?

We’ll save you the suspense: This argument is indeed valid. Remember what that means,
though. It doesn’t mean that abortion is morally objectionable. All it means is that the
premises of this argument really do support the conclusion of the argument. Or, in other
words, if the premises were true, then the conclusion would have to be true. Whether this
argument is valid is not a matter of controversy. What is a matter of controversy, however, is
whether this argument is sound. That is, is it a valid argument with premises that are actually
true? This is where opinions differ. For our purposes, it’s enough to realize that if the
premises of this argument actually are true, then the argument is sound (because it’s also
valid), and if the premises of this argument actually are false, then the argument is unsound
(even though it’s still valid).

Why do we care about putting forth sound arguments? Well, if you present someone with a
valid argument and you can successfully argue that the premises of your argument are true,
then the other person must accept the conclusion as well, on pain of irrationality. Because
valid arguments are such that their conclusions really do follow from their premises, one
cannot accept their premises without also accepting their conclusions. So if you are giving us

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your reasons for, say, your belief in God, and you present us with a valid argument with
premises with which we agree, then we must agree that God exists. Logic can be a very
powerful tool.

Proving Validity

Sometimes, as in the cases above, it is easy to tell whether an argument is valid. Other times,
it is quite difficult—as soon as an argument gets a bit complicated or controversial, we can’t
just “see” whether it is valid or not. It would therefore be nice if we had some more
objective and rigorous methods for proving whether an argument is valid. Over the millennia,
and especially in the last couple of centuries, philosophers, logicians, and mathematicians
have made great strides toward this goal. The techniques developed by such thinkers can be
extremely technical and complex; it often takes an entire semester to get a full understanding
of the most basic logical systems. What follows then are some helpful, though rudimentary,
tools for trying to prove and disprove validity.

Proving Validity: The Famous Forms Method

In determining whether an argument is valid or not, it is often best to abstract away from the
argument’s content and instead focus on the argument’s form. Consider again the argument
from above:

1. Everyone who lives in Los Angeles lives in California.

2. Alvin lives in Los Angeles.
3. Therefore, Alvin lives in California.

This argument is plainly valid, but its validity has nothing to do with Los Angeles, California,
or Alvin in particular. There’s nothing special about those things that make the argument
valid. Instead, the argument is valid because it has a form. If we abstract away from the
particulars, the argument’s form is something like this:

1. Everyone who lives in L lives in C.

2. A lives in L.
3. Therefore, A lives in C.

With the case at hand, “L” stands for “Los Angeles”, “C” stands for “California”, and “A”
stands for “Alvin”. But notice that regardless of what “L”, “C”, and “A” stand for, the
argument will always be valid—we can “plug in” just about anything for these letters and
we’ll still end up with a valid argument. For instance, suppose instead that we let “L” stand
for “Libya”, “C” stand for “Costa Rica”, and “A” stand for “Aphrodite”. The resulting
argument would then look like this:

1. Everyone who lives in Libya lives in Costa Rica.

2. Aphrodite lives in Libya.

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3. Therefore, Aphrodite lives in Costa Rica.

This argument, just like the argument we started with, is obviously valid. It’s not sound since
not all of its premises are true, but it is definitely valid: if the premises were true, the
conclusion would have to be true.

So in determining whether an argument is valid, we ought to abstract away from the

argument’s content and instead only investigate the argument’s form. Doing so can often
help make otherwise complicated arguments manageable. Consider the following argument:

1. If the standard measures of a country’s economic prosperity—GDP,

unemployment, inflation, etc.—are not adequate, then economists have to invoke
quantities, such as happiness, that cannot be measured in any reliable way.
2. If economists have to invoke quantities, such as happiness, that cannot be
measured in any reliable way, then economics does not qualify as a truly scientific
field of study.
3. Therefore, if the standard measures of a country’s economic prosperity—GDP,
unemployment, inflation, etc.—are not adequate, then economics does not qualify
as a truly scientific field of study.

On the surface, this argument may look fairly complex, and so determining whether it is
valid or not might be difficult. But if we abstract away from the content and look merely at
its form, the argument is actually quite simple. It looks like this:

1. If A, then B.
2. If B, then C.
3. Therefore, if A, then C.

In this case, “A”, “B”, and “C” each stand for pretty long sentences:1 “A” stands for “The
standard measures of a country’s economic prosperity—GDP, unemployment, inflation,
etc.—are not adequate”; “B” stands for “Economists have to invoke quantities, such as
happiness, that cannot be measured in any reliable way”; and “C” stands for “Economics
does not qualify as a truly scientific field of study”. It is these long sentences that make the
original argument sound so daunting. But once we strip this away and look just at the
argument’s form, we see that it is simple and, more important, obviously valid. (Whether it is
sound is another issue, of course.)

So our first rudimentary method for proving that an argument is valid is to show that the
argument has a form that is obviously (or famously) valid. (Hence the name “the famous
forms method.”) What are the “famous” forms? Here are some examples, each of which is
famous enough to get a name:

Modus Ponens

1. If A, then B.

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2. A.
3. Therefore, B.

Modus Tollens

1. If A, then B.
2. Not B.
3. Therefore, not A.

Hypothetical Syllogism

1. If A, then B.
2. If B, then C.
3. Therefore, if A, then C.

Disjunctive Syllogism

1. Either A or B. 1. Either A or B.
2. Not A. or: 2. Not B.
3. Therefore, B. 3. Therefore, A.

Constructive Dilemma

1. Either A or B.
2. If A, then C.
3. If B, then D.
4. Therefore, either C or D.

Conditional Proof

1. Assume: A.
2. Derive: B.
3. Therefore, if A, then B.

Reductio ad Absurdum

1. Assume: A.
2. Derive: B and not B.
3. Therefore, not A.

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There are many more famous forms, far too many to list here. But the important point is
this: if you come across an argument and it has one of these forms, or any form that is
obviously valid, then you know the argument itself is valid.2

Note to the reader: The rest of the section is more difficult.

Feel free to skip ahead to the next section.

There is a serious limitation of the famous forms method, though: some arguments don’t
have a famous form and yet are still valid. That’s one of the reasons the famous forms
method is so rudimentary. But we can extend the famous forms method by seeing certain
arguments as involving combinations of famous forms, in some sense. Consider this argument:

1. If Oscar is hungry, then Oscar is in a bad mood.

2. If Oscar is in a bad mood, then Oscar is frowning.
3. Oscar isn’t frowning.
4. Therefore, Oscar isn’t hungry.

This argument has the following form:

1. If A, then B.
2. If B, then C.
3. Not C.
4. Therefore, not A.

Although this argument is valid, it doesn’t fit any of the famous forms mentioned above.
(One way to see this is to note that it has four lines and the only form mentioned above that
has four lines is constructive dilemma, which definitely doesn’t fit this argument.) But we can
nonetheless “break up” the argument into a combination of famous forms to prove that it is
valid. Just consider premises (1) and (2) for the moment:

1. If A, then B.
2. If B, then C.

We know from hypothetical syllogism that “If A, then C” follows from these two premises.
That is, we know if premises (1) and (2) are true, “If A, then C” must be true. As logicians
sometimes put it, we can derive “If A, then C” from (1) and (2) using hypothetical syllogism.
But now look again at premise (3):

3. Not C.

If we take “If A, then C” and combine it with this third premise—“Not C”—we know from
modus tollens that “Not A” follows. That is, from “If A, then C” and premise (3), we can derive
“Not A” using modus tollens. And that’s very fortunate since “Not A” is exactly the
conclusion of the argument!

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We can visualize our steps like this, where the parenthetical note on the side tells us where
we “got” each line from:

1. If A, then B. (Premise of the argument)

2. If B, then C. (Premise of the argument)

Sub-conclusion: If A, then C. (From (1), (2), and hypothetical syllogism)

3. Not C. (Premise of the argument)

4. Therefore, not A. (From the sub-conclusion, (3), and modus tollens)

So although the argument involving Oscar doesn’t fit any of our famous forms, we can use
those famous forms to reason step by step to the conclusion, thereby proving that the
conclusion follows from the premises.

Let’s try one more example like this where we have to “combine” the various famous forms:

1. Either it will rain tonight or it will snow tonight.

2. It won’t rain tonight.
3. If it snows tonight, then tomorrow’s class will be canceled.
4. Therefore, tomorrow’s class will be canceled.

Before reading ahead, we encourage you to try prove that this argument is valid on your own
by combining the various famous forms . . . and now assuming you’ve tried it, here’s how we
might proceed. First, we abstract away from the argument’s content and focus on its form,
which is this:

1. Either A or B.
2. Not A.
3. If B, then C.
4. Therefore, C.

Again, this argument doesn’t fit any of our famous forms, but we can “combine” them to
prove that this argument is valid. Look at the first two premises:

1. Either A or B.
2. Not A.

We know from disjunctive syllogism that “B” follows from (1) and (2). But now look at
premise (3):

3. If B, then C.

If we combine “B” with “If B, then C”, we know from modus ponens that “C” follows, which
is exactly our conclusion! That is, from premises (1) and (2), we can derive “B” using

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disjunctive syllogism. Then, from “B” and premise (3) we can derive our conclusion, “C”,
using modus ponens. If we were to visualize our steps, it might look like this:

1. Either A or B. (Premise)
2. Not A. (Premise)

Sub-conclusion: B. (From (1), (2), and disjunctive syllogism)

3. If B, then C. (Premise)
4. Therefore, C. (From sub-conclusion, (3), and modus ponens.)

Now even this extended version of the famous forms method has significant limitations, and
a full course in logic explores exactly what those limitations are, ways of getting around
them, and other methods for providing validity. But for many of the arguments you’ll come
across in this course and in everyday life, this extended version of the famous forms method
is sufficient.

Proving Invalidity

The last section covered methods for proving that an argument is valid, but what about
proving that an argument is invalid? Just as with proving validity, we can only examine the
most rudimentary methods here. Nonetheless, even basic methods are quite helpful. We’ll
look at two such methods: the countermodel method and the parity argument method (or
well-known truth to falsehood method).

The Countermodel Method

If an argument is valid, that means if the premises were true, the conclusion would have to be
true. So if the argument is invalid, it must be possible for the premises to be true while the
conclusion is false. In the countermodel method, the goal is to simply construct such a
possibility. Consider one of the arguments from above:

1. Everyone who lives in Los Angeles lives in California.

2. Alvin lives in California.
3. Therefore, Alvin lives in Los Angeles.

We noted that this argument is invalid: even if the premises are true, that doesn’t guarantee
that the conclusion is true. For instance, what if Alvin lives in San Francisco, not Los
Angeles? In that case, both (1) and (2) will be true and yet (3) will be false. That possibility
shows that the argument is invalid.

What we have just come up with is a countermodel. Surely it is logically possible for Alvin to live
in San Francisco—there is no outright contradiction in saying he does. But in that possibility,
the premises are true while the conclusion is false. And because validity is such a strong

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notion, even just one logical possibility where the premises are true and the conclusion is
false is enough to show that the argument is invalid. More carefully:

A countermodel to an argument is a logical possibility where all of the premises of the

argument are true while the conclusion is false.

Two points about countermodels. First, as has already been implied, if there is a
countermodel to an argument, then the argument is invalid: it proves that truth of the
premises does not guarantee the truth of the conclusion. Second, a countermodel need only
be a logical possibility—a case that does not involve a contradiction. It doesn’t have to be a
realistic or even scientific possibility. The imagined scenario can involve wizards and dragons,
giant mountains made of pure gold, time travel, and whatever else you like. The only
requirement is that it not involve a logical contradiction: it can’t involve one and the same
sentence being both true and false at the exact same time. For instance, with the above
argument, if we knew Alvin, we may think it unlikely or unrealistic that he lives in San
Francisco. We may even know for a fact that he doesn’t live there. But that doesn’t matter.
As long as it is logically possible for him to live in San Francisco—and it undoubtedly is—that’s
enough for a countermodel.

Let’s try another case. See if you can come up with a countermodel which shows that the
following argument is invalid:

1. Everyone who is a philosophy major is a deep thinker.

2. Lucy is not a philosophy major.
3. Therefore, Lucy is not a deep thinker.

There are literally an infinite number of countermodels to this argument, but here is just one:
suppose that every philosophy major is a deep thinker, just as the first premise says, but that
every physics major is also a deep thinker. And suppose Lucy is a physics major and not a
philosophy major. Surely, this scenario is a logical possibility—it doesn’t involve a
contradiction. But in such a case, (1) and (2) are both true while (3) is false. Hence, we’ve
found a countermodel, meaning the argument has been proven to be invalid.

The countermodel method is a relatively easy and straightforward method for proving
invalidity, but it has severe limitations, especially when arguments get complex. For instance,
consider this somewhat complicated argument:

1. Every epistemologist is a philosopher.

2. Some, but not all, epistemologists are reliabilists.
3. Every philosopher who is a reliabilist is an externalist.
4. Therefore, some epistemologists are not externalists.

This argument is indeed invalid, but constructing a countermodel can be difficult. First, if
you don’t know what an epistemologist, reliabilist, or externalist is, trying to imagine a
scenario where the premises are true but the conclusion is false might sound like an
impossible task. Second, because the argument is somewhat complicated, it can be hard to

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keep everything “in your head” at once. So while the countermodel method, as described
here, is a good method for simple arguments with familiar terms, it’s not so good for more
complicated arguments. This is where the next method for proving invalidity can help.

The Parity Argument Method (or Well-Known Truth to Falsehood Method)

Note to the reader: This sub-section is more difficult.

Feel free to skip ahead to the next section.

Suppose you come across an argument where you know all of the premises are true but you
also know that the conclusion is false. If you know those things, you also know that the
argument is invalid. Why? Well, recall the definition of a valid argument: if the premises were
true, the conclusion would have to be true. So if you know that the premises are true and yet
the conclusion is false, then it obviously isn’t valid.

Now when we are trying to figure out whether an argument is valid, we typically don’t know
whether the premises and conclusion are true or false. (If we did, we probably wouldn’t be
examining the argument to begin with!) But what we can do instead is try to compare the
argument in question with an argument where we know the premises are true but the
conclusion is false. If we can find a legitimate comparison, then we know by parity of reason
that both arguments are invalid.

Let’s work through the last argument we looked at to see how this works:

1. Every epistemologist is a philosopher.

2. Some, but not all, epistemologists are reliabilists.
3. Every philosopher who is a reliabilist is an externalist.
4. Therefore, some epistemologists are not externalists.

As we noted, trying to come up with a countermodel can be difficult, partly because we

might not know some of these terms and partly because there are too many moving parts.
The parity argument method starts, just as the famous forms method does, by abstracting
away from the content and looking at the argument’s form, which is something like this:

1. Every E is a P.
2. Some, but not all, Es are Rs.
3. Every P who is an R is an X.
4. Therefore, some Es are not Xs.

By looking at the argument’s form, we get around the problem of possibly not knowing what
the particular words mean. That’s the easy step. The harder step is trying to come up with an
argument that has this same form, but where the premises are well known to be true while
the conclusion is well known to be false. Consider this argument:

1. Every woman is a human.

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2. Some, but not all, women are tall.

3. Every human who is tall is a mammal.
4. Therefore, some women are not mammals.

This argument has the exact same form as the argument we started with. All we’ve done is
replace some of the terms: “E” now stands for “woman”; “P” stands for “human”; “R”
stands for “tall”; and “X” stands for “mammal”.

Here is what’s so important about this argument though: the premises are well-known truths
while the conclusion is a well-known falsehood. So we know that this argument is invalid. And
since this argument has the exact same form as our original argument, the original argument
must also be invalid.3

Let’s do another example. Try this one on your own before reading ahead. (The steps are: (i)
abstract away from the content and identify the argument’s form, and (ii) come up with an
argument that has the same form but where the premises are well known to be true and the
conclusion is well known to be false.)

1. If Lin wins the next game, he’ll advance to the finals assuming Crystal is
eliminated.
2. Crystal will be eliminated if Bobby moves his knight to square H3.
3. Bobby won’t move his knight to square H3.
4. Therefore, even if Lin wins the next game, he won’t advance to the finals.

Again, we can use the parity argument method to show that this complicated argument is
invalid. We start by noting that the argument has the following form:

1. If L, then A assuming C.
2. C if B.
3. Not B.
4. Therefore, even if L, not A.

We can then substitute in different sentences for “L”, “A”, “C”, and “B” to get an argument
where the premises are well known to be true while the conclusion is false. For instance,
consider this (admittedly silly) argument:

1. If every mammal dies today, then Barack Obama will die today assuming he is a
mammal.
2. Barack Obama is a mammal if he is a horse.
3. Barack Obama is not a horse.
4. Therefore, even if every mammal dies today, Barack Obama will not die.

This argument is so ridiculous, it’s laughable. But it has the exact same logical form as the
argument we started with. All we’ve done is replace “L” with “Every mammal dies today”;
“A” with “Barack Obama will die today”; “C” with “Barack Obama is a mammal”; and “B”
with “Barack Obama is a horse”. Moreover, each of the premises is patently true, and yet the

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conclusion is manifestly false: contrary to what the conclusion states, if every mammal dies
today, Barack Obama will certainly die too. This shows that, even if the premises of the
original argument are true, that doesn’t guarantee that its conclusion is true. The original
argument is therefore invalid.

So the parity argument method can help us overcome some of the limitations of the
countermodel method. Still, this method has severe limitations of its own. For one, it
requires a good amount of creativity. For another, when arguments get extremely complex, it
is simply impractical to use this method. A full course in logic explores more powerful and
systematic methods for proving invalidity.

Non-deductive Arguments

Not all invalid arguments are bad arguments. Why? Well, sometimes the premises of an
argument are only meant to make the conclusion likely or reasonable, not necessarily guaranteed.
For instance, suppose your car refuses to start one morning. You do a bit of investigative
work and become convinced that the battery is dead. You reason as follows:

1. My car wouldn’t start this morning.

2. I accidentally left the lights in my car on all of last night.
3. Last time my car was in the shop, the mechanic told me the battery would need to
be replaced soon.
4. The car has plenty of gas in it—I just filled it up yesterday.
5. Therefore, the car battery is dead.

This argument looks compelling. But notice that it is invalid in our technical sense: even if the
premises are true, the conclusion doesn’t have to be true. For instance, what if the battery is
fine, but there’s a short in the electrical system? Or what if a friend is playing a prank on you,
having disconnected your perfectly good battery? Or what if the battery is in working order,
but aliens have abducted your engine and replaced it with a very realistic wax copy? As far-
fetched as these scenarios might be, they still present logical possibilities where the premises are
true while the conclusion is false. And that’s enough to show that the argument is invalid.

Just because this argument is invalid, though, does that mean it’s a bad argument? That it is to
be dismissed? Of course not! The argument is perfectly respectable and worth taking
seriously. That’s because, in this case, you are only trying to figure out what is most likely the
case, not what is absolutely guaranteed to be the case. Sure, it is logically possible that your car
has a short, or that a friend is playing a prank on you, or that aliens have stolen your engine.
But how likely are these logical possibilities given your evidence? Not very. The premises
make it far more likely that your battery is dead, and insofar as that’s all you were trying to
show, the argument looks like a good one.

Arguments like this one point out that validity and soundness, as defined in the previous
sections, are not the “end all–be all” of argumentation. We routinely employ arguments that

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are not valid (and hence not sound) but still compelling. To help capture this idea, let’s
introduce a few more definitions. First, the definition of a “non-deductive argument”:

A non-deductive argument is an argument where the premises supposedly make the

conclusion highly probable, although not guaranteed.4

Notice that this definition, like our definition of an argument, only says that the premises
supposedly make the conclusion highly probable. Sometimes the premises really do make the
conclusion likely or reasonable, and sometimes they don’t. If the premises of a non-
deductive argument really do make the conclusion likely or reasonable, we’ll call it a “strong”
argument. More carefully, we’ll introduce a second definition:

A non-deductive argument is strong if it satisfies the following condition: if its

premises were true, then its conclusion would be highly probable.5

Just as an argument can be valid and have false premises, so an argument can be strong and
have false premises. All that is required is that if its premises were true, the conclusion would
likely be true as well. (If it helps, you can think of it this way: although such arguments are
technically invalid, the connection between the premises and conclusion is still “strong.”)

Our third and final definition is that of a cogent argument. A cogent argument is a strong
one with all true premises. More precisely:

A non-deductive argument is cogent if it is strong and has all true premises.

If an argument is cogent, then you know the argument has made the conclusion highly
probable. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean the conclusion is true—that’s what sound
arguments establish. But at least the author has offered premises that are both true and
relevant to the conclusion.

It turns out that there are many different types of non-deductive arguments, and determining
whether any given non-deductive argument is strong (and hence cogent) will often require
first determining what type it falls into. In what follows, we’ll briefly review two kinds of
non-deductive arguments that play a prominent role in philosophy.

Arguments from Analogy

Arguments from analogy are everywhere, but perhaps the best examples come from the
medical sciences. For instance, suppose scientists have developed a promising new drug but
need to know if it will have any adverse effect on humans. Instead of just giving doses to
random people, which is risky and irresponsible, these scientists decide to first experiment
on non-human animals, like pigs. They then note that the drug had no adverse effect on the
pigs and, on that basis, infer that the drug will likely have no adverse effect on humans
either. That is, they reason like this:

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1. Drug D had no adverse effect on pigs.

2. Pigs are relevantly similar to humans—the skin, flesh, and organs of pigs are quite
similar to those of humans.
3. Therefore, drug D will have no adverse effect on humans.

This is an argument from an analogy. At a general level, with arguments from analogy, we
infer that certain individuals (probably) have a certain property since relevantly similar
individuals have that property. That is, the general form of an argument from analogy looks
like this:

1. Individual(s) X has property P.

2. Individual(s) X is relevantly similar to individual(s) Y.
3. Therefore, individual(s) Y has property P.

In the case above, X is the population of pigs the researchers administered the drugs to, P is
the property of having no adverse effects from the drug, and Y is the population of humans.

When is an argument from analogy a strong argument? In short, the more relevant similarities
that X and Y have, and the deeper these similarities, the better. For instance, as noted, the
skin, flesh, and organs of pigs are quite similar to those of humans, and these similarities
seem especially important for medical purposes. That makes the researchers’ argument look
strong. If they instead had tested the drug on termites and, on that basis, concluded that the
drug would have no adverse effect on humans, the argument would not be strong. The
relevant similarities between termites and humans are so few and superficial that however
the drug affected the termites would likely tell us next to nothing about how it will affect
humans.

The insistent reader might ask: But exactly how many relevant similarities must there be
between X and Y for an argument from analogy to be strong? There is no definite answer.
In some cases, just one or two relevant similarities will be enough, especially if those
similarities are quite deep; in other cases, we will want more than that. This can make
arguments from analogy a bit messy. Whereas deductive arguments are black and white—
either an argument is valid or it isn’t—non-deductive arguments, like arguments from
analogy, often have some “gray area.” That’s something to keep in mind when evaluating
arguments from analogy (and most non-deductive arguments).

Last, it’s important to stress that the similarities between X and Y must be relevant. Not just
any old similarity will do. For instance, imagine someone offering an argument from analogy
like this:

1. Abraham Lincoln was a good president.

2. Abraham Lincoln is relevantly similar to my uncle—my uncle, like Lincoln, is tall
and likes to wear top hats.
3. Therefore, my uncle would also be a good president.

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This argument, of course, is ridiculous. It may be that Abraham Lincoln and your uncle have
some similarities—being tall and enjoying a good top hat—but they aren’t relevant to the
issue at hand. Whether or not someone is a good president has nothing to do with whether
they are tall or frequently wear top hats. That’s why the argument is so absurd. So in
determining whether an argument from analogy is strong, it is important to check that the
stated similarities are genuine and relevant.

Inference to the Best Explanation

Inferences to the best explanation are sometimes called abductive arguments, and they are
another kind of non-deductive argument. For instance, suppose you and your friends are out
walking deep in the woods when you come across a sizeable crater. Upon inspection, you
find some puzzling items in the crater—there are mangled pieces of metal and even
radioactive debris! You then recall that about a week ago, a nuclear satellite went missing in
the area, although its remains haven’t been found yet. You naturally conclude that the crater
you are looking at is where the satellite crashed into the Earth.6 That is, you reason as
follows:

1. There is a large crater out in the woods.

2. There are pieces of mangled metal as well as radioactive debris in the crater.
3. A nuclear satellite went missing in the area a week ago.
4. The crash site of the missing satellite has not been found.
5. Therefore, the satellite crashed into the Earth here.

Although invalid in our technical sense, this argument still looks promising. In this case, the
conclusion is supported by the premises because the conclusion would explain at least some
of the premises: if the conclusion were true, that would be a good explanation for premises
(1) and (2). And although premises (3) and (4) aren’t explained by the conclusion, they
nevertheless make the conclusion look like an even better an explanation of (1) and (2). An
argument with this structure, where the conclusion purports to explain some of the
premises, is called an inference to the best explanation or abductive argument.

When does an inference to the best explanation constitute a strong argument? Most basically,
it’s when the conclusion really is the best explanation of the relevant premises. What makes
one explanation better than another? That’s a vexed issue, but philosophers are largely in
agreement over three criteria for evaluating proposed explanations: (i) explanatory power; (ii) fit
with background knowledge; and (iii) simplicity. Let’s briefly talk through each one.

First, an explanation’s explanatory power has to do, at least partly, with how likely it makes the
premises it supposedly explains. For instance, in the satellite case, the conclusion is meant to
explain premises (1) and (2), and it seems to do a pretty good job of that. Why? Well, if the
conclusion is true, premises (1) and (2) would be very likely. That is, if we assume that the
nuclear satellite crashed at that spot, it would very likely create a crater filled with mangled
metal and radioactive debris. Neither premise is guaranteed to be true if we assume the

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conclusion, but each is still very probable. And that’s why the conclusion—that the satellite
crashed at that location—has a good amount of explanatory power.

Second, an explanation’s fit with background knowledge has to do with how well the explanation
fits with everything else we know about the world. For instance, suppose one of your friends
comes to a very different conclusion about the crater: according to your friend, the crater
was made by an alien spacecraft, one that is fueled by nuclear energy. This explanation might
very well have a decent amount of explanatory power with respect to premises (1) and (2): it
would explain what caused the crater as well as why there are mangled pieces of metal and
radioactive debris. So why are we hesitant to consider this alternative explanation? It’s
because we simply don’t know whether aliens exist and have the technology to visit our
planet. By comparison, we know that nuclear satellites exist. We even know that one went
missing in the area recently and has yet to be found—that’s what premises (3) and (4) assert.
That means your conclusion fits with our background knowledge much better than your
friend’s conclusion. So even if both explanations have the same amount of explanatory
power, we have strong reason to prefer your conclusion over your friend’s.

Third, an explanation’s simplicity has to do with how many entities the explanation posits (or
basic principles it employs). Suppose another friend of yours comes to yet another
conclusion: the crater was caused by a small meteor, not the satellite; however, the satellite
still flew over the crater, and as it did, pieces of metal and radioactive debris fell off the
satellite and just happened to land in the crater. This explanation has a good amount of
explanatory power with respect to premises (1) and (2). It also fits well with our background
knowledge—we know that sometimes meteors fall out of the sky and that satellites can drop
debris as they fall to the Earth. Still, your conclusion that the crater was caused by the
satellite looks more plausible than your friend’s conclusion that it was caused by the meteor
and then filled with debris as the satellite passed overhead. That’s partly because your
conclusion is simpler than your friend’s. Whereas your conclusion explains premises (1) and
(2) with a single event—the satellite crashing—your friend’s conclusion explains (1) and (2)
with multiple events—the meteor crashing and then the satellite flying overhead, dropping
materials as it went. Your friend’s conclusion is a bit more complicated. So even if your
friend’s conclusion has a good amount of explanatory power and fits well with our
background knowledge, it lacks the simplicity that your conclusion has. Absent any other
evidence, that gives us reason to prefer your conclusion over your friend’s.

This third criterion is the most controversial among the three, especially in the philosophy of
science. It’s obvious why we would prefer to work with simpler explanations, especially when
it comes to the sciences: Why use complicated formulas and theories to explain something
when simpler formulas and theories will do just as well? Who wouldn’t want to save
themselves the additional effort? That is, there are strong practical reasons to prefer simpler
explanations. But just because one explanation is easier to work with than another, does that
really mean it is more likely to be true? Why should we expect the truth to be (relatively)
simple? This is an important debate in the philosophy of science but we will not engage in it
here. Suffice it to say that, as a matter of fact, we do prefer simpler explanations to
complicated ones, regardless of whether that is for purely practical reasons or not.

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So explanations are usually judged according to (at least) these three criteria: explanatory power,
fit with background knowledge, and simplicity (although this last one is controversial). If the
proposed explanation is better than every other explanation in regard to these three criteria,
then most philosophers would agree that it is indeed the best explanation. Unfortunately
though, things are usually not so simple. Oftentimes, one explanation will do quite well with
regard to one of these criteria but not so well with regard to the others. What should we do
if one explanation is extremely simple and has a lot of explanatory power, but doesn’t fit
with our background knowledge terribly well? Should we prefer it to an explanation that is a
bit more complicated and doesn’t have as much explanatory power, but fits perfectly with
our background knowledge? These are hard cases and there is no algorithm for determining
the right answer. This is again where some “gray area” can appear. Oftentimes, it will be
unclear whether a proposed explanation really is the best explanation, and so it is unclear
whether the argument is a strong one.

Common Fallacies

A fallacy is a mistake in reasoning. Fallacies are commonly divided into two types: formal
fallacies, where the mistake has to do with the form of the reasoning, and informal fallacies,
where the mistake has to do with the content of the reasoning. The difference is important. If
an argument commits a formal fallacy, then it is not a valid argument (as defined above). In
contrast, if an argument commits an informal fallacy, then it may very well be valid (perhaps
even sound!), but it is still problematic. We’ll briefly cover two common formal fallacies and
seven common informal fallacies.

Formal Fallacy: Affirming the Consequent

The following argument commits the fallacy of affirming the consequent:

1. If Amelia can vote in the United States, then Amelia is 18 years old.
2. Amelia is 18 years old.
3. Therefore, Amelia can vote in the United States.

The first premise of this argument is a conditional—that is, it is an “if . . . then” statement.
The “if” part of a conditional is called the antecedent, and the “then” part of a conditional is
called the consequent. Notice that premise (2) asserts the truth of the consequent of the
conditional in premise (1), and then the argument concludes that the antecedent is therefore
true. This is why this is called affirming the consequent, and it is an invalid form of
reasoning. (Feel free to use either the countermodel method or the parity argument method
to verify this.) Any argument that takes this form—a conditional, the consequent affirmed,
and then the antecedent as conclusion—is invalid.

Why do people fall for the fallacy of affirming the consequent? It’s partly because the fallacy
looks similar to a perfectly valid form of reasoning already covered, namely, that of modus
ponens. With modus ponens, we affirm the antecedent and infer the consequent, which is obviously a

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valid inference. With the fallacy of affirming the consequent, we do the reverse: we affirm
the consequent and infer the antecedent, which is an invalid inference. You might say that the
fallacy of affirming the consequent is the “evil twin” of modus ponens. This is an example of
how great care must be taken when examining an argument’s form so as to make sure we
don’t confuse valid forms of reasoning with invalid ones or vice versa.

Formal Fallacy: Denying the Antecedent

Knowing what you now know about conditionals, you can probably guess what this fallacy
looks like. Here’s one example:

1. If Amelia can vote in the United States, then she is 18 years old.
2. Amelia cannot vote in the United States.
3. Therefore, Amelia is not 18 years old.

Again, we have a conditional in the first premise, but in this case the second premise is a
denial of the antecedent. The argument then concludes that the consequent must be false as
well. But this too is a fallacious form of reasoning. (Feel free to use either the countermodel
method or the parity argument method to verify this as well.) And again, any argument that
takes this form—a conditional, the antecedent denied, and then the consequent denied as a
conclusion—is invalid.

If affirming the consequent is the evil twin of modus ponens, then denying the antecedent is
the evil twin of modus tollens. With modus tollens, we deny the consequent and infer the denial of
the antecedent, which is a valid inference. With denying the antecedent, we do the reverse: we
deny the antecedent and infer the denial of the consequent, which is invalid. This is another
example of why we must be so careful in determining whether an argument is valid or not.

Informal Fallacy: Circular Reasoning

Suppose Alexis and Baht are having a debate over God’s existence, Alexis being a believer in
God and Baht being a disbeliever in God. Baht asks Alexis how she knows God exists, to
which Alexis responds, “Because, He (God) does!” One way of interpreting her argument is
like this:

1. God exists.
2. Therefore, God exists.

Clearly, this is an unpersuasive argument. But note that, technically speaking, it may very well
be a sound argument. It is certainly valid in our technical sense: if the premise were true, the
conclusion would have to be true—after all, the premise and the conclusion are the same
thing! That means if the premise in fact turns out to be true, the argument is technically
sound.

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The reason this argument is so unpersuasive, then, is not because it is invalid (or even
unsound), but rather because it is circular. An argument is circular if its conclusion appears
somewhere within its premises. The reason why no one should be persuaded by a circular
argument is that one would have to already accept the conclusion of the argument before one
accepted the premises. This gets things backward. Those who already accept the
conclusion—like Alexis—will not need the argument to be persuaded, and those who do not
already accept the conclusion—like Baht—have been given no reason to accept the premise.

Now typically, when an argument is circular it is not this obvious. More commonly, authors
will use synonyms or complicated language to hide the argument’s circularity. That’s another
reason it is so important to go through an argument carefully and slowly, separating out the
premises from conclusion and asking questions along the way.

Informal Fallacy: Begging the Question

The fallacy of begging the question is similar to the fallacy of circular reasoning, although it
is a bit subtler. Suppose Alexis offers another argument for God’s existence:

1. The Bible says that God exists.

2. Everything the Bible says is true.
3. Therefore, God exists.

Again, this may very well be a sound argument. At the very least, it is certainly valid in our
technical sense, meaning there is nothing wrong with the argument’s form. But it’s also
unpersuasive because, presumably, one would need to accept its conclusion before one
accepted premise (2). That is, Alexis likely believes that everything the Bible says is true
because she believes God exists and “wrote” the Bible. This is the fallacy of begging the
question. More precisely, an argument begs the question if one or more of its premises relies
for its truth on the truth of the conclusion.

Notice how the fallacy of begging the question is slightly different than the fallacy of circular
reasoning. In a circular argument, the conclusion appears as a premise in the argument. In
contrast, when an argument begs the question, the conclusion doesn’t necessarily appear as a
premise, but rather is used implicitly to support a premise. This difference makes the fallacy of
begging the question more difficult to spot: in order to know whether an argument begs the
question, we have to know what is meant to support the premises, which isn’t always
obvious. The general rule of thumb is this, though: if the only people who would find a
certain premise of the argument plausible are those people who already accept the
conclusion, the argument begs the question.

Informal Fallacy: Ad Hominem Fallacy

Ad hominem roughly means “against the person.” An author commits an ad hominem

fallacy when, instead of engaging with the issue at hand, the author attacks the individual(s)

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on the other side of the dispute. For instance, suppose Alexis and Baht are continuing their
debate over God’s existence, with Alexis offering a much better argument this time:

1. The universe had a beginning.

2. If the universe had a beginning, then it was brought about by God.
3. Therefore, the universe was brought about by God.

Baht is unconvinced and offers this rebuttal: “Of course you find this argument
convincing—you are so desperate to believe in God that you’ll accept any argument in favor
of God’s existence.”

Baht’s rebuttal commits the ad hominem fallacy. His comments don’t engage Alexis’s
argument whatsoever—they don’t raise doubts about a premise, question the argument’s
validity, point out an assumption the argument makes, or anything of the type. At best, his
comments discredit the author, not the argument. But even if the author is unreliable or has
suspicious motives, that doesn’t necessarily mean the author’s argument is problematic.

Of course, sometimes it is perfectly appropriate to question the author’s credibility or

character, especially if the author is presented as an expert or an authority. Nevertheless, it’s
important to remember that to discredit the author is not to discredit the argument.

Informal Fallacy: Ad Hoc Fallacy

An author commits the ad hoc fallacy when they offer a premise or rationale that doesn’t
have much independent support, but is crafted just to get around an objection or avoid a
certain issue. Suppose Alexis and Baht have moved on a bit in the discussion and are now
debating whether God created morality, at least assuming God exists. Alexis offers the
following argument:

1. God created everything that exists.

2. Moral truth exists.
3. Therefore, God created moral truth.

Baht then raises a good objection: “Wait a second,” he says. “Even if God exists, God didn’t
create himself—that would be nonsense. So God couldn’t have created everything. How do
we know morality isn’t another exception?” Alexis says, “Ah, fair point. Let me revise my
argument,” and offers this:

1.* God created everything that exists except himself.

2.* Moral truth exists (and is distinct from God).
3.* Therefore, God created moral truth.

This revised argument, particularly premise (1*), is ad hoc. Baht’s objection raises a deep
issue: it seems that there are some things that it would be nonsensical for God to create,
such as himself. What if it is also nonsensical for God to create moral truth? Surely that is a

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question worth pondering. Alexis’s revised argument doesn’t deal with this deep issue.
Instead, premise (1*) has been crafted to get around Baht’s particular counterexample,
thereby skirting the question. A better response from Alexis would be to explore whether
moral truth is the kind of thing that would be sensical for God to create.

There are two points worth making about the ad hoc fallacy. First, if a premise or position is
ad hoc, that doesn’t necessarily mean the premise or position is incorrect. Alexis’s revised
argument may very well be sound! The problem with ad hoc premises and positions is that
they are undermotivated. They have been crafted just to save the argument or view, not to get
at the truth. Second, whether a premise or position is ad hoc is a bit of a judgment call and
will often depend on the context. There’s no precise way to determine whether an author
has committed the ad hoc fallacy. Some philosophers have even thought that the ad hoc
fallacy was too subjective to be of any value. Still, we think it is a useful fallacy to know
about, at least as a way of articulating what you may find problematic about certain premises
or positions. When a premise or position is ad hoc, it is a signal that we should evaluate it
more closely.

Hasty Generalization

An author commits the hasty generalization fallacy when the author infers a sweeping
principle or claim without a sufficient number of cases to support that principle or claim.
For instance, suppose Alexis and Baht are debating whether atheism is on the rise, and Baht
offers the following argument:

1. Both my friend and my cousin used to believe in God, but now they are atheists.
2. I don’t know anyone personally who used to be an atheist but now believes in
God.
3. Therefore, belief in God is declining overall.

Baht’s argument involves a hasty generalization. His conclusion, that belief in God is
declining overall, may very well be true, but the evidence he has offered is far too weak to
establish this broad claim. Citing two cases where someone no longer believes in God, as
well as the fact that he doesn’t know anyone personally who has come to believe in God, is
not nearly enough. He has jumped to his conclusion much too quickly.

While the hasty generalization fallacy is fairly obvious, it is all too easy to fall for. Hearing
one or two personal stories is often much more moving and memorable than being told
about in-depth studies, surveys, or statistical analyses. That’s why public figures so often use
such stories in their arguments. But as powerful as these stories may be, it’s important to
remember that as evidence, they often fall short of establishing the general claim the author is
trying to establish.

Informal Fallacy: Tu Quoque Fallacy

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Tu quoque roughly means “you too.” An author commits the tu quoque fallacy when, instead of
answering a pressing objection to their own argument or view, they point out that their
opponent’s argument or view suffers from a similar objection. For instance, suppose Alexis
and Baht are at it again, this time debating whether God’s existence is compatible with free
will. Baht argues that the two are not compatible, giving the following argument:

1. If God exists, then every one of our actions is the result of God’s divine decrees.
2. If every one of our actions is the result of God’s divine decrees, then we never
freely perform any action.
3. Therefore, if God exists, then we never freely perform any action.

Now imagine Alexis responds by arguing that a similar problem for free will appears if God
doesn’t exist. She argues as follows:

1. If God doesn’t exist, then every one of our actions is the result of the distant past
and the laws of physics.
2. If every one of our actions is the result of the distant past and the laws of physics,
then we never freely perform any action.
3. Therefore, if God doesn’t exist, then we never freely perform any action.

By offering this argument, Alexis is trying to show Baht that his worldview also rules out
free will. That may very well be true, but it’s not especially helpful in evaluating Baht’s
original argument. Does Alexis’s argument show that Baht’s argument has a false premise?
Or that it is invalid? No, not at all. At best, it shows that Baht’s worldview faces a similar
problem as her own worldview does. That doesn’t help us determine whether Baht’s
argument is sound.

Now there are occasions where a tu quoque response is perfectly appropriate, namely, when
weighing the pros and cons of various positions. For instance, if Baht’s overall goal is to
show that atheistic worldviews are friendlier to free will than theistic ones, Alexis’s response
is germane: her response is meant to show that atheism is no friendlier to free will than
theism. But if Baht is just trying to show that God’s existence rules out free will, Alexis’s tu
quoque response isn’t helpful.

Informal Fallacy: Strawman Fallacy

An author commits the strawman fallacy when they misrepresent their opponent’s position,
argument, or objection, making it weaker than it really is. Suppose our good friends, Alexis
and Baht, are wrapping up their discussion and a few other people are now listening in. Baht
tries winning over the crowd by offering the following: “Alexis here believes there is a God.
That is, she believes there’s some bearded old man in the sky, watching our every move,
hoping we make a mistake because that means he gets to punish us with eternal hellfire.”

Baht has committed the strawman fallacy. Alexis almost certainly doesn’t think of God as an
old man in the sky who enjoys punishing us when we do wrong. Her view is likely more

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sophisticated and more plausible than that. In trying to win over the crowd, Baht has
misrepresented Alexis’s view, setting up a version of it that is far easier to knock down or
dismiss.

A good remedy for the strawman fallacy is the principle of charity: when framing an author’s
position, argument, or objection, we should do so as charitably as possible. Put the author’s
position, argument, or objection in the strongest possible way. Don’t attribute anything
terribly implausible to the author unless the author explicitly affirms it. And even when the
author does explicitly affirm something that sounds implausible, look for a more plausible
interpretation that still fits with everything else the author has said. Of course, there are
limits to the principle of charity. Sometimes authors really do say implausible things.
Moreover, what may sound implausible to one person may not sound so implausible to
another. Still, when evaluating an author’s position, argument, or objection, start by finding
the strongest version of it. Doing so will help us get at the truth.

Necessary and Sufficient Conditions

So much for arguments. Another important logical concept is that of necessary and
sufficient conditions. The best way to get a handle on these concepts is through an example.
So consider the following statement:

If you are a sophomore, then you are an undergraduate.

This statement is saying that being a sophomore is sufficient for being an undergraduate. In
other words, all you need to be an undergraduate is to be a sophomore. (But that’s not to say
that’s the only way to be an undergraduate.) In general, a statement of the form:

If X, then Y

is a statement that X is a sufficient condition for Y. Now consider the following statement:

If you can vote in the United States, then you are at least 18 years old.

This statement is saying that being at least 18 years old is necessary for being able to vote in
the United States. In other words, one of the requirements for being able to vote in the
United States is that you must be at least 18 years old. (But that’s not to say that that is the
only requirement.) In general, a statement of the form:

If X, then Y

is a statement that Y is a necessary condition for X. Occasionally you will come across a
statement that purports to give both necessary and sufficient conditions for something. For
example:

You have a sister if and only if you have a female sibling.

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This statement says the same thing as the following two statements combined:

If you have a sister, then you have a female sibling.

If you have a female sibling, then you have a sister.

Or, in the language of necessary and sufficient conditions:

Having a sister is necessary and sufficient for having a female sibling.

Philosophers are often interested in the necessary and sufficient conditions for some
interesting concept, such as knowledge. An interesting philosophical question is: What are
the necessary and sufficient conditions for the claim that you have knowledge about some
fact? Certainly it is necessary that what you think you know must actually be true for you to
know it. But is that also sufficient? Probably not, as you may believe something is true even
though you don’t have any good reason to believe it, and so on.

A Priori and A Posteriori

It will be useful to have a few more pieces of philosophical terminology at our disposal.
First, philosophers often distinguish between a priori and a posteriori. These are Latin terms
that are especially useful in describing the way in which we are able to come to know certain
propositions. Propositions that can be known a priori are those that can be known
completely independent of experience. They are those propositions that we can know, so to
speak, “from the armchair.” For example, our knowledge that all triangles have three sides is
a piece of a priori knowledge. There’s no need to go around the world looking for triangles
and counting up their sides to conclude that all triangles have three sides. On the other hand,
propositions that can be known a posteriori are those that require experience of the world to
come to know. For example, your knowledge that it is raining outside right now is a
posteriori knowledge. To determine whether it is raining, you need to open your eyes and
look at the world. No amount of armchair speculation will help.

Necessary and Contingent

Another distinction that comes in handy in philosophy is one between necessary and contingent
truths. A necessary truth is a proposition that is true and could not have been false, whereas
a contingent truth is a proposition that is true but might have been false. Most of the true
propositions we ordinarily come across are contingent propositions. For instance, the fact
that you are reading this right now is a contingent truth. You could very well have decided to
do something else with your time. Even the fact that you exist is a contingent truth. Had
your parents not met when they did, you could very well have never been born. In fact, we
are so surrounded by contingent truths that it’s difficult to think of an uncontroversial
necessary truth. An example would be the fact that all triangles have three sides. No matter
how the world could have been, triangles would always have had three sides—that statement

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could not have been false. Of course, we could have used the word “triangle” to talk about
four-sided figures, but that’s not to say that triangles could have been four-sided figures. The
concept of a triangle is so intimately connected up with the concept of three-sidedness that
it’s impossible to have one without the other. Another example is the fact that all bachelors
are unmarried. This is a necessary truth because no matter how the world could have been,
bachelors would have always been unmarried.

Although these terms are most often used to talk about true and false propositions, they are
also sometimes used to distinguish between necessary and contingent existence. You and I
exist only contingently—that is, we might not have existed. God, on many interpretations, is
supposed to exist necessarily—that is, God could not have not existed.

NOTES

1. We have broken convention here. In the previous example, we had uppercase letters stand
for individuals like Alvin, Los Angeles, and California, whereas in this example, we are using
uppercase letters to stand for sentences. Traditionally, lowercase letters are instead used to
stand for individuals while uppercase letters are exclusively used to stand for sentences,
predicates, or categories. In developing a precise and robust logic, it is crucial to adhere to
some such convention, but given our goals here, we won’t be so exact.

2. The astute reader will notice that the uppercase letters have been bolded here, whereas in
the examples above and below they are not. That is because the bolded letters are technically
“meta-linguistic variables” whereas the non-bolded letters are “atomic sentence letters.” The
difference is roughly this: whereas atomic sentence letters are meant to stand for simple
sentences in English (or any natural language), meta-linguistic variables are meant to stand
for atomic sentence letters as well as certain combinations of atomic sentence letters. For
example, while A can stand for “Oscar is hungry” or “It will rain tonight”, etc., A can stand
for A or B or C, as well as “If A, then B” or “B or C”, etc. This distinction allows our
“famous forms” method to be much more versatile. (Technically, something similar must be
done with the line numbers as well.) You can start to see how logic gets complicated quickly!

3. Technically this only proves that the argument is formally invalid. There are funny cases
where an argument is formally invalid although still valid, such as arguments with a necessary
truth as the conclusion. (This raises difficulties for how to best define validity.) We’ll ignore
this complication here.

4. Such arguments are often called “inductive” arguments. But sometimes inductive
arguments pick out a narrower class of arguments, namely, those focused on enumerative
induction and the like. To avoid possible confusion, we’ll stick with “non-deductive” to
make it clear we are referring to a very broad class of arguments.

5. Two points for the interested reader. First, just how probable do the premises have to be
to make the conclusion? Is a probability of .95 enough? What about .85? The answer to this
question will often depend on the context. For instance, the probability required in a

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scientific context, say, will often be higher than the probability required in an everyday affair.
Second, technically, a strong non-deductive argument must meet the requirement of “total
evidence,” where that means no additional evidence available at the time would change the
degree of support. The requirement of “total evidence” is a bit complicated and raises all
sorts of issues, so we will put it aside here.

6. This case is inspired by the incident of the Russian satellite, Kosmos 954, that disappeared
in 1977, spreading radioactive debris over northern Canada.

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Writing Philosophy Papers

Objective

However one nudges particular issues in philosophy, there is nonetheless a common thread:
philosophy involves the construction and critical analysis of arguments. (For further
discussion, see “Logical Toolkit.”) Learning how to and refining your ability to construct and
analyze arguments are (arguably, at least) the ultimate objectives of any philosophy course. It
is, therefore, the purpose of writing a philosophy paper, because your professor will use your
papers to judge how well you are meeting the objectives of the course. Showing that you
have comprehended and are able to evaluate the material will require you to present your
ideas and arguments in a clear, explicit, and organized fashion. You should be able to do this by
adhering to the following guidelines.

Give Reasons

An argument can be understood as reasons that support a conclusion. Your number one
objective in writing a philosophy paper should typically be to give reasons that support the
overall point you want to make. However, although your paper should have an overall point,
or conclusion, you may want to make several secondary, related points in the body of your
paper. These points should also be backed by reasons. The idea here is that whenever you
make a claim, you must give reasons that tell your reader why they ought to accept your
claim. This amounts to explaining why you have made the claim you have made. (A very
frequent comment made by professors on students’ papers is some variation on “Why?”
“Give reasons,” “Support your claims,” or “Explain.”)

Answer the Question

Make sure that you are clear about what the question is on which your paper will focus. All
too often students answer what they think the question is, or discuss what they think the
topic is, without ever addressing the real problem. Addressing the topic and answering the
question requires you to understand the topic you have chosen and to think carefully about what
you will need to say to clearly explain and evaluate the problem.

Organize Your Paper

Your paper should be structured in such a way that your argument proceeds in an orderly
fashion. Defending a claim requires giving reasons in support of that claim, but you can do
this in a more or less orderly fashion. Among others, two mistakes can lead to a muddled
argument:

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