Critical thinking for Students (11 page)

Whilst our diner puzzles over whether to leave a tip, we’ll head off to look at other examples of problematic arguments. Having just considered a problem of inadequate evidence, here’s another one. This is a strange one. Have a look at the next example:

The oddity of this argument will probably have slapped you in the face. Arguments are supposed to go somewhere. The significance of the → in the process of claim → inference (or R→C) is that there is some movement. The inference is
drawn
from the claim. In the example above, the inference is the
same as
the claim: there is no movement. The first claim is equivalent to the second.

This is the most extreme form of inadequate evidence, in that there isn’t any. This form of argument is called
circular
, for obvious reasons. It’s also sometimes referred to as ‘begging the question’. More often than not, however, you’ll see this second term used wrongly. It’s normally used in the wrong sense to mean ‘this raises the question’. You’ll find that politicians often use it like this.

Though there is debate as to the exact way in which the term ‘begging the question’ should be used, this is not one of them. There is a perfectly good alternative which is ‘raising the question’. So Vincent Cable should have said ‘This raises the question why…’

Circular arguments are always a problem because you can’t infer something without having given at least one reason for it.

Before we leave these arguments, let’s just check back to an argument that we took to be a valid argument.

Perhaps you’re thinking that this is a form of question-begging, in that the conclusion, as we saw, is contained in the reasons. But the conclusion is not equivalent to either reason, unlike in our dangers of drinking example earlier in which the conclusion was no more than a restatement of what had been already claimed.

Having gone round in circles, we’re off to look at another weakness in argument. This time it’s another one involving irrelevant evidence. Here’s an example. It refers to the controversy in September 2009 about the Tate Modern’s decision to show, as part of the exhibition ‘Pop Life’, a photograph of a naked Brooke Shields taken when she was 10.

Amongst the contributors to the online comments section of the
Daily Mail
website on September 30 was this one, from Steve from Wiltshire.

Steve might well be disgusted that the Brooke Shields photograph is being exhibited, but he has not given any well-formulated reason why it shouldn’t be, beyond his disgust. And you can see that the argument starts to look very thin if we use just this:

If we add in some of his other observations, then does it become stronger?

As you can see, the argument has become very strange indeed. The second reason does nothing. Even if it were the case that bearded people who wore sandals (Socrates, Moses, Jesus, and so on), who eat muesli (perhaps you), who read the
Guardian
(about 1.3 million) did find it acceptable, this is not a reason not to exhibit the photograph. In fact, it has probably occurred to you that Steve’s argument seems to backfire because there seems to be rather a lot more people wanting to allow it than Steve wanting it not to be shown.

What you will have seen is that Steve’s position relies on using irrelevant features of people (beards, sandals, breakfast choice, newspaper choice) rather than useful reasoning. But, you might want to point out, there’s still something else that he said (the second sentence). So let’s put that into the argument:

We’ve now got something a little stronger. But only if we repackage it.

The first reason (‘Steve from Wiltshire …’) still lacks any useful strength in the argument. The second reason (the repackaged one) might have some strength but only if it is indeed the case that the people who want the picture shown are indeed ‘conspiring to undermine decency’ (whatever is meant by ‘conspiring’ and ‘decency’). And only if the assumption is added that ‘showing this picture of Brooke Shields will undermine decency’. And only if others are added: ‘undermining decency is a bad thing’; ‘there is agreement on what is decency’; ‘the photograph of Brooke Shields isn’t tasteful/beautiful/ …’

So it turns out to be a very weak argument. But to push this point home, let’s just refocus on Steve’s third sentence. This is the attack on those who might wish the picture to be shown, given in terms of personal characteristics. The point is that it is utterly irrelevant to this argument whether someone has a beard, wears sandals, eats muesli, or reads the
Guardian
. This description is meant to be abusive (and thus powerful). But, unfortunately for Steve, the abuse weakens the argument considerably.

What we have in this example is a type of weakness with another Latin name –
ad
hominem
. This literally means ‘to or at the man’. What this refers to is that the arguer is arguing against something, by attacking the
source
of that argument rather than the argument itself (so you’ll sometimes see it as ‘attacking the arguer rather than the argument’). This is what makes the attack irrelevant. Even if the people who argued for the showing of the photograph were bearded and wore sandals as they chewed their muesli whilst reading the
Guardian
, these would be irrelevant things in the argument as to whether or not the photograph should be shown.

We’ll now look at another form of weakness through irrelevant evidence. It comes in different forms. In one form, it’s related to
ad hominem
. This is because it refers to arguments in which the arguer attacks features of those on the other side.

The next example is taken from an article about the demonstration in London about the G20 summit in April 2009. This part of the article refers to the presence at the
demonstration of Russell Brand, the comedian who earlier in the year had been sacked by the BBC.

Though there are straightforwardly abusive remarks made about Brand elsewhere in the article (such as ‘Brand epitomises a generation of self-obsessed exhibitionists’), this particular approach is doing something different. It is using inconsistency as an issue in order to attack Brand. It is saying that here we have Brand demonstrating against ‘financial disparity’ (the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor, presumably) whilst at the same time enjoying an expensive life of Riley, available only to the rich.

So is this a position which has any strength? In some ways it has. It is, in effect, saying something like ‘you claim to believe in/support
x
, but you also want to do/support the opposite of
x
’. In this way, the author is seeking to discredit the argument of someone who acts inconsistently. This works at one level. We have already stressed that inconsistency in an argument is a very big problem. But what we have to remember is that the argument that someone is trying to discredit isn’t itself discredited as a result of this particular type of inconsistency.

This way of arguing gives us another Latin name –
tu quoque
(pronounced ‘tyou kwokway’). This simply means ‘you too’. In the passage above, the author is saying that Russell Brand is just as guilty of the things he’s protesting about. He lives the life of a rich person, even though he condemns the fact that such a life is possible only for a small minority. But, as we’ve seen, there’s a distinction between a
tu
quoque
argument like this and one that attacks the argument that’s being presented. Thus, in the Russell Brand example, the author might have a point that there is an inconsistency between Brand’s apparent concern for the rich to be less rich and his own rich lifestyle.

There is, however, another version of
tu quoque
. This is the one more commonly identified as
tu quoque
and, though there is a difference between this version and the first one, this second one is also concerned with the problem of consistency. The next example should show what’s going on.

In this argument, Ben Johnson’s cheating is seen as less serious than it had been, on the grounds that he was not the only cheat. This type of argument is based on the point that something apparently unacceptable that’s been done or defended is acceptable on the basis that the same thing is done or defended by others. You can see how the term ‘you too’ fits here. It’s someone saying, ‘That person might have behaved badly, but so have others, so what he’s done isn’t so bad.’ You can also think of this in terms of ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’.

The weakness of this type of argument can be highlighted in all sorts of situations. Here’s an interesting historical example:

Apart from the fact that it was the Spanish who ‘invented’ the concentration camp when they imprisoned Cuban rebels, here we have a good example of someone not responding to a point as such. They merely accuse the questioner of being the same. In this case, just because the British once used what could be called ‘concentration camps’ doesn’t mean that the Germans weren’t using them. In examples like this, ‘you too’ arguments get us nowhere (which is, of course, the intention).

Another example is the use of the accusation of
tu quoque
by those people who are opposed to the use of the death penalty in the US. Part of their argument is that, if the State sees murder as a very serious crime, then how can it justify killing people by executing them? Clearly here we have a point about definition: is ‘murder’ the same
as ‘execution’? But the issue of consistency is certainly there, and the charge of
tu
quoque
is worth examining in this example.

We have looked at many examples of weakness of argumentation, some stemming from irrelevant evidence and others from inadequate evidence. In the rest of this chapter, we’re going to look at special types of weakness, which again are examples of irrelevant evidence.