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Standing up for an affective account ofemotionDemian Whiting aa Division of Primary Care , University of Liverpool , WhelanBuilding, Brownlow Hill, Liverpool, L69 3GB, UK E-mail:Published online: 01 Dec 2008.

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STANDING UP FOR AN AFFECTIVE

ACCOUNT OF EMOTION

Demian Whiting

This paper constitutes a defence of an affective account of emotion. I begin by outlining the case for

thinking that emotions are just feelings. I also suggest that emotional feelings are not reducible to

other kinds of feelings, but rather form a distinct class of feeling state. I then consider a number of

common objections that have been raised against affective accounts of emotion, including: (1) the

objection that emotion cannot always consist only of feeling because some emotions—for

example, indignation and regret—necessarily have a cognitive component (say, the perception

of a lost opportunity in the case of regret); (2) the objection that emotion cannot consist only of

feeling because in order to explain how emotions have intentional objects we will have to

recognise that emotion consists of cognition; and (3) the objection that emotion cannot consist

only of feeling because emotion, but not feeling, can be variously assessed or evaluated.

However, I demonstrate how an affective account of emotion might be successfully defended

against all of the objections that are cited.

KEYWORDS emotion; feeling; phenomenology; cognition; intentionality; evaluation

1. Introduction

The view of emotions as types of feelings was familiar, even obvious, to many

philosophers and psychologists up until quite recently. For instance, Rene Descartes,

David Hume, William James, Wilhelm Wundt and Karl Jaspers all assumed some version

of an affective account of emotion. However, in the light of a number of recent criti-

cisms—coming from the likes of Erroll Bedford, Robert Solomon, Jerome Neu and

Martha Nussbaum—such accounts of emotion appear to have lost much of their appeal

to philosophers writing on the emotions. Indeed, a good number of philosophers have

even argued that feeling has, at best, only a marginal role to play in our understanding

of emotion, and that emotions should be primarily identified with evaluative judgements

or thoughts (see, for example, Calhoun 1984; Neu 2000; Nussbaum 2001; Solomon

1993a). And although in recent years there has been some renewed interest in feeling or

affectivity (see, for example, Blackburn 1998; Goldie 2000; Oakley 1992; Prinz 2003;

Pugmire 1998; Solomon 2003; Stocker 1983), I am not aware of any contemporary

philosopher who has defended the view that emotions are nothing more than types of feel-

ings (although David Pugmire clearly comes close to adopting that view in his book,

Rediscovering emotion). This is unfortunate, I believe. This is because not only does the

thought that emotions are just types of feelings seem to so well describe the phenomen-

ology, but also I believe that an affective account of emotion is very able to deal with the

objections that have been commonly raised against it. In this paper then I aim to provide a

sketch of how a defence of an affective account of emotion might go.

Philosophical Explorations, Vol. 9, No. 3, September 2006

ISSN 1386-9795 print/1741-5918 online/06/030261–16

# 2006 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/13869790600815764

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My strategy in this paper will be to first present the case for thinking that emotions

are just feelings. I will also suggest that emotional feelings are not reducible to other kinds

of feelings, but rather form a distinct class of feeling state. I will then consider, but reject,

the claim that feeling (or affectivity) is not an essential component of emotion, before going

on to defend the affective account of emotion against three arguments that purport to

show that feeling (or affectivity) cannot be all there is to emotion, namely: (1) the argument

that states that emotion cannot always consist only of feeling because some emotions—

say, indignation and regret—necessarily have a cognitive component (say, the perception

of a lost opportunity in the case of regret); (2) the argument that states that emotion cannot

consist only of feeling because in order to explain how emotions have intentional objects

we will have to recognise that emotion consists of cognition; and (3) the argument that

states that emotion cannot consist only of feeling because emotion, but not feeling, can

be variously evaluated.

2. The Case for an Affective Account of Emotion

What then is the case for an affective account of emotion? Well, to begin with, it is

worth remarking that affectivity does seem to be what is most essential to the folk-psycho-

logical concept of emotion (Priest 1995, 167). Now, of course, as Stephen Priest recognises,

what we commonly take something to be may sometimes be partly inconsistent with what

that thing actually is. The worry, however, is that if we attempt to completely sever the link

between what emotions are and what they are pre-theoretically thought to be then it may

not be at all clear that it will be emotion that we end up describing (Priest 1995, 167). But,

that the folk-psychological concept of emotion is in perfectly good order is strongly

suggested by the following two reasons for thinking that emotions are affective states.

First, that view of emotion is strongly supported by the phenomenology of emotion—

observation of which suggests that emotions are just feeling states, and that differences

in emotions simply correspond to differences in how emotions feel. Consider the

emotion of fear, for example. Now, fear feels like something. Fear also feels different to

other emotions, say, sadness or anger. Sometimes, of course, the difference between

how the emotions feel may only be very slight. For example, fear may not feel too different

from anxiety or terror. However, if there is a difference between the type or degree of

emotion felt then I believe that there will be a (sometimes subtle) difference between

how the emotions feel. And, of course, it is because other accounts of emotion fail to

describe the phenomenology that these accounts of emotion are clearly lacking. For

example, it seems clear that neither the thought of a threat, nor the desire to run away,

can begin to describe the phenomenology of fear. For you can have either that thought

or that desire without experiencing anything like what is characteristic of feeling fear (as,

for example, might be the case when responding indifferently or angrily to the thought

of a threat, or when you desire to turn away from an object from disgust or boredom).

Secondly, an affective account of emotion derives empirical support. For example, a

study carried out by Servan-Schreiber and Perlstein found that if injected with procaine

subjects report ‘a range of affective experiences, including euphoria, sadness, fear and

anxiety . . . [These] procaine-induced experiences seem related to the essential “qualia” of

some emotional states such as euphoria or fear. Subjects are able to unambiguously

name their experience, yet, they cannot report cognitions or environmental clues that

could have evoked this affect or even justify its experience a posteriori’ (1997; cited in

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Elster 1999, 248). Other empirical support for this account of emotion comes from research

carried out by Gloor (1986, 164; also cited in Elster 1999, 248). The research supports the

claim that emotion is not to be identified with cognition—cognition is absent, of

course—but rather in terms of how the emotion feels.1

The above outlines the argument for thinking that emotions are to be characterised

and individuated simply on the basis of how they feel. However, something more clearly

needs to be said about how emotional feelings themselves are to be properly described.

My own thinking on this is that emotional feelings are sui generis feeling states, irreducible

to other types of feelings (say, pains, aches, itches, and perceptual sensations). And there are

a number of reasons for thinking that emotions must form a distinct or unique kind of

feeling state. To begin with, as Hume recognised, emotional feelings (normally) admit of

different types of causes to other feeling states (cp. Hume 1969, 55). Whereas a severe

stomach ache, for example, will normally have certain physical (or non-mental) causes—a

blow to the stomach, for instance—emotions will usually be caused by other mental

states (perceptions, beliefs or frustrated desires, say). Certainly, we sometimes talk of

emotions being caused by actual (physical) events or objects—so, for example, we may

say that someone is sad because his friend is ill—but normally in such cases it is the percep-

tion of the event (or object) that is the cause of the response (and not the event, or object,

itself). A second way that emotional feelings differ from other kinds of feelings is that

emotional feelings, but not other kinds of feelings, have intentional objects. So, for

example, although anger is typically about something the same clearly cannot be said

about toothache or nausea (on this point cp. Elster 1999; Kenny 1963; Thalberg 1984).

Thirdly, emotional feelings differ from other kinds of feelings because emotional feelings

correspond to states of the self—they essentially define the self—whereas other kinds of

feelings relate us only to the body (or parts of the body). On this point Michael Stocker

approvingly quotes Descartes who remarked that emotional feelings, but not other kinds

of feelings, are felt ‘as though they [are] in the soul itself’ (see Stocker 1983, 7; also see

Jaspers 1997, 109). And the final reason that I shall give for holding that emotions are

irreducible to other types of feelings is that emotional feelings seem to occupy what

David Rosenthal calls a different ‘phenomenological location’ to other feeling states

(Rosenthal 1983, 184). So, although it may be the case that emotions ‘suffuse’ themselves

over the same parts of the body that other types of feelings do, nevertheless emotional

feelings seem to be quite unlike these other kinds of feeling states. The feeling that we

experience in the pits of our stomach when nervous, for instance, seems very different to

the sensation that we experience when we have stomach ache (cp. Rosenthal 1983, 183).

Similarly, the feeling of anguish which William Styron (1990, 62) speaks about ‘devouring

the brain’ when in the throws of depression seems totally unlike any other feeling that

might also be suffered in that area, such as a throbbing headache.

The case then for thinking that emotions are just feelings is suggested by the folk-

psychological concept of emotion, but that case clearly draws most of its support from

its ability to describe successfully the phenomenology or experience of emotion. I have

also outlined a number of reasons for thinking that emotional feelings are sui generis

feeling states.2 Now, none of the above is to deny that emotions normally have typical

perceptual, cognitive and conative antecedents—for, of course, it seems clear that they

do normally have such antecedents (perceived slights will normally give rise to anger,

and a frustrated desire might well cause us to feel depressed). Nor is it to deny that the

emotions themselves can often affect how we perceive and think about the world, and

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the kind of things that we desire—for again it seems clear that emotions can affect us in all

these ways (depression can make certain things appear more salient to us, and sexual

arousal will normally cause us to desire the object that arouses us). But, according to an

affective account of emotion it is mistaken to think that these perceptions, beliefs and

desires are in any way constitutive of the emotions. However, a number of reasons have

been cited for rejecting the view that emotions are to be identified with (types of) feelings.

In the remainder of this paper then I will defend the affective account of emotion against

four objections that have been raised against that account of emotion—the first objection

claims that feeling or affectivity is not an essential component of emotion, whereas the next

three objections hold that feeling or affectivity cannot be all there is to emotion. As well as

consolidating the position that I defend my answers to each of the four objections should

help to clarify that position.

3. Objections and Replies

3.1. First Objection

The first objection states that affectivity is not an essential component of emotion

because it seems possible to cite cases where somebody is undergoing an emotion even

though they are said not to be feeling anything. So, for example, it might be held that I

can sensibly be described as being angry with another person for something that she

did earlier in the week even though I am not presently feeling agitated with that person.

Or, for example, it might be held that I can be terrified of something but only later be

aware that I was afraid (at the time I felt nothing). So, how best to reply to this objection?

In fact, the correct replies to both of these kinds of cases are already to be found in

the literature (see, for example, Goldie 2000; Prinz 2003; Pugmire 1998; Stocker 1983). The

first case cited of the person who is described as being angry, but not agitated, seems to

only be a description of someone who is disposed to react to a situation in a certain way

(given that the right elicitors present themselves, say, the memory of the slight committed),

rather than someone who is necessarily occurrently experiencing the emotion (cp. Prinz

2003, 83). A similar story, I think, can be told in those cases where we describe someone

as a ‘nervous person’ or as an ‘anxious person’. Again these are not descriptions of

people who are always feeling nervous or anxious, but rather they are descriptions of

people who have a particular disposition or vulnerability to feeling nervous or anxious.

And the second case cited seems to only be a description of someone who is having

an emotion but fails to be aware that they are having that emotion (cp. Goldie 2000, 65–67).

The mistake to be avoided here then is to confuse talk of ‘feeling an emotion’ with talk of

‘being aware that one is feeling an emotion’. For, as David Pugmire points out, when we talk

about feeling an emotion we are not using anything like the perceptual use of ‘feel’—in the

way that we are using the perceptual use of ‘feel’ when we talk about feeling the texture of

the cloth or feeling the wind blow against one’s face, say. As Pugmire puts it: ‘In the

perceptual use, what is felt is something independent of my feeling it. With emotional

feelings there is no such distinction: what I feel . . . and my feeling it are the same’

(Pugmire 1998, 61, fn. 1). Nevertheless, like beliefs and desires emotions are states of

which we can fail to be conscious or fail to have any thoughts about—as might be the

case, for example, when we are so engaged in a task that we pay no attention to how

we feel (see Goldie 2000, 65).

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3.2. Second Objection

A second objection states that even if such basic emotion states as fear, anger and

sadness can be characterised or individuated on the basis of how they feel, a number of

emotions necessarily have a cognitive component. The reason for this claim derives from

the fact that it seems to be a conceptual (or logical) truth that a person cannot experience

states such as indignation, pride or regret, unless they endorse certain judgements or have

certain thoughts. Consider the state of indignation. Now, it might be conceded that indig-

nation is very similar to anger—both states essentially feel the same—but nevertheless held

that indignation differs from anger in important respects. To begin with, indignation seems

to be something that can never be directed at the self—an agent can be angry with himself

but not indignant with himself (cp. White 1967, 125). But, moreover, indignation seems to

be something that requires the perception of a slight (or injustice) to have taken place—an

agent can respond to his faulty television with anger, but not with indignation! But this, it

might be argued, simply amounts to holding that indignation has a cognitive component.

And a similar story might be given for a number of other emotion states as well, say, regret,

pride, grief and pity (cp. Neu 1977, 35– 36; Oakley 1992, 19). What then is a defender of an

affective account of emotion to say about such states?

One strategy that clearly is not available to us is to argue that these ‘cognitive

emotions’ simply consist of a compound of various non-cognitive emotions. The reason

why we cannot adopt this strategy is not because these states do not involve compounds

of non-cognitive emotions—regret may well involve feelings of sadness together with

feelings of anger or fear, for example. Rather, the point is that no matter what non-cognitive

emotion (or blend of such emotions) is offered we will never have the ‘cognitive emotion’

unless we also have the relevant cognition. For much the same reason a second way of

trying to explain these states—one that can be accredited to Hume—does not seem to

be available to us. This is the suggestion that states such as indignation, pride and

regret are simply types of feelings that have been caused by certain thoughts. So, for

example, pride, Hume tells us, is ‘that agreeable impression, which arises in the mind,

when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches, or power, makes us satisfied with our-

selves’ (1969, 349). And, similarly, regret, it might be held, is simply the feeling that arises

on thinking about a lost opportunity. But the reason why we cannot adopt this strategy

is because if these states just are the feelings that arise on thinking about particular

objects then, given the (also Humean) thesis that causes are logically distinct from what

they cause, it must be the case that it is logically possible to have the emotion apart

from its eliciting thought—but this is just the possibility that is denied by those who

think that there are ‘cognitive emotions’.

But despite the fact that the two suggested strategies above are unavailable to us I

believe that we still have good reason for denying the existence of ‘cognitive emotions’.

Now, in order to see why there are no such emotions it is instructive to reflect on the

fact that a number of societies have inherited their own highly idiosyncratic emotion con-

cepts. So, for example, there is the German concept Schadenfreude, which refers to pleasure

that has been elicited by another person’s discomfort. Or, consider the fact that although

the Aboriginal language Pintupi has at least five different words that have been compared

with the English word ‘sadness’, none of these words have the same meaning as the word

‘sadness’, as each of these words implies the presence of certain thoughts that are not

necessary to our concept of sadness (see Wierzibicka 1992, 293–95). So, for example,

AN AFFECTIVE ACCOUNT OF EMOTION 265

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‘yulatjarra’ requires the thought that one’s relative is sick or deceased, and ‘watjilpa’

involves the thought that one is away from home.

The question is what we are to make of these concepts. Are we to argue that the fact

that people from different societies have inherited different emotion concepts reflects

differences in emotions felt (cp. Harre 1986, 10)? Or are we perhaps to argue that although

people from different societies are not necessarily privy to different emotions, nevertheless

their different emotion concepts do succeed in picking out different (possibly, universally

felt) emotions? Unfortunately, it is unclear as to how either way of taking these concepts

can recognise any sensible constraints on what may count as an emotion. If we discover

that a certain society has inherited a particular concept which refers to a feeling of fear

that arises on perceiving the presence of turtles, then what is to prevent us, on either of

the above ways of taking these culturally variable concepts, from saying that this

concept picks out a distinct emotion (like fear, but not quite fear)? And, in fact, on closer

examination we do not seem to find—as some emotion theorists might have it—concepts

that reflect differences in emotions felt. Rather, what we find are concepts that pick out the

same emotions that we (and anyone else) feel but which also include a specification of why

those emotions have been felt. For note that an agent who feels sad because he is aware

that he is away from home (or that his relative is sick or deceased), or who feels pleasure

because he believes someone else is suffering discomfort, is not feeling a different

emotion to the agent who feels sad or pleasure for some other reason. Rather, both

agents are feeling the same emotion, but are feeling the emotion for different reasons.

The fact that different societies have inherited idiosyncratic concepts that describe an

emotion as well as specify the reasons for why the emotion is felt is neither here nor

there—the creation of such concepts makes no difference to the emotion that is being felt.

In the light of the above, it should come as no surprise that speakers of the English

language will have also inherited concepts that pick out certain emotions together with

various eliciting thoughts. And, indeed, I want to now suggest that this is exactly the

way in which the ‘cognitive emotion’ concepts should be taken. So, for example, the

concept of indignation, I suggest, involves a description of a particular emotion (namely

anger) together with a specification of why that emotion is felt (namely because of a per-

ceived injustice). And here, of course, we have the reason why I can be angry, but not indig-

nant, with my television. For to be angry with my television is to respond to it with feelings

of anger irrespective of what may have elicited those feelings, whereas to be indignant with

my television would entail that I am angry with my television because I believe that it has

been unjust to me—and clearly this is not something that I normally believe of my televi-

sion. A similar story can also be given for the other ‘cognitive emotion’ concepts. For

example, I suggest that the concept of regret is used to describe feelings of sadness that

have been elicited by the memory of a lost opportunity; the concept of pride is used to

describe feelings of pleasure that have been elicited by the perception of one’s own

achievements; the concept of grief is used to describe feelings of sadness that have

been elicited by the perception of a personal loss (say, the death of a loved one). The

trick I believe—and this is not necessarily an easy thing to do—is to distinguish between

those concepts that directly pick out the emotions (possible candidates include the

concepts of anger, disgust, displeasure, sadness, happiness, pleasure, fear, sexual arousal,

indifference, amusement) from those concepts that only describe those emotions when

those emotions have been elicited in the appropriate way (possible candidates include

the concepts of indignation, regret, pity, pride, grief, suspiciousness and jealousy).3

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Now, if this is the correct way of describing the ‘cognitive emotions’ then it should be

possible to explain our entire affective lives—without loss of meaning—using language

that only makes mention of the non-cognitive emotions (or, in other words, those states

that are to be characterised simply in terms of their phenomenal properties). And, as the

following examples indicate, that does seem to be the case. So, I may say, for example,

that the thought of being unfairly treated arouses in me feelings of anger; or that I feel a

great deal of pleasure thinking about the wall that I built; or that seeing children suffer

causes me to feel saddened and distressed; or that the electrician’s shifty eyes make

me feel edgy or nervous; or that the thought of you being with him, not me, makes

me fearful, angry and depressed. In all these cases it seems I have communicated the

same points as if I used the language of the ‘cognitive emotions’ (here: ‘indignation’,

‘pride’, ‘pity’, ‘suspiciousness’ and ‘jealousy’). But that surely is tantamount to showing

that there are no ‘cognitive emotions’. Rather, all we have are the non-cognitive emotions

and the labels that we use to describe those emotions, when those emotions are con-

sidered on their own or when those emotions are considered together with various eliciting

thoughts.

It would seem to be an attractive feature of my treatment of the so-called ‘cognitive

emotions’ that it promises to provide us with sensible constraints on what may count as an

emotion. In short, I am suggesting that something only counts as an emotion if it can be

identified in terms of how it feels. If a given state cannot be identified in this way then I

argue that careful thought will show it to involve something more than emotion.

However, the worry that some might now have is whether the treatment that I propose

for the so-called ‘cognitive emotions’ might also apply to many of those states that I

suggested are genuine emotions. For, if these states are susceptible to the same treatment

then the anxiety might be that on my account we may end up recognising only the

existence of a couple of real emotions—namely the states of pleasure and pain.

But, in fact, it is not clear that we do have a potential objection here. This is because if

it were possible to reduce those states that I have suggested are genuine emotions to the

states of pleasure and displeasure (together with various eliciting thoughts) then it would

seem entirely legitimate to hold that pleasure and pain are the only emotions (and, in terms

of which all those other states that we may have originally thought of as being distinct

emotions are to be ultimately understood). It would then be quite correct to hold that,

for example, both the fearful agent and the angry agent are feeling the same emotion (dis-

pleasure), but only for different reasons. Now, for very good reasons, I believe, we do not

want to reduce those states that I have identified as being genuine emotions to the

states of pleasure and pain. We want to claim, for instance, that the fearful agent and

angry agent are feeling very different emotions. But that, of course, isn’t to show that

there is anything wrong with my treatment of the ‘cognitive emotions’. Rather, it is only

to suggest that similar treatment is not possible for those states that I have identified as

being genuine emotions. And, indeed, I will now outline two considerations that tell

against the view that those states I suggest are genuine emotions can be reduced further.

The first consideration that tells against further reduction in such cases comes again

from the observation of the phenomenology of emotion. If further reduction in these cases

are possible—so, for example, if fear and anger are just feelings of displeasure that have

been elicited by different thoughts—then we would expect the phenomenology of

many of these states to be the same. However, it is clear that these states do not feel

the same. So, for example, the ‘edgy’ feeling typical of fear seems very different to the

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‘hot-headed’ feeling that may characterise anger. And a similar story can be told for the

other non-cognitive emotions. On the other hand, the so-called ‘cognitive emotion’

states do not seem to feel any different from those emotions to which they are, in part,

reducible. Indignation, for example, just does feel like anger (albeit often experienced to

an intense degree). Or, again, the phenomenology of regret is very similar to that of

sadness (though tinged, perhaps, with feelings of anger, distress and fear).

The second reason for thinking that further reduction of those states that I have

suggested are genuine emotions is not possible draws on the fact that these states do

not seem to conceptually (or logically) require the presence of certain thoughts or

beliefs. In other words, whereas the so-called ‘cognitive emotions’ are clearly conceptually

tied up with certain thoughts the same does not seem true of the non-cognitive emotions.

Indeed, as often pointed out, it is a convincing objection to cognitive theories of emotion

that it seems possible—even common—for people to experience certain emotions without

having the thought that the cognitive theorist of emotion argues is constitutive of that

emotion (cp. Prinz 2003, 76–77; Pugmire 1998, 18– 42). A person might, for instance, feel

frightened of an object (a balloon that is vulnerable to bursting, say) without having any

thoughts about the object constituting a threat or potential source of harm. On the

other hand, it is conceptually (or logically) incoherent to suggest that one of the so-

called ‘cognitive emotions’ could be experienced without complex thought. What could

it possibly mean, for example, to say that a person feels Schadenfreude, but doesn’t perceive

the presence of discomfort, or to say that a person experiences sexual jealousy, but doesn’t

perceive the presence of a (potential) rival to his loved one’s affections? Now, if I am right,

then the worry that the non-cognitive emotions may also be reduced, in part, to thought is

unfounded—for, unlike in the case of the so-called ‘cognitive emotions’, it seems perfectly

sensible to hold that a person may feel a non-cognitive emotion, but fail to have the

complex thought that some theorists argue is a necessary component of the emotion.

In a recent paper Robert Solomon is critical of emotion theorists who attempt to

reduce complex emotions to more basic components. For in the process, Solomon believes,

the theorist tends to ‘focus too avidly on the reduction and lose sight of what is reduced’

(Solomon 2002, 131). There is much to be said about the risks that reductionism pose.

Indeed, one reason why I am defending an affective account of emotion is because I

believe that attempts to reduce emotions to such things as beliefs, desires, or combinations

of such states, fail to describe emotion accurately. However, any attempt at reduction is

only a problem if the proposed reduction really does ‘lose sight’ of the thing that is

being reduced. Now, what I have tried to show in this section of the paper is that by under-

standing states such as regret, or indignation, or Schadenfreude, in terms of various non-

cognitive emotions together with their various eliciting thoughts we do not lose sight of

the things that we are trying to understand. And, if that is the case, I simply add that we

really then have no right to regard these ‘cognitive emotions’ as being (just) emotions at

all. For, again: if we can describe our entire affective lives by referring only to those

states that are to be characterised simply in terms of their phenomenal properties then

it must follow that we are discerning nothing extra in emotion when we use the language

of the ‘cognitive emotions’. Of course, there may be all kinds of good reasons why we use,

or have inherited, such language—not least, I suggest, because it provides us with con-

venient ways of picking out often quite complex, but possibly common, patterns of

affect, thought and desire—but we should not be led into thinking that by using such

language we are thereby cognisant of additional kinds of emotion.

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3.3. Third Objection

Another objection states that emotion cannot consist only of feeling because

emotions are intentional states. So, for instance, I am not simply afraid, but afraid of some-

thing (say, the tiger that confronts me). The argument then runs that the only plausible way

we can explain how emotions relate to objects in an intentional way is by recognising that

emotion has a cognitive component. Even if cognition is not all there is to emotion

(perhaps—as I have argued—something else like affectivity is also required), emotion

must, at least, partly consist of cognition. This argument has been made by a number of

philosophers who favour a cognitive theory of emotion. Robert Solomon, for instance,

writes that ‘one way of putting the point that emotions must have a cognitive

component . . . is to insist that they have intentionality’ (1993b, 12). And, Martha Nussbaum

holds that the aboutness of emotion ‘embodies a way of seeing’ (2001, 27; also cp. Quinton

1985, 8). It is also a consideration that seems to prevent David Pugmire from fully commit-

ting himself to a non-cognitivist account of emotion when he writes that ‘the aboutness of

emotions would be precluded only if emotions were supposed to consist in feelings and

nothing else’ (1998, 12). So, how should we respond to this objection?

An initial strategy that we might try to adopt is to describe the relation between the

emotion and its object in such a way that does not commit us to the cognitivist position.

But how might that relation be described? The only account that I am aware to have

received attention in the literature (cp. Kenny 1963, 71– 75; Solomon 1993a, 119–25;

Thalberg 1984, 296– 97) is the view that emotions relate to objects insofar as emotions

are caused by objects—call this the ‘causal-thesis’. So, on the causal-thesis for Tom to

feel amused by Jim’s waddle is for Jim’s waddle to be the cause of Tom’s amusement.

And prima facie the causal-thesis looks plausible because everyday language seems to

be full of examples that suggest that the relation between the emotion and its object is

a causal relation. So, for instance, we talk about how the object (say, a raving dog) fills

someone with terror, or how the object (say, Sam’s death) affects him with sadness, or

how the object (say, a woman’s smile) drives him crazy. But unfortunately, the causal-

thesis has been objected to on a number of grounds that constitute sufficient reason for

thinking that it is defective. One objection is the problem of non-existent objects

(cf. Thalberg 1984, 296 –97). For example, although Macbeth feels frightened of a dagger

the cause of Macbeth’s fear is not a dagger because, of course, there is no dagger.

Rather the cause of Macbeth’s fear is his hallucination or perception of a dagger. Therefore,

the cause of the emotion is not the object of the emotion. Another objection states that

although drinking too much coffee may cause someone to feel anxious, the object of

the emotion will not be drinking too much coffee. For example, drinking too much

coffee may cause someone to feel anxious about driving to work, and not about drinking

too much coffee (cp. Solomon 1984, 311).

The above might lead us to think that perhaps the cause of the emotion is not the

world as it actually is, but rather the world as it is perceived by the agent, or—what I

take to mean the same thing—the agent’s perception of the world. This would usefully

explain what is going on in the case of non-existent objects. For if Macbeth is actually frigh-

tened of his perception of a dagger then clearly the causal-thesis still stands, because the

cause of Macbeth’s fear is an existing object. Moreover, it would usefully explain what is

going on in the case of anxiety caused by drinking too much coffee. For in that case the

cause of the emotion does not relate to the object of the emotion because the cause of

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the emotion does not relate to an object as it is perceived by the agent (indeed the agent

does not even have to know that he has drunk too much coffee). Rather, the anxiety is a

result of the chemical intoxication brought about by drinking too much coffee. However,

this line of argument also cannot be sustained. Although it is plausible that in the

normal case to specify the cause of an emotion is to specify the agent’s perceptions of,

or beliefs about, an object, it does sound very odd to talk about that being the object of

the emotion. It is not that the agent feels sad about the world as he perceives it, or, his per-

ception of the world, but rather the agent feels sad about the world. Similarly, Macbeth does

not feel frightened of the hallucination of a dagger, but rather he feels frightened of the

dagger.

It would, of course, be useful if we could explain how emotions relate to objects in an

intentional way. However, even if we are not able to explain how such feelings relate to

objects in this way there is still another strategy that we can adopt against the cognitivist

approach. And that is to show that the argument that emotions are intentional states,

therefore emotions consist of thoughts—which are also intentional states—simply

smacks of a non sequitur. For the fact of the intentionality of emotion gives us no more

reason to think that emotion consists of thought than the fact of the intentionality of

thought gives us reason to think that thought consists of emotion—in short, no reason

at all.

One way of showing that the argument is a non sequitur is by looking at another

intentional state, namely that of desire. Now, it seems sensible to think that in order for

a person to desire an object he will have to represent to himself the object to which his

desire is directed. For instance, I can only desire to eat the ice cream if I am first aware

of the ice cream. But although certain minimal thoughts may constitute necessary

grounds for an agent to desire an object I take it that no-one would want to say that

desires thereby consist of these (or any other) thoughts about the object. But if that is

the case then we cannot simply derive from the fact that a mental state is intentional

the conclusion that the mental state consists of cognition. For if we could derive that con-

clusion then it would follow that desire (being an intentional state) also consists of

cognition. The upshot of the above then is that we cannot argue that emotion has a

cognitive component on the grounds of the intentionality of emotion.4

The mistake, I believe, is to assume that the property of intentionality is something

that a mental state has in virtue of being a cognitive state. For, as the comparison with

desire sets out to illustrate, that assumption cannot be sustained. Although it is the case

that intentionality is a property that other mental states share with thought it is not the

case that this property is something that a mental state has in virtue of being a thought.

Consequently, if we are to understand better how mental states (beliefs, emotions and

desires) relate to objects in an intentional way we would be best advised to concentrate

on understanding that property that each of those mental states share with one

another, and in virtue of which does make them intentional states. That surely constitutes

a far better approach than attempting to identify one mental state with another. For it is

difficult to see how that will succeed in explaining anything (in much the same way that

attempting to identify apples and pears with oranges would not explain what makes

apples, pears or oranges types of fruit) and is very likely to result in a great deal of concep-

tual confusion (the comparison with the fruit hardly needs stating). So, of course it would be

useful if we could explain how emotions have intentional objects. But, we need to

recognise that this is a concern about intentionality in general—that is to say, it is a

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problem about what makes any mental state relate to its object in an intentional way—and

that, of course, is a worry that has preoccupied philosophers since Brentano.

3.4. Fourth Objection

The final objection states that emotion cannot consist only of feeling because

emotion, but not feeling, can be variously evaluated (cp. Bedford 1964; Pitcher 1965;

Solomon 1993a). So, Erroll Bedford states that ‘if someone were to say “I felt this pang

this afternoon” it would be meaningless to ask whether it was a reasonable or unreasonable

pang’ (1964, 91). And, similarly, Robert Solomon writes that ‘headaches are neither reason-

able nor unreasonable; there is no such thing as a “sensible” flush . . . Yet we say without

hesitation that . . . “he was unjustified in being jealous,” that “loving her was the wrong

thing to do”’ (1993a, 101). How then best respond to this final objection?

Well, one way it might be thought that we should respond is to deny that emotions

can be evaluated in the way that may be claimed for them. And, in fact, that does seem to

be the right way to argue if the claim is that emotions can be epistemically (or rationally)

evaluated. The problem with this claim is described by Hume, of course, when he states:

A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of existence, and contains

not any representative quality, which renders it a copy of any other existence or modifi-

cation . . . ’Tis impossible, therefore, that this passion can be oppos’d by, or be contradic-

tory to truth and reason; since this contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas,

consider’d as copies, with those objects, which they represent. (1969, 462–63)

The central point here then is that since emotions do not purport to represent the

world then they will not be governed by epistemic norms—say inductive or deductive

norms of reasoning—that govern states that do purport to represent the world, namely

belief states. Consequently, although we may sometimes say that an emotion is an

unreasonable emotion to feel if it has been elicited by a false or unwarranted belief,

nevertheless in such cases it is ‘not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable,

but the judgement’ (Hume 1969, 463). So, for example, if my jealous feelings have been

elicited by the unreasonable belief that my beloved is having an affair then although we

may say that my feelings are unfounded we are really criticising the belief that elicited

my feelings of jealousy, and not the feelings themselves (on this point also cp. Wilkinson

2000, 297).

But, although emotional feelings cannot be epistemically evaluated it seems clear

that emotions can be evaluated in a number of other ways. So, for example, emotions

can be assessed for their intelligibility—where the notion of intelligibility itself seems to

be primarily a function of our understanding of facts about human nature (together

perhaps with considerations of the individual’s own learning experiences and emotional

acculturation). We can make sense of parents feeling more strongly for their own children

than other people’s children because that seems to be a natural response for parents to

have. Similarly, as Simon Blackburn points out, jealousy ‘makes sense, in human terms, as

a response to fear of loss or betrayal’ (1998, 65). Emotions can also be assessed for their

practical adaptiveness. Fear, for example, is clearly an adaptive emotion to feel in many

situations where threat of imminent harm is present—it can enhance decision-making

and motivate the person to escape the feared object. In fact, so suited to threatening

stimuli is fear that it seems to have evolved as a natural response of ours to such stimuli

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(a fact that presumably explains why fear felt in response to non-threatening situations may

often strike us as being odd or unintelligible).

And finally, I claim that on an affective account emotions can be morally evaluated—

although, as we shall see, this claim will need arguing for. The important point here is that

how other people respond to us—whether with feelings of concern, anger or indifference,

say—matters a great deal to us. And here we might consider the feelings of disgust that the

racist has towards people of another race, or the feelings of intense anger that someone

feels in response to a minor slight. This is not to say, however, that emotions are always

morally significant. I find The Simpsons funny, whereas you do not. Here we have a diffe-

rence in response, but neither of us will necessarily judge the other person’s response to

be morally lacking in any way. But, over many things that people do and do not find

funny ethical verdicts and disputes are common. I think you are being amused by some-

thing that you ought not be amused by, or something that a virtuous person would not

find amusing—the joke is offensive, or it is meant in bad taste. You, on the other hand,

may think that my failure to be amused reflects faults in my character—a degree of snob-

bishness, or too serious an attitude about life (perhaps you think I need to lighten up a bit).

And, as the examples illustrate, there are a number of ways in which an emotion might be

thought morally lacking. First, an emotion might be thought lacking in cases where it is

directed at an inappropriate object—as is the case with the racist who feels disgusted

by people from another race. Secondly, an emotion might be thought lacking when it is

directed at an appropriate object, but is felt too intensely—as is the case with the

person who feels outraged by a minor slight. And finally our emotions might be thought

morally lacking when they are symptomatic of other states that are morally lacking—as

would be the case, say, if we thought that a person’s failure to be amused by a joke is

reflective of too serious an attitude about life.

It is worth remarking that it would be no objection to the above to hold that on an

affective account of emotion emotional feelings cannot be morally evaluated because

pangs, pains and aches cannot be so evaluated (cp. Solomon 1993a, 101). This is

because, as I argued in Section 2, emotions are sui generis feeling states. Consequently,

even if other kinds of feelings cannot be morally evaluated it does not thereby follow

that emotions cannot be so evaluated. Still, it might be asked whether I am entitled to

hold that emotions can be ethically evaluated. For the claim might be that emotions

cannot be morally evaluated on the account of emotion that I defend because on that

account emotions are not things that we have direct control over. But if we have no

direct control over our emotions then how, it might be asked, can we be morally blamed

for emotion?

One way we might try to answer this worry is by simply denying that there is no

sense—relevant for ascriptions of blame—in which people have control over their

emotions. After all, we do often have some voluntary control over whether we suppress

our emotions, or cultivate in ourselves the right emotions. And, in each of these respects,

it might be thought that we are at least indirectly blameworthy for how we feel. Now,

this way of arguing for the blameworthiness of emotion does find a number of supporters

in the emotion literature (see Kristjansson 2002; Oakley 1992; Sankowski 1977), and I

propose to simply accept that argument for the sake of discussion. However, if the

thought is now supposed to be that indirect control is necessary for the moral evaluation

of emotion (on the grounds that only then can people be blamed for their emotions) then

we seem to be faced with an objection. This is because it seems possible to imagine cases

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where we would want to say that a person is feeling the wrong emotions, even though he

has been unable to exert any kind of control over those emotions. So, for example, we

might imagine how as a result of a defective upbringing a person had no control over

developing the racist responses that he is now apt to feel. But, despite this lack of

control, I think that we would still want to hold that this person is not feeling the right

emotions.

We need then a way of recognising that although some people have indirect control

over their emotions (and are on that account blameworthy for their emotions) this cannot

be a necessary condition for the moral evaluation of emotion (on the grounds that not

everyone who feels the wrong emotions has indirect control over their emotions). But

how can we make sense of this given the thought that a person may only be blamed for

things that he has had some kind of control over? Well, it is clear that we can only make

sense of this if we give up the thesis that if a person is not to blame for his emotion

then it must follow that his emotion is not an appropriate object of moral evaluation.

And that we should keep the issue of blame clearly apart from the issue of the moral sig-

nificance of emotion is suggested in another context by the distinction that has been

drawn between ‘agent evaluation’ and ‘act evaluation’ (see Sinnott-Armstrong 1984, 250;

Stern 2004, 47). Now, according to this distinction right and wrong are properties of

actions, whereas blame attaches to agents. It is one thing then to show that an agent

failed to behave in the right way, but another thing entirely to show that he is to blame

for failing to behave in that way (cp. Stern 2004, 47).5 The question then is why not say

the same for the emotions. In other words, I think we should hold that although failure

of (indirect) control would entail that a person is not blameworthy or praiseworthy for

his emotions, this does not mean that his emotions are not the wrong or right emotions

to feel (or, in other words, the kinds of emotions that a good or virtuous ‘emotion-feeler’

would or would not feel).

Now, if I am right, then it also turns out that the central problem with the original

objection to the claim that emotions (according to an affective account of emotion) can

be morally evaluated—namely that emotions cannot be morally evaluated (on that view

of emotion) because we cannot be blamed for things that we have no direct control

over—consists not in its failure to appreciate that people may be blamed for things that

they have no direct control over, but rather in its failure to recognise that the issue of

whether our emotions are morally significant must be kept clearly apart from the issue

of whether we are to blame for emotion. And that looks to be an important point to

make. For it then follows that even if we were to make the stronger claim that blame

requires direct control—and for that reason maintain that although we may be to blame

for cultivating, or working ourselves up into, the wrong emotions, we are not to blame for

feeling such emotions—it would still be perfectly legitimate for us to hold that emotions

can be morally evaluated.

4. Conclusion

In this paper I have put forward the positive case for thinking that emotions are just

(types of) feelings, as well as defend this account of emotion against a number of well-

known objections that have been raised against affective accounts of emotion in recent

years. It is, of course, likely that philosophers will cite other reasons for rejecting the

view that I defend in this paper. However, I do believe that I have made a very strong

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case for thinking that emotions are just (types of) feelings, and that, therefore, we have no

need to ascribe to emotion a cognitive (or conative) component.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

An earlier draft of this paper was presented at Liverpool University’s Stapledon Philosophy

Colloquium in March 2004. I am grateful to all who commented on my paper, and, in

particular, wish to thank Daniel Hill, Stephen McLeod and Michael McGhee. I am also

indebted to Robert Stern, John Bridson and an anonymous referee for their very helpful

comments and suggestions. This paper is dedicated to the memory of Amelia.

NOTES

1. There is also a growing body of evidence to support the view that different emotions

do—contrary to the message sometimes inferred from the earlier Schachter and Singer

(1966) experiment (cp. Oakley 1992, 19)—admit of clear physiological differentiation

(see, for example, Ekman, Levenson, and Friesen 1983; Griffiths 1997). Such findings as

these would also seem to provide support for an affective account of emotion given the

arguably close association between emotional feelings (which seem to be felt in the

body—a point to which I will return shortly in the main text) and particular states of

physiological arousal.

2. To hold that emotional feelings are sui generis is not to hold that emotions don’t require a

body in order to be felt. Indeed, I have indicated that emotions may be states that neces-

sarily manifest themselves in bodies—nervousness may be a type of feeling that is (nor-

mally) felt in the stomach, for instance. All that is being said by the claim that emotional

feelings are sui generis is that emotions (even if felt in the body) are irreducible to other

kinds of feelings (that may also be felt in the body).

3. I take it that there may also be certain concepts that we (and others) have inherited that

demand somewhat different kinds of analyses to those offered above. So, for instance, in

some cases certain desires may be picked out by a given concept—as appears to be the

case with the English concept, disappointment, which involves a sense of sadness or distress

that arises from a frustrated desire.

4. All that the comparison with desire suggests then is that certain minimal thoughts—say, a

simple perception of the object to which an emotion is directed—may constitute necessary

preconditions that must be met before an emotion can be directed at the object. But, it

does not follow, of course, from the fact that something is a precondition for something

else that it is therefore constitutive of the other thing (as indeed is again illustrated by

the comparison with desire). Also, it is not at all clear that the thoughts that might be

required before an emotion can be directed at an object need be any more complicated

than simple perceptions of the object (and certainly I cannot see why the presence of

complex evaluative thoughts are required—as some philosophers seem to hold: cp.

Nussbaum 2001).

5. Also cf. Sinnott-Armstrong: “Another common argument is that we do not blame agents for

failing to do acts which they could not do, so it is not true that the agents ought to have

done the acts. No such conclusion follows. The premise is about agents, but the conclusion

is about acts. It is possible that an act ought to be done even though the agent would not

be blameworthy for failing to do it” (1984, 250; cited in Stern 2004, 47).

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