Demoiselle eating newly emerged mayfly (Ephemera danica). Surrey, UK.

This is behaviour I'd never witnessed before, sorry about the quality :-)

If you ever get close to a human

And human behaviour

Be ready, be ready to get confused

And me and my hereafter

There's definitely, definitely, definitely no logic

To human behaviour

But yet so, yet so irresistible

And me and my fear cannot

And there is no map uncertain

They're terribly, terribly, terribly moody

Of human behaviour

Then all of a sudden turn happy

And they and my here after

But, oh, to get involved in the exchange

Of human emotions

Is ever so, ever so satisfying

And they and my hero

And there is no map uncertain

Human behaviour, human behaviour

 

please do not use my picture without permission

 

MM© spins the chalbys lanaeus to appease the spirits of the crazy Delavals. It worked. They didn't bother us all evening.

 

The Witch of Seaton Delaval is one of the many tales of the strange and often outrageous behaviour of various members of the Delaval family, and links them with another spot that has been home to the occasional woolspin, as the action in the tale takes place at Holy Cross Church in Wallsend.

  

Stonechat picking the best view.

Frankreich / Elsass - Hohkönigsburg

 

The Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg (French: [ʃɑto dy o kœniɡsbuʁ]; German: Hohkönigsburg), sometimes also Haut-Kœnigsbourg, is a medieval castle located in the commune of Orschwiller in the Bas-Rhin département of Alsace, France. Located in the Vosges mountains just west of Sélestat, situated in a strategic area on a rocky spur overlooking the Upper Rhine Plain, it was used by successive powers from the Middle Ages until the Thirty Years' War when it was abandoned. From 1900 to 1908 it was rebuilt at the behest of the German kaiser Wilhelm II. Today it is a major tourist site, attracting more than 500,000 visitors a year.

 

History

 

The Buntsandstein cliff was first mentioned as Stofenberk (Staufenberg) in a 774 deed issued by the Frankish king Charlemagne. Again certified in 854, it was then a possession of the French Basilica of St Denis and the site of a monastery.

 

Middle Ages

 

It is not known when the first castle was built. However, a Burg Staufen (Castrum Estufin) is documented in 1147, when the monks complained to King Louis VII of France about its unlawful construction by the Hohenstaufen Duke Frederick II of Swabia. Frederick's younger brother Conrad III had been elected King of the Romans in 1138, to be succeeded by Frederick's son Frederick Barbarossa in 1152, and by 1192 the castle was called Kinzburg (Königsburg, "King's Castle").

 

In the early thirteenth century, the fortification passed from the Hohenstaufen family to the dukes of Lorraine, who entrusted it to the local Rathsamhausen knightly family and the Lords of Hohenstein, who held the castle until the fifteenth century. As the Hohensteins allowed some robber barons to use the castle as a hideout, and their behaviour began to exasperate the neighbouring rulers, in 1454 it was occupied by Elector Palatine Frederick I and in 1462 was set ablaze by the unified forces of the cities of Colmar, Strasbourg, and Basel.

 

In 1479, the Habsburg emperor Frederick III granted the castle ruins in fief to the Counts of Thierstein, who rebuilt them with a defensive system suited to the new artillery of the time. When in 1517 the last Thierstein died, the castle became a reverted fief and again came into the possession of the Habsburg emperor of the day, Maximilian I. In 1633, during the Thirty Years' War in which Catholics forces fought Protestants, the Imperial castle was besieged by Protestant Swedish forces. After a 52-day siege, the castle was burned and looted by the Swedish troops. For several hundred years it was left unused, and the ruins became overgrown by the forest. Various romantic poets and artists were inspired by the castle during this time.

 

19th century renovation

 

The ruins had been listed as a monument historique of the Second French Empire since 1862 and were purchased by the township of Sélestat (or Schlettstadt) three years later. After the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 to 1871 the region was incorporated into the German Imperial Territory of Alsace-Lorraine, and in 1899 the citizens granted what was left of the castle to the German emperor Wilhelm II. Wilhelm wished to create a castle lauding the qualities of Alsace in the Middle Ages and more generally of German civilization stretching from Hohkönigsburg in the west to (likewise restored) Marienburg Castle in the east. He also hoped the restoration would reinforce the bond of Alsatians with Germany, as they had only recently been incorporated into the newly established German Empire. The management of the restoration of the fortifications was entrusted to the architect Bodo Ebhardt, a proven expert on the reconstruction of medieval castles. Work proceeded from 1900 to 1908. On May 13, 1908, the restored Hohkönigsburg was inaugurated in the presence of the Emperor. In an elaborate re-enactment ceremony, a historic cortege entered the castle, under a torrential downpour.

 

Ebhart's aim was to rebuild it, as near as possible, as it was on the eve of the Thirty Years' War. He relied heavily on historical accounts but, occasionally lacking information, he had to improvise some parts of the stronghold. For example, the Keep tower is now reckoned to be about 14 metres too tall. Wilhelm II, who regularly visited the construction site via a specially built train station in nearby Saint-Hippolyte, also encouraged certain modifications that emphasised a Romantic nostalgia for Germanic civilization. For example, the main dining hall has a higher roof than it did at the time, and links between the Hohenzollern family and the Habsburg rulers of the Holy Roman Empire are emphasized. The Emperor wanted to legitimise the House of Hohenzollern at the head of the Second Empire, and to assure himself as worthy heir of the Hohenstaufens and the Habsburgs.

 

The castle today

 

After World War I, the French state confiscated the castle in accordance with the 1919 Treaty of Versailles.

 

It has been listed since 1862 and classified since 1993 as a monument historique by the French Ministry of Culture. In 2007, ownership was transferred to the Bas-Rhin département. Today, it is one of the most famous tourist attractions in the region.

 

For many years it was considered fashionable in France to sneer at the castle because of its links to the German emperor. Many considered it to be nothing more than a fairy tale castle similar to Neuschwanstein. However, in recent years many historians have established that, although it is not a completely accurate reconstruction, it is at least interesting for what it shows about Wilhelm II's romantic nationalist ideas of the past and the architect's work. Indeed, Bodo Ebhardt restored the castle following a close study of the remaining walls, archives and other fortified castles built at the same period.

 

Parts of the 1937 film La Grande Illusion by Jean Renoir were shot at Haut-Koenigsbourg.

 

Château de l'Oedenbourg

 

Located just below Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg is the ruin of Château de l'Oedenbourg, which is also known as Petit-Koenigsbourg and is a historical monument in its own right. Construction of Château de l'Oedenbourg was started somewhere in the middle of the thirteenth century.

 

Copy in Malaysia

 

A copy of the castle has been built in the Berjaya Hills, 60 km north-east of Kuala Lumpur 3.404167°N 101.839155°E. A copy of the historic Alsatian city of Colmar is located next to it.

 

(Wikipedia)

 

Le château du Haut-Koenigsbourg — parfois Haut-Kœnigsbourg — est un château fort alsacien du XIIe siècle, profondément remanié au XVe siècle et restauré avant la Première Guerre mondiale sous le règne de Guillaume II. Le château se dresse sur le ban de la commune française d'Orschwiller, dans la circonscription administrative du Bas-Rhin et sur le territoire de la collectivité européenne d'Alsace.

 

Dénomination

 

Le nom actuel — le château du Haut-Koenigsbourg — est le résultat de l'adaptation du nom allemand Hohkönigsburg qui se traduit par « haut-château du roi ».

 

Situation géographique

 

Le château est situé dans le massif des Vosges à une altitude de 757 m à 12 km à l'ouest de Sélestat d'où il est visible. Il se trouve également à 26 km au nord de Colmar d'où il est également visible par temps clair et à 55 km au sud de Strasbourg.

 

Historique

Les Hohenstaufen

 

En 774, Charlemagne fait don du Stophanberch ou Staufenberg (nom du col où le Haut-Koenigsbourg a été construit) et des terres attenantes au prieuré de Lièpvre, dépendant de la basilique Saint-Denis.

 

En 1079, Frédéric Ier de Souabe — dit Frédéric l'Ancien — est nommé duc de Souabe par l'Empereur du Saint-Empire romain germanique Henri IV. Il fait construire le château Stauf sur le mont Hohenstaufen près de Göppingen, d'où le nom de la famille.

 

Afin de renforcer le pouvoir des Hohenstaufen en Alsace, Frédéric le Borgne crée une ligne de défense et pour cela, il fait construire de nombreux châteaux et certains d'entre eux sur des terres qui ne lui appartiennent pas. On dit de lui qu'il a constamment un château accroché à la queue de son cheval. Il aurait fait construire en toute illégalité le château du Haut-Koenigsbourg sur les terres confiées aux moines de l'abbaye de Lièpvre.

 

En 1147, Eudes de Deuil, moine de Saint-Denis, presse Louis VII d'intervenir auprès du roi Conrad III de Hohenstaufen afin de réparer cette injustice. C'est la première mention du château dans un document écrit. À cette date, le site comportait déjà deux tours permettant de surveiller la route d'Alsace du nord au sud, l'une appartenant à Conrad III de Hohenstaufen, l'autre à son neveu Frédéric Ier de Hohenstaufen, futur empereur du Saint-Empire romain germanique. Le nom de Königsburg (château du roi) apparaît dès 1157.

 

Les ducs de Lorraine

 

Dans la première moitié du XIIIe siècle, profitant de l'affaiblissement des Hohenstaufen, les ducs de Lorraine auraient pris possession du château. Celui-ci est confié aux sires de Rathsamhausen puis aux Hohenstein qui y règnent jusqu'au XVe siècle.

 

Devenu un repaire de chevaliers brigands, le château est conquis et incendié en 1462 par une coalition regroupant les villes de Colmar, Strasbourg et Bâle, fortes de 500 hommes et de pièces d'artillerie.

Les Thierstein

 

Les restes du Haut-Koenigsbourg sont alors confiés à la famille de Thierstein. Ils font bâtir, sur le côté ouest, un bastion formé de deux tours d'artillerie et d'un mur-bouclier, dotés de murs puissants. La basse cour est protégée par deux tours en fer à cheval et des courtines avec des murs épais. Le château est entouré d'un premier mur de protection afin de gêner la mise en batterie de l'artillerie ennemie.

 

En 1517, le dernier des Thierstein, croulant sous les dettes, s'éteint. La famille n'ayant pas de descendance, Maximilien Ier rachète le château. Ni l'empereur ni les propriétaires successifs ne feront face aux coûts d'entretien, d'autant que le premier ne finance pas les seconds pour ces réalisations.

 

Destruction

 

En 1633, durant la guerre de Trente Ans, qui a vu, entre autres, les Suédois opposés à l'Autriche, l'Alsace est ravagée. En juillet, les Suédois assiègent le Haut-Koenigsbourg qui n'est plus qu'une forteresse délabrée, est commandée par le capitaine Philippe de Liechtenau. Forts de canons et de mortiers, ils prennent le château après cinquante-deux jours de siège. Peu de temps après, la forteresse est détruite par un incendie. Le château est alors laissé à l'abandon.

 

Acquisition par la commune de Sélestat

 

Classé monument historique en 1862, le site et ses ruines sont rachetés trois ans plus tard à divers propriétaires par la commune de Sélestat.

 

Cadeau au Kaiser et reconstruction

 

Depuis 1871 et le traité de Francfort, l'Alsace est devenue allemande. Le 4 mai 1899, le château, alors en ruine, et les terres sommitales l'entourant sont offerts par la ville de Sélestat à l'empereur Guillaume II de Hohenzollern. Il souhaite y créer un musée promouvant la germanité de l'Alsace et, plus généralement, le monde germanique. La municipalité conserve la centaine d’hectares de forêt, économiquement rentables.

 

La direction de la restauration de ce château fort est confiée en 1900 à Bodo Ebhardt, architecte et archéologue berlinois âgé de 35 ans. Il commence par le déblaiement du site et les relevés des anciennes constructions. La restauration s'étalera de 1901 à 1908. L'objectif de Bodo Ebhardt est de le restaurer tel qu'il se présentait aux alentours de l'an 1500. En l’absence d’indices archéologiques, d’archives ou d’éléments de comparaison avec d’autres monuments contemporains, « la part d’interprétation, inévitable en pareille circonstance a été réduite au minimum et elle n’est en aucune façon l’objet d’un quelconque détournement ludique » (François Loyer, cf. bibliographie ci-dessous). Guillaume II vient régulièrement visiter le chantier, il est logé dans la gare de Saint-Hippolyte reconstruite spécialement pour l'accueillir en 1903.

 

Le nouvel édifice du Haut-Koenigsbourg est inauguré le 13 mai 1908, mais les finitions et achats de collections se poursuivirent jusqu'en 1918.

 

Pour le Kaiser, ce château marquait la limite occidentale de l'Empire allemand, comme le château de Marienbourg, aujourd'hui en Pologne, en marquait la limite oriental.

 

De nos jours

 

À l'issue de la Première Guerre mondiale en 1919, le château, bien privé de l'ancien empereur assimilé à une propriété de l'Empire allemand, entre en possession de l'État français lors de la restitution de l'Alsace-Lorraine, en application de l'article 56 du traité de Versailles.

 

Cependant, le blason de Guillaume II est toujours visible au sein du château. Il reste ainsi un des symboles en Alsace de la présence allemande entre 1871 et 1918, partagé entre la restauration majoritairement crédible de l'architecte et la vision romantique du Moyen Âge de Guillaume II.

 

Bâtiment civil - palais national en 1919, ses abords sont classés par arrêté du 16 février 1930. Mais alors que les ruines avaient été classées dès 1862, il faudra attendre le 10 septembre 1991 pour voir l’inscription de la station de pompage (ou pavillon de la source) construite en 1903, puis le 11 février 1993 pour qu’un arrêté ministériel procède au classement au titre des monuments historiques de l'intégralité du monument, y compris les parties restituées. Les ruines du château de l'Oedenbourg ou Petit-Koenigsbourg bénéficieront, elles aussi, d’une inscription puis du classement aux mêmes dates.

 

Dans le même temps, une attention particulière était portée à l’amélioration de l’accueil du public au château du Haut-Koenigsbourg, dont la priorité a été l’assainissement et l’alimentation en eau.

 

La propriété du château du Haut-Koenigsbourg est transférée de l'État au conseil général du Bas-Rhin en janvier 2007. Il s'agit du premier bien patrimonial transféré par l'État à une collectivité territoriale parmi une liste de 176 biens transférables arrêtée en 2004.

 

Le 16 décembre 2011, la toiture du château du Haut-Koenigsbourg subit des dommages lors du passage de la tempête Joachim.

 

Ce monument historique bénéficie d'une très forte fréquentation touristique, avec près de 550 000 visiteurs annuel.

 

Controverse sur une restauration

 

Cette cession historique à Guillaume II et les intentions de ce dernier — se légitimer comme successeur des Hohenstaufen et des Habsbourg et montrer la germanité de l'Alsace — sont sans doute, en partie, à l'origine des polémiques autour de cette restauration engagée sous la direction de Bodo Ebhardt.

 

Si aujourd'hui la reconstitution de Bodo Ebhardt est admise comme plausible, la rénovation du château était néanmoins sujette à polémique à l'époque. Les détracteurs de la reconstruction, préférant de loin le charme des ruines au château reconstruit, notèrent que certains éléments furent imaginés par l'architecte, car ils étaient complètement détruits. De nombreux ensembles étaient alors considérés comme fantaisistes :

 

le donjon carré. En effet dans une gravure ancienne, il est présenté comme rond mais les fondations prouvent bien que la vision de l'architecte était exacte ;

la salle du Kaiser et ses dimensions originelles non restituées. En effet, l'architecture en pierre et la présence du poêle et de la cheminée montrent qu'à l'origine cette pièce était composée de deux étages et plusieurs pièces. L'état actuel de cette pièce était une exigence de Guillaume II pour montrer la force et l'importance de l'État allemand ;

l'escalier d'honneur hexagonal — avec ses sculptures —, considéré comme trop décoré pour un élément du Moyen Âge ;

la porte d'honneur, entrée du château, et ses bas-reliefs. Lors de la restauration du château, cette porte était complètement détruite et absente ;

la présence du moulin à vent sur une tour d'artillerie et de la forge dans la cour basse.

 

Cependant, aujourd'hui, on considère que Bodo Ebhardt, au travers de cette restauration « est en tout cas resté dans les limites de la vraisemblance, ayant toujours eu le souci de s'inspirer des nombreux édifices qu'il avait étudiés avant d'élaborer son projet ».

 

Les caricaturistes de l'époque s'en donnèrent à cœur joie comme Henri Zislin ou Jean-Jacques Waltz qui réalisa plusieurs planches sur ce sujet. Elles sont actuellement visibles au musée de Hansi à Riquewihr.

 

Il y a cent ans, le restaurateur se permettait de traiter un monument comme une œuvre d’imagination, et il pouvait rêver d’un Moyen Âge idéal et d’une pureté de style tout à fait théorique. Dès lors s’affrontaient déjà deux conceptions. D’une part celle de Viollet-le-Duc, imprimant la marque de l’architecte-artiste à l’édifice, qui devait recevoir un fini parfait et « si nécessaire être corrigé et complété », quitte à être falsifié. D’autre part celle de Luca Beltrami, au château des Sforza à Milan, Bodo Ebhardt, au château impérial de Haut-Koenigsbourg, Conrad Steinbrecht, au château du grand-maître des chevaliers teutoniques à Malborg (Forteresse teutonique de Marienbourg). Cette seconde démarche constituait un pas décisif vers la restauration scientifique. Elle est plus proche des conceptions d’Arcisse de Caumont, qui demandait déjà au milieu du XIXe siècle que soit respecté le monument, que soit définie une doctrine scientifique. Si les nouveaux restaurateurs vers 1900 cherchent à intégrer toutes les époques, ils ne résistent pas à l’envie de remonter tous les murs même si certains de ceux-ci avaient été détruits anciennement lors de transformations intentionnelles.

 

Cependant, malgré ces critiques, on peut considérer, comme François Loyer que «… le souci archéologique est bien réel, la reconstitution crédible et les détails fondés. C’est même, probablement, la plus exacte des restitutions qui aient été jamais tentées ».

 

On regrette beaucoup de ne pas pouvoir distinguer plus aisément les parties reconstituées. Cependant, Bodo Ebhardt marque les parties restaurées par un signe distinctif ou travaille la pierre différemment. De plus, il faut louer ce restaurateur et ses contemporains d’avoir œuvré pour une très grande lisibilité et la plus exacte possible des plans généraux, de l’articulation des volumes et de la fonction des détails.

 

Visite

 

Le château a été construit sur un éperon rocheux orienté ouest-est. Les murailles, qui épousent les formes des rochers, ont une structure irrégulière. D'ouest en est, on trouve successivement :

 

les bastions - dont l'énorme grand bastion - destinés à protéger le château contre des tirs d'artillerie à partir d'emplacements plus à l'ouest sur l'éperon rocheux ;

le jardin supérieur, qui masque le logis plus à l'est de ces éventuels tirs d'artillerie ;

le logis avec les pièces d'habitation et le donjon ;

le bastion en étoile aux murs moins hauts protège le château seulement contre des tirs d'artillerie à partir d'emplacements plus à l'est, donc obligatoirement en contrebas de l'éperon rocheux.

 

Entrée

 

L'entrée est située en contrebas. La porte est surmontée d'un bas relief avec le blason de la famille Thierstein. Sur la droite se trouve un mur d'enceinte de faible épaisseur (XVe – XXe siècle) et, sur l'éperon rocheux à gauche, le logis sud (XIIe – XXe siècle).

 

Porte principale

 

On débouche sur une petite cour, où la porte principale équipée d'une herse donne accès au château. Au-dessus de la porte d'entrée, on trouve les armoiries des Hohenzollern et de Charles-Quint, rappelant que le château fut restauré par l'empereur Guillaume II. Sur le site avaient été retrouvés des restes d'armoiries originales dont il s'estimait l'héritier.

 

Cour basse

 

La cour basse est entourée de communs et de locaux de service (écurie). Un bâtiment attenant est surmonté d'un moulin à vent. Elle comprend en son milieu la copie d'une fontaine du XVe siècle conservée à Eguisheim, la forge et une maison alsacienne.

 

Un four à pain est attesté dans la basse-cour.

 

Entrée dans le logis et porte des Lions

 

Un escalier avec de grandes marches irrégulières permettent d'accéder au logis. Une dernière défense est constituée d'un pont-levis au niveau de la porte des Lions.

 

Cour intérieure et escalier hexagonal

 

Au sommet, une cour intérieure est surmontée de galeries en bois, ainsi qu'une citerne avec une margelle carrée et un toit surmonté d'une sculpture de sirène.

 

Un escalier hexagonal en hélice permet d'accéder aux étages supérieurs ; chaque étage a un balcon décoré de fresques de chevaliers donnant sur la cour.

 

Le puits, profond de 62,50 mètres, a été fortifié pour ne pas se trouver séparé du logis par une attaque d'artillerie.

 

Par la galerie, on accède aux cuisines et au cellier, dont la longueur indique la largeur de l'éperon rocheux sur lequel est construit le château.

 

Donjon

 

Le donjon repose sur une base carrée préexistante de 17 mètres. Il a été exhaussé d'autant lors de la restauration et protégé par une toiture.

 

Salle du Kaiser

 

La salle du Kaiser est la salle d'honneur du château. Pour disposer d'une grande hauteur de plafond, l'étage supérieur présent au Moyen Âge n'a pas été restauré afin d'en faire une salle de prestige pour son usage moderne. Il n'est visible que dans la mezzanine des musiciens. La principale décoration est une peinture d'aigle impériale au plafond, réalisée par Léo Schnug, avec la devise Gott mit uns (Dieu avec nous). Sur les ailes se trouvent les armoiries des électeurs du Saint-Empire romain germanique et sur son cœur celles des Hohenzollern. Sur le mur, de chaque côté de la cheminée, se trouve représentée une joute entre deux chevaliers. Les convives pouvaient prendre part à une réception autour d'une grande table surmontée de lustres décorés.

 

Chambre lorraine

 

Créée pour rappeler l'annexion de la Moselle, dénommée alors Lorraine, comme part de la région historique éponyme, elle présente une décoration et un mobilier typiquement lorrains : le plafond boisé et la cheminée de pierre rappellent l'architecture médiévale de la ville de Metz, reconstituée au musée de la Cour d'Or. Dans cette même idée, un Graoully, dragon du folklore de Metz, est suspendu au milieu de la pièce. Il est inspiré de celui présent dans la crypte de la cathédrale de Metz.

 

Jardin supérieur

 

Le jardin supérieur fait le lien entre le logis situé au centre et le Grand Bastion situé à l'ouest. Il est entouré par un chemin de ronde couvert et comporte un puits. C'est dans cette partie du château que se situaient les bains. La pièce était chauffée par un poêle.

 

L'existence d'un four à pain dans ce secteur est également attestée.

 

Grand bastion

 

Le grand bastion est la partie la plus fortifiée : il devait pouvoir s'opposer à de l'artillerie installée plus à l'ouest sur l'éperon rocheux et il est séparé du jardin par un pont-levis. Y sont conservés des copies de canons des XVIe et XVIIe siècles. Il était dépourvu de toit au XVIe siècle.

 

Dans la fiction

 

Roman et bande dessinée

 

En hommage au cinéma et par fascination pour le lieu, Jacques Martin a choisi d'installer le décor de la première série des aventures de Guy Lefranc autour du château. Cette bande-dessinée s'intitule : La Grande Menace, et aussi dans le 4e opus des voyages de Jhen avec Yves Plateau au dessin (ISBN 9782203066588)

L'illustrateur canadien John Howe s'est inspiré du château du Haut-Koenigsbourg pour illustrer la citadelle de Minas Tirith dans le livre Le Seigneur des anneaux écrit par Tolkien, plus tard adapté en film.

Philippe Matter, Mini-Loup et le château fort, Éditions Hachette Jeunesse, 2008 (ISBN 978-2-01-224411-5)

Jacques Fortier, Sherlock Holmes et le mystère du Haut-Koenigsbourg, Le Verger éditeur, 2009, 192 pages

Roger Seiter (scénariste) et Giuseppe Manunta (dessinateur), Sherlock Holmes et le mystère du Haut-Koenigsbourg, bande dessinée d'après le roman de Jacques Fortier, Le Verger éditeur, 2013, 54 planches

 

Cinéma et animation

 

Certaines scènes du film Le Petit Roi de Julien Duvivier ont été tournées au château du Haut-Koenigsbourg en 1933.

Le film La Grande Illusion de Jean Renoir a été tourné, pour les extérieurs, au château du Haut-Koenigsbourg en 1937.

Le château a également servi de décor au film Les Aventures d'Arsène Lupin de Jacques Becker (1956) et à Agent trouble de Jean-Pierre Mocky (1987).

Dix films ont été réalisés en 1991 à l’initiative du Conseil régional pour la promotion de l’Alsace. Ils portent sur la cathédrale de Strasbourg, le château du Haut-Koenigsbourg, les Ribeaupierre, les châteaux et les mines d’argent, le musée Unterlinden de Colmar ; mais ils abordent aussi des thèmes comme : les musées techniques de Mulhouse, la Décapole, les routes militaires, romanes, des châteaux et des orgues.

Le château du Haut-Koenigsbourg a également inspiré le réalisateur Hayao Miyazaki pour son film d'animation Le Château ambulant sorti en 2004.

 

(Wikipedia)

 

Die Hohkönigsburg (früher auch sowie umgangssprachlich Hochkönigsburg, französisch Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg – manchmal auch Haut-Kœnigsbourg – [okønɪgzˈbuʀ]) ist eine zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts rekonstruierte Burg bei Orschwiller (Orschweiler) im Elsass (Département Bas-Rhin), gut 10 km westlich von Sélestat (Schlettstadt). Sie ist mit jährlich etwa 500.000 Besuchern die meistbesuchte Burg der Region und einer der am häufigsten frequentierten Touristenorte ganz Frankreichs.

 

Lage

 

Die 260 m lange Anlage thront als Kammburg in 757 m Höhe am Ostrand der Vogesen auf einem mächtigen Buntsandsteinfelsen hoch über der Oberrheinischen Tiefebene und ist eine der höchstgelegenen Burgen im Elsass. Zusammen mit der am gegenüberliegenden Ende des Bergrückens gelegenen, etwa 200 m entfernten Ruine der Ödenburg (Petit-Kœnigsbourg) bildet sie eine Burgengruppe.

 

Der Ausblick reicht weit über die Rheinebene bis zum Kaiserstuhl und auf mehrere benachbarte Burgruinen (unter anderem Ortenberg, Ramstein, Frankenburg, Kintzheim, Hohrappoltstein). Bei günstigen Sichtverhältnissen sind im Süden die knapp 200 Kilometer entfernten und rund vier Kilometer hohen Berner Alpen zu sehen, deren Gipfel wegen der Erdkrümmung ungefähr auf dem geometrischen Horizont von Hohkönigsburg liegen.

 

Geschichte

 

Mittelalter

 

Der Stophanberch (Staufenberg), auf welchem die Burg liegt, wird bereits 774 (als Schenkung Karls des Großen) und 854 beurkundet und befand sich ursprünglich im Besitz der Abtei Saint Denis.

 

Die Burg wurde in der ersten Hälfte des 12. Jahrhunderts als staufische Reichsburg erbaut und 1147 als Castrum Estufin erstmals urkundlich erwähnt. Von der Burg aus konnten die Orte und Handelswege in diesem Teil des Oberrheingrabens beherrscht werden. 1147 tauchte erstmals der Name Burg Staufen auf, die von Herzog Friedrich, dem Vater des deutschen Königs Friedrich Barbarossa, gegründet sein soll. Aus staufischer Zeit sind unter anderem eine vermauerte Fensterarkade und ein Löwenrelief erhalten. Ab 1192 wurde der Name Kinzburg (Königsburg) verwendet.

 

Im 13. Jahrhundert wurde der Herzog von Lothringen Eigentümer der Burg, der sie als Lehen den Grafen von Werd gab. 1359 verkauften die Grafen von Oettingen die Burg an den Bischof von Straßburg. 1454 eroberte der pfälzische Kurfürst Friedrich der Siegreiche die Burg, 1462 wurde sie wegen Raubritterei zerstört. 1479 gab Kaiser Friedrich III. die Burg als Lehnsgut an den Schweizer Grafen Oswald von Thierstein († 1488) und dessen Bruder Wilhelm.

 

Niedergang in der Neuzeit

 

1517 starben die Grafen von Thierstein aus; deshalb fiel die Burg an Kaiser Maximilian I. und somit an die Habsburger zurück. Während des Dreißigjährigen Krieges wurde sie 52 Tage von den Schweden belagert, am 7. September 1633 erobert und in Brand gesetzt. Zwischen 1648 und 1865 hatte die Ruine verschiedene Eigentümer. 1865 wurde sie Eigentum der Stadt Schlettstadt. In der Romantik wurde die Ruine wiederentdeckt. Christian Moritz Engelhardt beschrieb sie in seinen Reiseskizzen durch die Vogesen (1821). Ludwig Adolf Spach, der Präsident der Gesellschaft zur Erhaltung der historischen Monumente des Elsass, schlug schon eine Restaurierung vor.

 

Neuaufbau 1901 bis 1908

 

Infolge des Deutsch-Französischen Krieges wurde das Elsass, das zwischenzeitlich zu Frankreich gehört hatte, 1871 an das Deutsche Reich abgetreten. Im Jahre 1899 schenkte die Stadt Schlettstadt die Burg Kaiser Wilhelm II., der sie in den Jahren 1901–1908 durch den Berliner Architekten und Burgenforscher Bodo Ebhardt restaurieren ließ. Der Bau kostete über zwei Millionen Mark, die zum großen Teil von Elsass-Lothringen bezahlt werden mussten. Der Kaiser selbst finanzierte die ersten Arbeiten mit 100.000 Mark aus seiner Privatschatulle. Die Arbeiten wurden mit modernsten Mitteln durchgeführt. Vom Steinbruch zur Ruine wurde die ca. 2 km lange Feldbahn der Hohkönigsburg gebaut, die Lokomotive musste mit Pferden den Berg empor gezogen werden. Eine Dampfmaschine trieb einen Generator an, der elektrischen Strom für die Beleuchtung und zwei elektrische Kräne erzeugte.

 

Am 13. Mai 1908 fand im Rahmen einer großen Feier mit festlicher Musik und historischen Kostümen bei Regenwetter die Einweihung statt. Viktoria Luise von Preußen, die Tochter Kaiser Wilhelms II., schilderte von dieser in ihren Lebenserinnerungen:

 

„Die Hohkönigsburg, an der zahlreiche Erinnerungen deutscher Geschichte haften, war meinem Vater bei einem Besuch von Schlettstadt vom Bürgermeister als Geschenk geboten worden. Er hatte es angenommen und eine umfassende Restaurierung in die Wege geleitet. Rund zehn Jahre danach standen wir dann an einem Maitag zur Einweihung an der mächtigen Burg. Unser Blick glitt über die weite Ebene des Rheintals, hinüber zu den langgestreckten Höhen des Schwarzwaldes und bis zu der in der Ferne schimmernden Alpenkette. In seiner Ansprache wies mein Vater auf die ereignisreiche Vergangenheit hin: ‚Die Geschichte nennt uns eine ganze Reihe von Namen aus erlauchten Fürstenhäusern und edlen Geschlechtern als Eigentümer, Pfandbesitzer und Lehensträger, zuvörderst die Kaiser aus dem Hause Hohenstaufen und dem Hause Habsburg, dann die Herzöge von Lothringen und Unterelsaß, die Landgrafen von Werd, die Herren von Rathsamhausen, von Oettingen und von Berckheim, die Grafen von Thierstein, deren großartiger Bau nun wieder erstanden ist, die Ritter von Sickingen, deren Einzug in die Burg uns heute so trefflich vorgeführt ist, und die Freiherren von Bollweiler und Fugger. Nun ist die Burg wieder Eigentum des Deutschen Kaisers geworden.‘ Dann sagte er: ‚Möge die Hohkönigsburg hier im Westen des Reiches, wie die Marienburg im Osten, als ein Wahrzeichen deutscher Kultur und Macht bis in die fernsten Zeiten erhalten bleiben.‘“

 

Zwei Jahre später wurden an der Grenze zu Polen das Residenzschloss Posen sowie im Norden Deutschlands, nahe der Grenze zu Dänemark, die nach dem symbolträchtigen Vorbild der Marienburg geschaffene Marineschule Mürwik, das sogenannte Rote Schloss am Meer, vom Kaiser eingeweiht.

 

Der elsässische Künstler Jean-Jacques Waltz, der als frankophiler Elsässer kein Freund der deutschen Vereinnahmung der elsässischen Geschichte war, veröffentlichte kurze Zeit nach der Einweihung der Hohkönigsburg eine Serie von Bildern Die Hohkönigsburg im Wasgenwald und ihre Einweihung, die sich über den deutschtümelnden Pomp lustig machte, die Texte dazu soll ein Prof. Dr. Knatsche (Waltz selbst), verfasst haben.

 

Nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg bis heute

 

Seit 1919 ist die Hohkönigsburg Eigentum des französischen Staates, seit Januar 2007 des Départements Bas-Rhin. Heute gilt sie als die bedeutendste Burg der Region und ist das einzige im Elsass gelegene französische Nationaldenkmal (Monument national).

 

Anlage

 

Der Wiederaufbau durch Bodo Ebhardt ging mit der erhaltenen Bausubstanz für die damalige Zeit relativ rücksichtsvoll um, sodass sich die Burg immer noch als eine über die Jahrhunderte gewachsene Anlage zu erkennen gibt. Die verhältnismäßig kleine stauferzeitliche Kernburg mit unregelmäßigem Grundriss auf höchster Stelle des Felsplateaus hat einen durch Ebhardt wiederaufgemauerten quadratischen Bergfried (Donjon) mit südlich anschließendem Palas (Logis Seigneurial), an dem sich eine bereits im Spätmittelalter vermauerte Rundbogenarkade mit Würfelkapitellen erhalten hat. Nach 1479 wurde die Burg zu einer starken Festung ausgebaut. Westlich und östlich wurde die Kernburg gegen die aufkommende Artillerie durch mächtige Bollwerke verstärkt, die in Anlehnung an die stauferzeitliche Anlage in Buckelquadern ausgeführt wurden. Die von Ebhardt über alten Kragsteinen aufgemauerten Wehrgänge waren ursprünglich wahrscheinlich in Holz ausgeführt; nur an einem Turm im östlichen Burghof hat Ebhardt einen hölzernen Wehrgang rekonstruiert. Um die Hauptburg zieht sich eine Zwingermauer mit elf halbrunden Schalentürmen. An der Ostseite ist eine Vorburg (Tiergarten) mit zackenförmigem Abschluss vorgelagert. Von Ebhardt durch Weglassung einer Zwischendecke neu geschaffen wurde der repräsentative Festsaal, an dessen Kamingitter der Kommentar Wilhelms II. zum Ersten Weltkrieg zu lesen ist: „Ich habe es nicht gewollt!“ Ein eigens eingerichteter Saal zeigt kaiserliche Jagdtrophäen.

 

Hoch über dem Eingangsportal und unter dem Schutz des Adlers prangt das Wappen der letzten Herren der Burg.

 

Das eigentliche Schloss erreicht man über die Zugbrücke, der bewohnte Bereich kann durch das Löwentor betreten werden. Die Gemächer der Schlossherrin und der Ritter, die Schlosskapelle und der Rittersaal sind heute noch mit Möbeln aus dem 15–17. Jahrhundert ausgestattet und können besichtigt werden.

 

Etwa 200 m westlich liegt die Ruine der Ödenburg aus dem 13. Jahrhundert. Erhalten sind vor allem die Schildmauer aus Buckelquadern und die Fassade des Wohnbaues. Im Dreißigjährigen Krieg nahmen die Schweden von hier aus die Nachbarburg unter Artilleriebeschuss.

 

Rezeption

 

In Malaysia, 60 km nordöstlich von Kuala Lumpur, steht in den Berjaya Hills eine – sehr freie – Nachbildung der Burg als Luxushotel. Nicht weit entfernt wurde ein Teil der Colmarer Altstadt nachgebaut.

 

Bodo Ebhardts phantasiereiche Rekonstruktion der Burganlage inspirierte John Howe in seiner Arbeit als Illustrator der Werke J. R. R. Tolkiens.

 

(Wikipedia)

The waterbuck (Kobus ellipsiprymnus) is a large antelope found widely in sub-Saharan Africa. It is placed in the genus Kobus of the family Bovidae. It was first described by Irish naturalist William Ogilby in 1833.

The specific name ellipsiprymnus refers to the white elliptical ring on the rump, from the Greek ellipes (ellipse) and prymnos (prumnos, hind part).

 

The animal acquired the vernacular name "waterbuck" due to its heavy dependence on water as compared to other antelopes and its ability to enter into water for defence.

The thirteen subspecies are grouped under two varieties: the common or ellipsen waterbuck and the defassa waterbuck. The head-and-body length is typically between 177–235 cm (70–93 in) and the average height is between 120 and 136 cm (47 and 54 in). A sexually dimorphic antelope, males are taller as well as heavier than females. Males reach approximately 127 cm (50 in) at the shoulder, while females reach 119 cm (47 in). Males typically weigh 198–262 kg (437–578 lb) and females 161–214 kg (355–472 lb). The coat colour varies from brown to grey. The long, spiral horns, present only on males, curve backward, then forward and are 55–99 cm (22–39 in) long.

 

Waterbuck are rather sedentary in nature. A gregarious animal, the waterbuck may form herds consisting of six to 30 individuals. These groups are either nursery herds with females and their offspring or bachelor herds. Males start showing territorial behaviour from the age of five years, but are most dominant from the age of six to nine. The waterbuck cannot tolerate dehydration in hot weather, and thus inhabits areas close to sources of water. Predominantly a grazer, the waterbuck is mostly found on grassland. In equatorial regions, breeding takes place throughout the year, but births are at their peak in the rainy season. The gestational period lasts for seven to eight months, followed by the birth of a single calf.

 

Waterbuck inhabit scrub and savanna areas along rivers, lakes and valleys. Due to their requirement for grasslands as well as water, the waterbuck have a sparse ecotone distribution. The IUCN lists the waterbuck as being of Least Concern. More specifically, the common waterbuck is listed as of Least Concern while the defassa waterbuck is Near Threatened. The population trend for both the common and defassa waterbuck is downwards, especially that of the latter, with large populations being eliminated from certain habitats because of hunting and human disturbance.

 

You can read more here:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waterbuck

 

Letsha Link

Pilanesberg National Park

Northwest Province

South Africa

1. The Mind-Body Problem and the History of Dualism

1.1 The Mind-Body Problem

The mind-body problem is the problem: what is the relationship between mind and body? Or alternatively: what is the relationship between mental properties and physical properties?

Humans have (or seem to have) both physical properties and mental properties. People have (or seem to have)the sort of properties attributed in the physical sciences. These physical properties include size, weight, shape, colour, motion through space and time, etc. But they also have (or seem to have) mental properties, which we do not attribute to typical physical objects These properties involve consciousness (including perceptual experience, emotional experience, and much else), intentionality (including beliefs, desires, and much else), and they are possessed by a subject or a self. Physical properties are public, in the sense that they are, in principle, equally observable by anyone. Some physical properties – like those of an electron – are not directly observable at all, but they are equally available to all, to the same degree, with scientific equipment and techniques. The same is not true of mental properties. I may be able to tell that you are in pain by your behaviour, but only you can feel it directly. Similarly, you just know how something looks to you, and I can only surmise. Conscious mental events are private to the subject, who has a privileged access to them of a kind no-one has to the physical. The mind-body problem concerns the relationship between these two sets of properties. The mind-body problem breaks down into a number of components. The ontological question: what are mental states and what are physical states? Is one class a subclass of the other, so that all mental states are physical, or vice versa? Or are mental states and physical states entirely distinct?

The causal question: do physical states influence mental states? Do mental states influence physical states? If so, how?

Different aspects of the mind-body problem arise for different aspects of the mental, such as consciousness, intentionality, the self. The problem of consciousness: what is consciousness? How is it related to the brain and the body? The problem of intentionality: what is intentionality? How is it related to the brain and the body? The problem of the self: what is the self? How is it related to the brain and the body? Other aspects of the mind-body problem arise for aspects of the physical. For example:

 

The problem of embodiment: what is it for the mind to be housed in a body? What is it for a body to belong to a particular subject?

The seemingly intractable nature of these problems have given rise to many different philosophical views.

 

Materialist views say that, despite appearances to the contrary, mental states are just physical states. Behaviourism, functionalism, mind-brain identity theory and the computational theory of mind are examples of how materialists attempt to explain how this can be so. The most common factor in such theories is the attempt to explicate the nature of mind and consciousness in terms of their ability to directly or indirectly modify behaviour, but there are versions of materialism that try to tie the mental to the physical without explicitly explaining the mental in terms of its behaviour-modifying role. The latter are often grouped together under the label ‘non-reductive physicalism’, though this label is itself rendered elusive because of the controversial nature of the term ‘reduction’.

 

Idealist views say that physical states are really mental. This is because the physical world is an empirical world and, as such, it is the intersubjective product of our collective experience.

 

Dualist views (the subject of this entry) say that the mental and the physical are both real and neither can be assimilated to the other. For the various forms that dualism can take and the associated problems, see below.

 

In sum, we can say that there is a mind-body problem because both consciousness and thought, broadly construed, seem very different from anything physical and there is no convincing consensus on how to build a satisfactorily unified picture of creatures possessed of both a mind and a body.

 

Other entries which concern aspects of the mind-body problem include (among many others): behaviorism, consciousness, eliminative materialism, epiphenomenalism, functionalism, identity theory, intentionality, mental causation, neutral monism, and physicalism.

 

1.2 History of dualism

In dualism, ‘mind’ is contrasted with ‘body’, but at different times, different aspects of the mind have been the centre of attention. In the classical and mediaeval periods, it was the intellect that was thought to be most obviously resistant to a materialistic account: from Descartes on, the main stumbling block to materialist monism was supposed to be ‘consciousness’, of which phenomenal consciousness or sensation came to be considered as the paradigm instance.

 

The classical emphasis originates in Plato’s Phaedo. Plato believed that the true substances are not physical bodies, which are ephemeral, but the eternal Forms of which bodies are imperfect copies. These Forms not only make the world possible, they also make it intelligible, because they perform the role of universals, or what Frege called ‘concepts’. It is their connection with intelligibility that is relevant to the philosophy of mind. Because Forms are the grounds of intelligibility, they are what the intellect must grasp in the process of understanding. In Phaedo Plato presents a variety of arguments for the immortality of the soul, but the one that is relevant for our purposes is that the intellect is immaterial because Forms are immaterial and intellect must have an affinity with the Forms it apprehends (78b4–84b8). This affinity is so strong that the soul strives to leave the body in which it is imprisoned and to dwell in the realm of Forms. It may take many reincarnations before this is achieved. Plato’s dualism is not, therefore, simply a doctrine in the philosophy of mind, but an integral part of his whole metaphysics.

 

One problem with Plato’s dualism was that, though he speaks of the soul as imprisoned in the body, there is no clear account of what binds a particular soul to a particular body. Their difference in nature makes the union a mystery.

 

Aristotle did not believe in Platonic Forms, existing independently of their instances. Aristotelian forms (the capital ‘F’ has disappeared with their standing as autonomous entities) are the natures and properties of things and exist embodied in those things. This enabled Aristotle to explain the union of body and soul by saying that the soul is the form of the body. This means that a particular person’s soul is no more than his nature as a human being. Because this seems to make the soul into a property of the body, it led many interpreters, both ancient and modern, to interpret his theory as materialistic. The interpretation of Aristotle’s philosophy of mind – and, indeed, of his whole doctrine of form – remains as live an issue today as it was immediately after his death (Robinson 1983 and 1991; Nussbaum 1984; Rorty and Nussbaum, eds, 1992). Nevertheless, the text makes it clear that Aristotle believed that the intellect, though part of the soul, differs from other faculties in not having a bodily organ. His argument for this constitutes a more tightly argued case than Plato’s for the immateriality of thought and, hence, for a kind of dualism. He argued that the intellect must be immaterial because if it were material it could not receive all forms. Just as the eye, because of its particular physical nature, is sensitive to light but not to sound, and the ear to sound and not to light, so, if the intellect were in a physical organ it could be sensitive only to a restricted range of physical things; but this is not the case, for we can think about any kind of material object (De Anima III,4; 429a10–b9). As it does not have a material organ, its activity must be essentially immaterial.

 

It is common for modern Aristotelians, who otherwise have a high view of Aristotle’s relevance to modern philosophy, to treat this argument as being of purely historical interest, and not essential to Aristotle’s system as a whole. They emphasize that he was not a ‘Cartesian’ dualist, because the intellect is an aspect of the soul and the soul is the form of the body, not a separate substance. Kenny (1989) argues that Aristotle’s theory of mind as form gives him an account similar to Ryle (1949), for it makes the soul equivalent to the dispositions possessed by a living body. This ‘anti-Cartesian’ approach to Aristotle arguably ignores the fact that, for Aristotle, the form is the substance.

 

These issues might seem to be of purely historical interest. But we shall see in below, in section 4.5, that this is not so.

 

The identification of form and substance is a feature of Aristotle’s system that Aquinas effectively exploits in this context, identifying soul, intellect and form, and treating them as a substance. (See, for example, Aquinas (1912), Part I, questions 75 and 76.) But though the form (and, hence, the intellect with which it is identical) are the substance of the human person, they are not the person itself. Aquinas says that when one addresses prayers to a saint – other than the Blessed Virgin Mary, who is believed to retain her body in heaven and is, therefore, always a complete person – one should say, not, for example, ‘Saint Peter pray for us’, but ‘soul of Saint Peter pray for us’. The soul, though an immaterial substance, is the person only when united with its body. Without the body, those aspects of its personal memory that depend on images (which are held to be corporeal) will be lost.(See Aquinas (1912), Part I, question 89.)

 

The more modern versions of dualism have their origin in Descartes’ Meditations, and in the debate that was consequent upon Descartes’ theory. Descartes was a substance dualist. He believed that there were two kinds of substance: matter, of which the essential property is that it is spatially extended; and mind, of which the essential property is that it thinks. Descartes’ conception of the relation between mind and body was quite different from that held in the Aristotelian tradition. For Aristotle, there is no exact science of matter. How matter behaves is essentially affected by the form that is in it. You cannot combine just any matter with any form – you cannot make a knife out of butter, nor a human being out of paper – so the nature of the matter is a necessary condition for the nature of the substance. But the nature of the substance does not follow from the nature of its matter alone: there is no ‘bottom up’ account of substances. Matter is a determinable made determinate by form. This was how Aristotle thought that he was able to explain the connection of soul to body: a particular soul exists as the organizing principle in a particular parcel of matter.

 

The belief in the relative indeterminacy of matter is one reason for Aristotle’s rejection of atomism. If matter is atomic, then it is already a collection of determinate objects in its own right, and it becomes natural to regard the properties of macroscopic substances as mere summations of the natures of the atoms.

 

Although, unlike most of his fashionable contemporaries and immediate successors, Descartes was not an atomist, he was, like the others, a mechanist about the properties of matter. Bodies are machines that work according to their own laws. Except where there are minds interfering with it, matter proceeds deterministically, in its own right. Where there are minds requiring to influence bodies, they must work by ‘pulling levers’ in a piece of machinery that already has its own laws of operation. This raises the question of where those ‘levers’ are in the body. Descartes opted for the pineal gland, mainly because it is not duplicated on both sides of the brain, so it is a candidate for having a unique, unifying function.

 

The main uncertainty that faced Descartes and his contemporaries, however, was not where interaction took place, but how two things so different as thought and extension could interact at all. This would be particularly mysterious if one had an impact view of causal interaction, as would anyone influenced by atomism, for whom the paradigm of causation is like two billiard balls cannoning off one another.

 

Various of Descartes’ disciples, such as Arnold Geulincx and Nicholas Malebranche, concluded that all mind-body interactions required the direct intervention of God. The appropriate states of mind and body were only the occasions for such intervention, not real causes. Now it would be convenient to think that occasionalists held that all causation was natural except for that between mind and body. In fact they generalized their conclusion and treated all causation as directly dependent on God. Why this was so, we cannot discuss here.

 

Descartes’ conception of a dualism of substances came under attack from the more radical empiricists, who found it difficult to attach sense to the concept of substance at all. Locke, as a moderate empiricist, accepted that there were both material and immaterial substances. Berkeley famously rejected material substance, because he rejected all existence outside the mind. In his early Notebooks, he toyed with the idea of rejecting immaterial substance, because we could have no idea of it, and reducing the self to a collection of the ‘ideas’ that constituted its contents. Finally, he decided that the self, conceived as something over and above the ideas of which it was aware, was essential for an adequate understanding of the human person. Although the self and its acts are not presented to consciousness as objects of awareness, we are obliquely aware of them simply by dint of being active subjects. Hume rejected such claims, and proclaimed the self to be nothing more than a concatenation of its ephemeral contents.

 

In fact, Hume criticised the whole conception of substance for lacking in empirical content: when you search for the owner of the properties that make up a substance, you find nothing but further properties. Consequently, the mind is, he claimed, nothing but a ‘bundle’ or ‘heap’ of impressions and ideas – that is, of particular mental states or events, without an owner. This position has been labelled bundle dualism, and it is a special case of a general bundle theory of substance, according to which objects in general are just organised collections of properties. The problem for the Humean is to explain what binds the elements in the bundle together. This is an issue for any kind of substance, but for material bodies the solution seems fairly straightforward: the unity of a physical bundle is constituted by some form of causal interaction between the elements in the bundle. For the mind, mere causal connection is not enough; some further relation of co-consciousness is required. We shall see in 5.2.1 that it is problematic whether one can treat such a relation as more primitive than the notion of belonging to a subject.

 

One should note the following about Hume’s theory. His bundle theory is a theory about the nature of the unity of the mind. As a theory about this unity, it is not necessarily dualist. Parfit (1970, 1984) and Shoemaker (1984, ch. 2), for example, accept it as physicalists. In general, physicalists will accept it unless they wish to ascribe the unity to the brain or the organism as a whole. Before the bundle theory can be dualist one must accept property dualism, for more about which, see the next section.

 

A crisis in the history of dualism came, however, with the growing popularity of mechanism in science in the nineteenth century. According to the mechanist, the world is, as it would now be expressed, ‘closed under physics’. This means that everything that happens follows from and is in accord with the laws of physics. There is, therefore, no scope for interference in the physical world by the mind in the way that interactionism seems to require. According to the mechanist, the conscious mind is an epiphenomenon (a notion given general currency by T. H. Huxley 1893): that is, it is a by-product of the physical system which has no influence back on it. In this way, the facts of consciousness are acknowledged but the integrity of physical science is preserved. However, many philosophers found it implausible to claim such things as the following; the pain that I have when you hit me, the visual sensations I have when I see the ferocious lion bearing down on me or the conscious sense of understanding I have when I hear your argument – all have nothing directly to do with the way I respond. It is very largely due to the need to avoid this counterintuitiveness that we owe the concern of twentieth century philosophy to devise a plausible form of materialist monism. But, although dualism has been out of fashion in psychology since the advent of behaviourism (Watson 1913) and in philosophy since Ryle (1949), the argument is by no means over. Some distinguished neurologists, such as Sherrington (1940) and Eccles (Popper and Eccles 1977) have continued to defend dualism as the only theory that can preserve the data of consciousness. Amongst mainstream philosophers, discontent with physicalism led to a modest revival of property dualism in the last decade of the twentieth century. At least some of the reasons for this should become clear below.

 

2. Varieties of Dualism: Ontology

There are various ways of dividing up kinds of dualism. One natural way is in terms of what sorts of things one chooses to be dualistic about. The most common categories lighted upon for these purposes are substance and property, giving one substance dualism and property dualism. There is, however, an important third category, namely predicate dualism. As this last is the weakest theory, in the sense that it claims least, I shall begin by characterizing it.

 

2.1 Predicate dualism

Predicate dualism is the theory that psychological or mentalistic predicates are (a) essential for a full description of the world and (b) are not reducible to physicalistic predicates. For a mental predicate to be reducible, there would be bridging laws connecting types of psychological states to types of physical ones in such a way that the use of the mental predicate carried no information that could not be expressed without it. An example of what we believe to be a true type reduction outside psychology is the case of water, where water is always H2O: something is water if and only if it is H2O. If one were to replace the word ‘water’ by ‘H2O’, it is plausible to say that one could convey all the same information. But the terms in many of the special sciences (that is, any science except physics itself) are not reducible in this way. Not every hurricane or every infectious disease, let alone every devaluation of the currency or every coup d’etat has the same constitutive structure. These states are defined more by what they do than by their composition or structure. Their names are classified as functional terms rather than natural kind terms. It goes with this that such kinds of state are multiply realizable; that is, they may be constituted by different kinds of physical structures under different circumstances. Because of this, unlike in the case of water and H2O, one could not replace these terms by some more basic physical description and still convey the same information. There is no particular description, using the language of physics or chemistry, that would do the work of the word ‘hurricane’, in the way that ‘H2O’ would do the work of ‘water’. It is widely agreed that many, if not all, psychological states are similarly irreducible, and so psychological predicates are not reducible to physical descriptions and one has predicate dualism. (The classic source for irreducibility in the special sciences in general is Fodor (1974), and for irreducibility in the philosophy of mind, Davidson (1971).)

 

2.2 Property Dualism

Whereas predicate dualism says that there are two essentially different kinds of predicates in our language, property dualism says that there are two essentially different kinds of property out in the world. Property dualism can be seen as a step stronger than predicate dualism. Although the predicate ‘hurricane’ is not equivalent to any single description using the language of physics, we believe that each individual hurricane is nothing but a collection of physical atoms behaving in a certain way: one need have no more than the physical atoms, with their normal physical properties, following normal physical laws, for there to be a hurricane. One might say that we need more than the language of physics to describe and explain the weather, but we do not need more than its ontology. There is token identity between each individual hurricane and a mass of atoms, even if there is no type identity between hurricanes as kinds and some particular structure of atoms as a kind. Genuine property dualism occurs when, even at the individual level, the ontology of physics is not sufficient to constitute what is there. The irreducible language is not just another way of describing what there is, it requires that there be something more there than was allowed for in the initial ontology. Until the early part of the twentieth century, it was common to think that biological phenomena (‘life’) required property dualism (an irreducible ‘vital force’), but nowadays the special physical sciences other than psychology are generally thought to involve only predicate dualism. In the case of mind, property dualism is defended by those who argue that the qualitative nature of consciousness is not merely another way of categorizing states of the brain or of behaviour, but a genuinely emergent phenomenon.

 

2.3 Substance Dualism

There are two important concepts deployed in this notion. One is that of substance, the other is the dualism of these substances. A substance is characterized by its properties, but, according to those who believe in substances, it is more than the collection of the properties it possesses, it is the thing which possesses them. So the mind is not just a collection of thoughts, but is that which thinks, an immaterial substance over and above its immaterial states. Properties are the properties of objects. If one is a property dualist, one may wonder what kinds of objects possess the irreducible or immaterial properties in which one believes. One can use a neutral expression and attribute them to persons, but, until one has an account of person, this is not explanatory. One might attribute them to human beings qua animals, or to the brains of these animals. Then one will be holding that these immaterial properties are possessed by what is otherwise a purely material thing. But one may also think that not only mental states are immaterial, but that the subject that possesses them must also be immaterial. Then one will be a dualist about that to which mental states and properties belong as well about the properties themselves. Now one might try to think of these subjects as just bundles of the immaterial states. This is Hume’s view. But if one thinks that the owner of these states is something quite over and above the states themselves, and is immaterial, as they are, one will be a substance dualist.

 

Substance dualism is also often dubbed ‘Cartesian dualism’, but some substance dualists are keen to distinguish their theories from Descartes’s. E. J. Lowe, for example, is a substance dualist, in the following sense. He holds that a normal human being involves two substances, one a body and the other a person. The latter is not, however, a purely mental substance that can be defined in terms of thought or consciousness alone, as Descartes claimed. But persons and their bodies have different identity conditions and are both substances, so there are two substances essentially involved in a human being, hence this is a form of substance dualism. Lowe (2006) claims that his theory is close to P. F. Strawson’s (1959), whilst admitting that Strawson would not have called it substance dualism.

 

3. Varieties of Dualism: Interaction

If mind and body are different realms, in the way required by either property or substance dualism, then there arises the question of how they are related. Common sense tells us that they interact: thoughts and feelings are at least sometimes caused by bodily events and at least sometimes themselves give rise to bodily responses. I shall now consider briefly the problems for interactionism, and its main rivals, epiphenomenalism and parallelism.

 

3.1 Interactionism

Interactionism is the view that mind and body – or mental events and physical events – causally influence each other. That this is so is one of our common-sense beliefs, because it appears to be a feature of everyday experience. The physical world influences my experience through my senses, and I often react behaviourally to those experiences. My thinking, too, influences my speech and my actions. There is, therefore, a massive natural prejudice in favour of interactionism. It has been claimed, however, that it faces serious problems (some of which were anticipated in section 1).

 

The simplest objection to interaction is that, in so far as mental properties, states or substances are of radically different kinds from each other, they lack that communality necessary for interaction. It is generally agreed that, in its most naive form, this objection to interactionism rests on a ‘billiard ball’ picture of causation: if all causation is by impact, how can the material and the immaterial impact upon each other? But if causation is either by a more ethereal force or energy or only a matter of constant conjunction, there would appear to be no problem in principle with the idea of interaction of mind and body.

 

Even if there is no objection in principle, there appears to be a conflict between interactionism and some basic principles of physical science. For example, if causal power was flowing in and out of the physical system, energy would not be conserved, and the conservation of energy is a fundamental scientific law. Various responses have been made to this. One suggestion is that it might be possible for mind to influence the distribution of energy, without altering its quantity. (See Averill and Keating 1981). Another response is to challenge the relevance of the conservation principle in this context. The conservation principle states that ‘in a causally isolated system the total amount of energy will remain constant’. Whereas ‘[t]he interactionist denies…that the human body is an isolated system’, so the principle is irrelevant (Larmer (1986), 282: this article presents a good brief survey of the options). This approach has been termed conditionality, namely the view that conservation is conditional on the physical system being closed, that is, that nothing non-physical is interacting or interfering with it, and, of course, the interactionist claims that this condition is, trivially, not met. That conditionality is the best line for the dualist to take, and that other approaches do not work, is defended in Pitts (2019) and Cucu and Pitts (2019). This, they claim, makes the plausibility of interactionism an empirical matter which only close investigation on the fine operation of the brain could hope to settle. Cucu, in a separate article (2018), claims to find critical neuronal events which do not have sufficient physical explanation.This claim clearly needs further investigation.

 

Robins Collins (2011) has claimed that the appeal to conservation by opponents of interactionism is something of a red herring because conservation principles are not ubiquitous in physics. He argues that energy is not conserved in general relativity, in quantum theory, or in the universe taken as a whole. Why then, should we insist on it in mind-brain interaction?

 

Most discussion of interactionism takes place in the context of the assumption that it is incompatible with the world’s being ‘closed under physics’. This is a very natural assumption, but it is not justified if causal overdetermination of behaviour is possible. There could then be a complete physical cause of behaviour, and a mental one. The strongest intuitive objection against overdetermination is clearly stated by Mills (1996: 112), who is himself a defender of overdetermination.

 

For X to be a cause of Y, X must contribute something to Y. The only way a purely mental event could contribute to a purely physical one would be to contribute some feature not already determined by a purely physical event. But if physical closure is true, there is no feature of the purely physical effect that is not contributed by the purely physical cause. Hence interactionism violates physical closure after all.

 

Mills says that this argument is invalid, because a physical event can have features not explained by the event which is its sufficient cause. For example, “the rock’s hitting the window is causally sufficient for the window’s breaking, and the window’s breaking has the feature of being the third window-breaking in the house this year; but the facts about prior window-breakings, rather than the rock’s hitting the window, are what cause this window-breaking to have this feature.”

 

The opponent of overdetermination could perhaps reply that his principle applies, not to every feature of events, but to a subgroup – say, intrinsic features, not merely relational or comparative ones. It is this kind of feature that the mental event would have to cause, but physical closure leaves no room for this. These matters are still controversial.

 

The problem with closure of physics may be radically altered if physical laws are indeterministic, as quantum theory seems to assert. If physical laws are deterministic, then any interference from outside would lead to a breach of those laws. But if they are indeterministic, might not interference produce a result that has a probability greater than zero, and so be consistent with the laws? This way, one might have interaction yet preserve a kind of nomological closure, in the sense that no laws are infringed. Because it involves assessing the significance and consequences of quantum theory, this is a difficult matter for the non-physicist to assess. Some argue that indeterminacy manifests itself only on the subatomic level, being cancelled out by the time one reaches even very tiny macroscopic objects: and human behaviour is a macroscopic phenomenon. Others argue that the structure of the brain is so finely tuned that minute variations could have macroscopic effects, rather in the way that, according to ‘chaos theory’, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in China might affect the weather in New York. (For discussion of this, see Eccles (1980), (1987), and Popper and Eccles (1977).) Still others argue that quantum indeterminacy manifests itself directly at a high level, when acts of observation collapse the wave function, suggesting that the mind may play a direct role in affecting the state of the world (Hodgson 1988; Stapp 1993).

 

3.2 Epiphenomenalism

If the reality of property dualism is not to be denied, but the problem of how the immaterial is to affect the material is to be avoided, then epiphenomenalism may seem to be the answer. According to this theory, mental events are caused by physical events, but have no causal influence on the physical. I have introduced this theory as if its point were to avoid the problem of how two different categories of thing might interact. In fact, it is, at best, an incomplete solution to this problem. If it is mysterious how the non-physical can have it in its nature to influence the physical, it ought to be equally mysterious how the physical can have it in its nature to produce something non-physical. But that this latter is what occurs is an essential claim of epiphenomenalism. (For development of this point, see Green (2003), 149–51). In fact, epiphenomenalism is more effective as a way of saving the autonomy of the physical (the world as ‘closed under physics’) than as a contribution to avoiding the need for the physical and non-physical to have causal commerce.

 

There are at least three serious problems for epiphenomenalism. First, as I indicated in section 1, it is profoundly counterintuitive. What could be more apparent than that it is the pain that I feel that makes me cry, or the visual experience of the boulder rolling towards me that makes me run away? At least one can say that epiphenomenalism is a fall-back position: it tends to be adopted because other options are held to be unacceptable.

 

The second problem is that, if mental states do nothing, there is no reason why they should have evolved. This objection ties in with the first: the intuition there was that conscious states clearly modify our behaviour in certain ways, such as avoiding danger, and it is plain that they are very useful from an evolutionary perspective.

 

Frank Jackson (1982) replies to this objection by saying that it is the brain state associated with pain that evolves for this reason: the sensation is a by-product. Evolution is full of useless or even harmful by-products. For example, polar bears have evolved thick coats to keep them warm, even though this has the damaging side effect that they are heavy to carry. Jackson’s point is true in general, but does not seem to apply very happily to the case of mind. The heaviness of the polar bear’s coat follows directly from those properties and laws which make it warm: one could not, in any simple way, have one without the other. But with mental states, dualistically conceived, the situation is quite the opposite. The laws of physical nature which, the mechanist says, make brain states cause behaviour, in no way explain why brain states should give rise to conscious ones. The laws linking mind and brain are what Feigl (1958) calls nomological danglers, that is, brute facts added onto the body of integrated physical law. Why there should have been by-products of that kind seems to have no evolutionary explanation.

 

The third problem concerns the rationality of belief in epiphenomenalism, via its effect on the problem of other minds. It is natural to say that I know that I have mental states because I experience them directly. But how can I justify my belief that others have them? The simple version of the ‘argument from analogy’ says that I can extrapolate from my own case. I know that certain of my mental states are correlated with certain pieces of behaviour, and so I infer that similar behaviour in others is also accompanied by similar mental states. Many hold that this is a weak argument because it is induction from one instance, namely, my own. The argument is stronger if it is not a simple induction but an ‘argument to the best explanation’. I seem to know from my own case that mental events can be the explanation of behaviour, and I know of no other candidate explanation for typical human behaviour, so I postulate the same explanation for the behaviour of others. But if epiphenomenalism is true, my mental states do not explain my behaviour and there is a physical explanation for the behaviour of others. It is explanatorily redundant to postulate such states for others. I know, by introspection, that I have them, but is it not just as likely that I alone am subject to this quirk of nature, rather than that everyone is?

 

For more detailed treatment and further reading on this topic, see the entry epiphenomenalism.

3.3 Parallelism

The epiphenomenalist wishes to preserve the integrity of physical science and the physical world, and appends those mental features that he cannot reduce. The parallelist preserves both realms intact, but denies all causal interaction between them. They run in harmony with each other, but not because their mutual influence keeps each other in line. That they should behave as if they were interacting would seem to be a bizarre coincidence. This is why parallelism has tended to be adopted only by those – like Leibniz – who believe in a pre-established harmony, set in place by God. The progression of thought can be seen as follows. Descartes believes in a more or less natural form of interaction between immaterial mind and material body. Malebranche thought that this was impossible naturally, and so required God to intervene specifically on each occasion on which interaction was required. Leibniz decided that God might as well set things up so that they always behaved as if they were interacting, without particular intervention being required. Outside such a theistic framework, the theory is incredible. Even within such a framework, one might well sympathise with Berkeley’s instinct that once genuine interaction is ruled out one is best advised to allow that God creates the physical world directly, within the mental realm itself, as a construct out of experience.

 

4. Arguments for Dualism

4.1 The Knowledge Argument Against Physicalism

One category of arguments for dualism is constituted by the standard objections against physicalism. Prime examples are those based on the existence of qualia, the most important of which is the so-called ‘knowledge argument’. Because this argument has its own entry (see the entry qualia: the knowledge argument), I shall deal relatively briefly with it here. One should bear in mind, however, that all arguments against physicalism are also arguments for the irreducible and hence immaterial nature of the mind and, given the existence of the material world, are thus arguments for dualism.

 

The knowledge argument asks us to imagine a future scientist who has lacked a certain sensory modality from birth, but who has acquired a perfect scientific understanding of how this modality operates in others. This scientist – call him Harpo – may have been born stone deaf, but become the world’s greatest expert on the machinery of hearing: he knows everything that there is to know within the range of the physical and behavioural sciences about hearing. Suppose that Harpo, thanks to developments in neurosurgery, has an operation which finally enables him to hear. It is suggested that he will then learn something he did not know before, which can be expressed as what it is like to hear, or the qualitative or phenomenal nature of sound. These qualitative features of experience are generally referred to as qualia. If Harpo learns something new, he did not know everything before. He knew all the physical facts before. So what he learns on coming to hear – the facts about the nature of experience or the nature of qualia – are non-physical. This establishes at least a state or property dualism. (See Jackson 1982; Robinson 1982.)

 

There are at least two lines of response to this popular but controversial argument. First is the ‘ability’ response. According to this, Harpo does not acquire any new factual knowledge, only ‘knowledge how’, in the form of the ability to respond directly to sounds, which he could not do before. This essentially behaviouristic account is exactly what the intuition behind the argument is meant to overthrow. Putting ourselves in Harpo’s position, it is meant to be obvious that what he acquires is knowledge of what something is like, not just how to do something. Such appeals to intuition are always, of course, open to denial by those who claim not to share the intuition. Some ability theorists seem to blur the distinction between knowing what something is like and knowing how to do something, by saying that the ability Harpo acquires is to imagine or remember the nature of sound. In this case, what he acquires the ability to do involves the representation to himself of what the thing is like. But this conception of representing to oneself, especially in the form of imagination, seems sufficiently close to producing in oneself something very like a sensory experience that it only defers the problem: until one has a physicalist gloss on what constitutes such representations as those involved in conscious memory and imagination, no progress has been made.

 

The other line of response is to argue that, although Harpo’s new knowledge is factual, it is not knowledge of a new fact. Rather, it is new way of grasping something that he already knew. He does not realise this, because the concepts employed to capture experience (such as ‘looks red’ or ‘sounds C-sharp’) are similar to demonstratives, and demonstrative concepts lack the kind of descriptive content that allow one to infer what they express from other pieces of information that one may already possess. A total scientific knowledge of the world would not enable you to say which time was ‘now’ or which place was ‘here’. Demonstrative concepts pick something out without saying anything extra about it. Similarly, the scientific knowledge that Harpo originally possessed did not enable him to anticipate what it would be like to re-express some parts of that knowledge using the demonstrative concepts that only experience can give one. The knowledge, therefore, appears to be genuinely new, whereas only the mode of conceiving it is novel.

 

Proponents of the epistemic argument respond that it is problematic to maintain both that the qualitative nature of experience can be genuinely novel, and that the quality itself be the same as some property already grasped scientifically: does not the experience’s phenomenal nature, which the demonstrative concepts capture, constitute a property in its own right? Another way to put this is to say that phenomenal concepts are not pure demonstratives, like ‘here’ and ‘now’, or ‘this’ and ‘that’, because they do capture a genuine qualitative content. Furthermore, experiencing does not seem to consist simply in exercising a particular kind of concept, demonstrative or not. When Harpo has his new form of experience, he does not simply exercise a new concept; he also grasps something new – the phenomenal quality – with that concept. How decisive these considerations are, remains controversial.

 

4.2 The Argument from Predicate Dualism to Property Dualism

I said above that predicate dualism might seem to have no ontological consequences, because it is concerned only with the different way things can be described within the contexts of the different sciences, not with any real difference in the things themselves. This, however, can be disputed.

 

The argument from predicate to property dualism moves in two steps, both controversial. The first claims that the irreducible special sciences, which are the sources of irreducible predicates, are not wholly objective in the way that physics is, but depend for their subject matter upon interest-relative perspectives on the world. This means that they, and the predicates special to them, depend on the existence of minds and mental states, for only minds have interest-relative perspectives. The second claim is that psychology – the science of the mental – is itself an irreducible special science, and so it, too, presupposes the existence of the mental. Mental predicates therefore presuppose the mentality that creates them: mentality cannot consist simply in the applicability of the predicates themselves.

 

First, let us consider the claim that the special sciences are not fully objective, but are interest-relative.

 

No-one would deny, of course, that the very same subject matter or ‘hunk of reality’ can be described in irreducibly different ways and it still be just that subject matter or piece of reality. A mass of matter could be characterized as a hurricane, or as a collection of chemical elements, or as mass of sub-atomic particles, and there be only the one mass of matter. But such different explanatory frameworks seem to presuppose different perspectives on that subject matter.

 

This is where basic physics, and perhaps those sciences reducible to basic physics, differ from irreducible special sciences. On a realist construal, the completed physics cuts physical reality up at its ultimate joints: any special science which is nomically strictly reducible to physics also, in virtue of this reduction, it could be argued, cuts reality at its joints, but not at its minutest ones. If scientific realism is true, a completed physics will tell one how the world is, independently of any special interest or concern: it is just how the world is. It would seem that, by contrast, a science which is not nomically reducible to physics does not take its legitimation from the underlying reality in this direct way. Rather, such a science is formed from the collaboration between, on the one hand, objective similarities in the world and, on the other, perspectives and interests of those who devise the science. The concept of hurricane is brought to bear from the perspective of creatures concerned about the weather. Creatures totally indifferent to the weather would have no reason to take the real patterns of phenomena that hurricanes share as constituting a single kind of thing. With the irreducible special sciences, there is an issue of salience , which involves a subjective component: a selection of phenomena with a certain teleology in mind is required before their structures or patterns are reified. The entities of metereology or biology are, in this respect, rather like Gestalt phenomena.

 

Even accepting this, why might it be thought that the perspectivality of the special sciences leads to a genuine property dualism in the philosophy of mind? It might seem to do so for the following reason. Having a perspective on the world, perceptual or intellectual, is a psychological state. So the irreducible special sciences presuppose the existence of mind. If one is to avoid an ontological dualism, the mind that has this perspective must be part of the physical reality on which it has its perspective. But psychology, it seems to be almost universally agreed, is one of those special sciences that is not reducible to physics, so if its subject matter is to be physical, it itself presupposes a perspective and, hence, the existence of a mind to see matter as psychological. If this mind is physical and irreducible, it presupposes mind to see it as such. We seem to be in a vicious circle or regress.

 

We can now understand the motivation for full-blown reduction. A true basic physics represents the world as it is in itself, and if the special sciences were reducible, then the existence of their ontologies would make sense as expressions of the physical, not just as ways of seeing or interpreting it. They could be understood ‘from the bottom up’, not from top down. The irreducibility of the special sciences creates no problem for the dualist, who sees the explanatory endeavor of the physical sciences as something carried on from a perspective conceptually outside of the physical world. Nor need this worry a physicalist, if he can reduce psychology, for then he could understand ‘from the bottom up’ the acts (with their internal, intentional contents) which created the irreducible ontologies of the other sciences. But psychology is one of the least likely of sciences to be reduced. If psychology cannot be reduced, this line of reasoning leads to real emergence for mental acts and hence to a real dualism for the properties those acts instantiate (Robinson 2003).

 

4.3 The Modal Argument

There is an argument, which has roots in Descartes (Meditation VI), which is a modal argument for dualism. One might put it as follows:

 

It is imaginable that one’s mind might exist without one’s body.

therefore

 

It is conceivable that one’s mind might exist without one’s body.

therefore

 

It is possible one’s mind might exist without one’s body.

therefore

 

One’s mind is a different entity from one’s body.

The rationale of the argument is a move from imaginability to real possibility. I include (2) because the notion of conceivability has one foot in the psychological camp, like imaginability, and one in the camp of pure logical possibility and therefore helps in the transition from one to the other.

 

This argument should be distinguished from a similar ‘conceivability’ argument, often known as the ‘zombie hypothesis’, which claims the imaginability and possibility of my body (or, in some forms, a body physically just like it) existing without there being any conscious states associated with it. (See, for example, Chalmers (1996), 94–9.) This latter argument, if sound, would show that conscious states were something over and above physical states. It is a different argument because the hypothesis that the unaltered body could exist without the mind is not the same as the suggestion that the mind might continue to exist without the body, nor are they trivially equivalent. The zombie argument establishes only property dualism and a property dualist might think disembodied existence inconceivable – for example, if he thought the identity of a mind through time depended on its relation to a body (e.g., Penelhum 1970).

 

Before Kripke (1972/80), the first challenge to such an argument would have concerned the move from (3) to (4). When philosophers generally believed in contingent identity, that move seemed to them invalid. But nowadays that inference is generally accepted and the issue concerns the relation between imaginability and possibility. No-one would nowadays identify the two (except, perhaps, for certain quasi-realists and anti-realists), but the view that imaginability is a solid test for possibility has been strongly defended. W. D. Hart ((1994), 266), for example, argues that no clear example has been produced such that “one can imagine that p (and tell less imaginative folk a story that enables them to imagine that p) plus a good argument that it is impossible that p. No such counterexamples have been forthcoming…” This claim is at least contentious. There seem to be good arguments that time-travel is incoherent, but every episode of Star-Trek or Doctor Who shows how one can imagine what it might be like were it possible.

 

It is worth relating the appeal to possibility in this argument to that involved in the more modest, anti-physicalist, zombie argument. The possibility of this hypothesis is also challenged, but all that is necessary for a zombie to be possible is that all and only the things that the physical sciences say about the body be true of such a creature. As the concepts involved in such sciences – e.g., neuron, cell, muscle – seem to make no reference, explicit or implicit, to their association with consciousness, and are defined in purely physical terms in the relevant science texts, there is a very powerful prima facie case for thinking that something could meet the condition of being just like them and lack any connection with consciousness. There is no parallel clear, uncontroversial and regimented account of mental concepts as a whole that fails to invoke, explicitly or implicitly, physical (e.g., behavioural) states.

 

For an analytical behaviourist the appeal to imaginability made in the argument fails, not because imagination is not a reliable guide to possibility, but because we cannot imagine such a thing, as it is a priori impossible. The impossibility of disembodiment is rather like that of time travel, because it is demonstrable a priori, though only by arguments that are controversial. The argument can only get under way for those philosophers who accept that the issue cannot be settled a priori, so the possibility of the disembodiment that we can imagine is still prima facie open.

 

A major rationale of those who think that imagination is not a safe indication of possibility, even when such possibility is not eliminable a priori, is that we can imagine that a posteriori necessities might be false – for example, that Hesperus might not be identical to Phosphorus. But if Kripke is correct, that is not a real possibility. Another way of putting this point is that there are many epistemic possibilities which are imaginable because they are epistemic possibilities, but which are not real possibilities. Richard Swinburne (1997, New Appendix C), whilst accepting this argument in general, has interesting reasons for thinking that it cannot apply in the mind-body case. He argues that in cases that involve a posteriori necessities, such as those identities that need discovering, it is because we identify those entities only by their ‘stereotypes’ (that is, by their superficial features observable by the layman) that we can be wrong about their essences. In the case of our experience of ourselves this is not true.

 

Now it is true that the essence of Hesperus cannot be discovered by a mere thought experiment. That is because what makes Hesperus Hesperus is not the stereotype, but what underlies it. But it does not follow that no one can ever have access to the essence of a substance, but must always rely for identification on a fallible stereotype. One might think that for the person him or herself, while what makes that person that person underlies what is observable to others, it does not underlie what is experienceable by that person, but is given directly in their own self-awareness.

 

This is a very appealing Cartesian intuition: my identity as the thinking thing that I am is revealed to me in consciousness, it is not something beyond the veil of consciousness. Now it could be replied to this that though I do access myself as a conscious subject, so classifying myself is rather like considering myself qua cyclist. Just as I might never have been a cyclist, I might never have been conscious, if things had gone wrong in my very early life. I am the organism, the animal, which might not have developed to the point of consciousness, and that essence as animal is not revealed to me just by introspection.

 

But there are vital differences between these cases. A cyclist is explicitly presented as a human being (or creature of some other animal species) cycling: there is no temptation to think of a cyclist as a basic kind of thing in its own right. Consciousness is not presented as a property of something, but as the subject itself. Swinburne’s claim that when we refer to ourselves we are referring to something we think we are directly aware of and not to ‘something we know not what’ that underlies our experience seemingly ‘of ourselves’ has powerful intuitive appeal and could only be overthrown by very forceful arguments. Yet, even if we are not referring primarily to a substrate, but to what is revealed in consciousness, could it not still be the case that there is a necessity stronger than causal connecting this consciousness to something physical? To consider this further we must investigate what the limits are of the possible analogy between cases of the water-H2O kind, and the mind-body relation.

 

We start from the analogy between the water stereotype – how water presents itself – and how consciousness is given first-personally to the subject. It is plausible to claim that something like water could exist without being H2O, but hardly that it could exist without some underlying nature. There is, however, no reason to deny that this underlying nature could be homogenous with its manifest nature: that is, it would seem to be possible that there is a world in which the water-like stuff is an element, as the ancients thought, and is water-like all the way down. The claim of the proponents of the dualist argument is that this latter kind of situation can be known to be true a priori in the case of the mind: that is, one can tell by introspection that it is not more-than-causally dependent on something of a radically different nature, such as a brain or body. What grounds might one have for thinking that one could tell that a priori?

 

The only general argument that seem to be available for this would be the principle that, for any two levels of discourse, A and B, they are more-than-causally connected only if one entails the other a priori. And the argument for accepting this principle would be that the relatively uncontroversial cases of a posteriori necessary connections are in fact cases in which one can argue a priori from facts about the microstructure to the manifest facts. In the case of water, for example, it would be claimed that it follows a priori that if there were something with the properties attributed to H2O by chemistry on a micro level, then that thing would possess waterish properties on a macro level. What is established a posteriori is that it is in fact H2O that underlies and explains the waterish properties round here, not something else: the sufficiency of the base – were it to obtain – to explain the phenomena, can be deduced a priori from the supposed nature of the base. This is, in effect, the argument that Chalmers uses to defend the zombie hypothesis. The suggestion is that the whole category of a posteriori more-than-causally necessary connections (often identified as a separate category of metaphysical necessity) comes to no more than this. If we accept that this is the correct account of a posteriori necessities, and also deny the analytically reductionist theories that would be necessary for a priori connections between mind and body, as conceived, for example, by the behaviourist or the functionalist, does it follow that we can tell a priori that consciousness is not more-than-causally dependent on the body?

 

It is helpful in considering this question to employ a distinction like Berkeley’s between ideas and notions. Ideas are the objects of our mental acts, and they capture transparently – ‘by way of image or likeness’ (Principles, sect. 27) – that of which they are the ideas. The self and its faculties are not the objects of our mental acts, but are captured only obliquely in the performance of its acts, and of these Berkeley says we have notions, meaning by this that what we capture of the nature of the dynamic agent does not seem to have the same transparency as what we capture as the normal objects of the agent’s mental acts. It is not necessary to become involved in Berkeley’s metaphysics in general to feel the force of the claim that the contents and internal objects of our mental acts are grasped with a lucidity that exceeds that of our grasp of the agent and the acts per se. Because of this, notions of the self perhaps have a ‘thickness’ and are permanently contestable: there seems always to be room for more dispute as to what is involved in that concept. (Though we shall see later, in 5.2.2, that there is a ‘non-thick’ way of taking the Berkeleyan concept of a notion.)

 

Because ‘thickness’ always leaves room for dispute, this is one of those cases in philosophy in which one is at the mercy of the arguments philosophers happen to think up. The conceivability argument creates a prima facie case for thinking that mind has no more than causal ontological dependence on the body. Let us assume that one rejects analytical (behaviourist or functionalist) accounts of mental predicates. Then the above arguments show that any necessary dependence of mind on body does not follow the model that applies in other scientific cases. This does not show that there may not be other reasons for believing in such dependence, for so many of the concepts in the area are still contested. For example, it might be argued that identity through time requires the kind of spatial existence that only body can give: or that the causal continuity required by a stream of consciousness cannot be a property of mere phenomena. All these might be put forward as ways of filling out those aspects of our understanding of the self that are only obliquely, not transparently, presented in self-awareness. The dualist must respond to any claim as it arises: the conceivability argument does not pre-empt them.......

5.2 The Unity of the Mind

Whether one believes that the mind is a substance or just a bundle of properties, the same challenge arises, which is to explain the nature of the unity of the immaterial mind. For the Cartesian, that means explaining how he understands the notion of immaterial substance. For the Humean, the issue is to explain the nature of the relationship between the different elements in the bundle that binds them into one thing. Neither tradition has been notably successful in this latter task: indeed, Hume, in the appendix to the Treatise, declared himself wholly mystified by the problem, rejecting his own initial solution (though quite why is not clear from the text).

plato.stanford.edu/entries/dualism/

It's a female.

 

She is breaching. The reasons of this behaviour are not known for sure.

 

Please note that my pictures are All rights reserved. Please be especially careful not to upload them on sites like Facebook or Reddit, unless it's in small size. This is because their terms of service are highly objectionable. Facebook: "You grant us a non-exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, and worldwide license to host, use, distribute, modify, run, copy, publicly perform or display, translate, and create derivative works of your content".

 

Addictions Treatment Centre

St. Norbert, Manitoba

 

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Stoat not looking pleased as she seems to smell another scent. A few more from this weeks walks

The osprey or more specifically the western osprey (Pandion haliaetus) — also called sea hawk, river hawk, and fish hawk — is a diurnal, fish-eating bird of prey with a cosmopolitan range. It is a large raptor, reaching more than 60 cm (24 in) in length and 180 cm (71 in) across the wings. It is brown on the upperparts and predominantly greyish on the head and underparts.

 

The osprey tolerates a wide variety of habitats, nesting in any location near a body of water providing an adequate food supply. It is found on all continents except Antarctica, although in South America it occurs only as a non-breeding migrant.

 

As its other common names suggest, the osprey's diet consists almost exclusively of fish. It possesses specialised physical characteristics and exhibits unique behaviour to assist in hunting and catching prey. As a result of these unique characteristics, it has been given its own taxonomic genus, Pandion and family, Pandionidae. Three subspecies are usually recognized; one of the former subspecies, cristatus, has recently been given full species status and is referred to as the eastern osprey.

 

The osprey is unusual in that it is a single living species that occurs nearly worldwide. Even the few subspecies are not unequivocally separable. There are four generally recognised subspecies, although differences are small, and ITIS lists only the first two.

 

The osprey is 0.9–2.1 kg (2.0–4.6 lb) in weight and 50–66 cm (20–26 in) in length with a 127–180 cm (50–71 in) wingspan. It is, thus, of similar size to the largest members of the Buteo or Falco genera. The subspecies are fairly close in size, with the nominate subspecies averaging 1.53 kg (3.4 lb), P. h. carolinensis averaging 1.7 kg (3.7 lb) and P. h. cristatus averaging 1.25 kg (2.8 lb). The wing chord measures 38 to 52 cm (15 to 20 in), the tail measures 16.5 to 24 cm (6.5 to 9.4 in) and the tarsus is 5.2–6.6 cm (2.0–2.6 in).

 

The upperparts are a deep, glossy brown, while the breast is white and sometimes streaked with brown, and the underparts are pure white. The head is white with a dark mask across the eyes, reaching to the sides of the neck. The irises of the eyes are golden to brown, and the transparent nictitating membrane is pale blue. The bill is black, with a blue cere, and the feet are white with black talons. A short tail and long, narrow wings with four long, finger-like feathers, and a shorter fifth, give it a very distinctive appearance.

In flight, Northern Territory, Australia

 

The sexes appear fairly similar, but the adult male can be distinguished from the female by its slimmer body and narrower wings. The breast band of the male is also weaker than that of the female, or is non-existent, and the underwing coverts of the male are more uniformly pale. It is straightforward to determine the sex in a breeding pair, but harder with individual birds.

 

The juvenile osprey may be identified by buff fringes to the plumage of the upperparts, a buff tone to the underparts, and streaked feathers on the head. During spring, barring on the underwings and flight feathers is a better indicator of a young bird, due to wear on the upperparts.

 

In flight, the osprey has arched wings and drooping "hands", giving it a gull-like appearance. The call is a series of sharp whistles, described as cheep, cheep or yewk, yewk. If disturbed by activity near the nest, the call is a frenzied cheereek

 

he osprey is piscivorous, with fish making up 99% of its diet. It typically takes fish weighing 150–300 g (5.3–10.6 oz) and about 25–35 cm (9.8–13.8 in) in length, but the weight can range from 50 g (1.8 oz) to 2 kg (4.4 lb). Virtually any type of fish in that size range are taken.

 

Ospreys have vision that is well adapted to detecting underwater objects from the air. Prey is first sighted when the osprey is 10–40 m (33–131 ft) above the water, after which the bird hovers momentarily then plunges feet first into the water.

 

Occasionally, the osprey may prey on rodents, rabbits, hares, other birds, and small reptiles.

 

The osprey has several adaptations that suit its piscivorous lifestyle:

 

reversible outer toes

sharp spicules on the underside of the toes

closable nostrils to keep out water during dives

backwards-facing scales on the talons which act as barbs to help hold its catch

dense plumage which is oily and prevents its feathers from getting waterlogged.

 

The osprey breeds near freshwater lakes and rivers, and sometimes on coastal brackish waters. Rocky outcrops just offshore are used in Rottnest Island off the coast of Western Australia, where there are 14 or so similar nesting sites of which five to seven are used in any one year. Many are renovated each season, and some have been used for 70 years. The nest is a large heap of sticks, driftwood, turf or seaweed built in forks of trees, rocky outcrops, utility poles, artificial platforms or offshore islets. As wide as 2 meters and weighing about 135 kg, large nests on utility poles may be fire hazards and have caused power outages.

 

Generally, ospreys reach sexual maturity and begin breeding around the age of three to four, though in some regions with high osprey densities, such as Chesapeake Bay in the U.S., they may not start breeding until five to seven years old, and there may be a shortage of suitable tall structures. If there are no nesting sites available, young ospreys may be forced to delay breeding. To ease this problem, posts are sometimes erected to provide more sites suitable for nest building. In some regions ospreys prefer transmission towers as nesting sites, e.g. in East Germany.

Egg, Collection Museum Wiesbaden

 

The platform design developed by one organization, Citizens United to Protect the Maurice River and Its Tributaries, Inc. has become the official design of the State of New Jersey, U.S. The platform plans and materials list, available online, have been utilized by people from a number of different geographical regions. Osprey-watch.org is the global site for mapping osprey nest locations and logging observations on reproductive success.

 

Ospreys usually mate for life. Rarely, polyandry has been recorded. The breeding season varies according to latitude; spring (September–October) in southern Australia, April to July in northern Australia and winter (June–August) in southern Queensland. In spring the pair begins a five-month period of partnership to raise their young. The female lays two to four eggs within a month, and relies on the size of the nest to conserve heat. The eggs are whitish with bold splotches of reddish-brown and are about 6.2 cm × 4.5 cm (2.4 in × 1.8 in) and weigh about 65 g (2.3 oz). The eggs are incubated for about 35–43 days to hatching.

 

The newly hatched chicks weigh only 50–60 g (1.8–2.1 oz), but fledge in 8–10 weeks. A study on Kangaroo Island, South Australia, had an average time between hatching and fledging of 69 days. The same study found an average of 0.66 young fledged per year per occupied territory, and 0.92 young fledged per year per active nest. Some 22% of surviving young either remained on the island or returned at maturity to join the breeding population. When food is scarce, the first chicks to hatch are most likely to survive. The typical lifespan is 7–10 years, though rarely individuals can grow to as old as 20–25 years.

 

The oldest European wild osprey on record lived to be over thirty years of age. In North America, great horned owls (Bubo virginianus), golden eagles (Aquila chrysaetos), and bald eagles (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) are the only major predators of ospreys, capable of taking both nestlings and adults. However, kleptoparasitism by bald eagles, where the larger raptor steals the osprey's catch, is more common than predation. The white-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla), which is very similar to the bald eagle, may harass or prey on the osprey in Eurasia. Raccoons (Procyon lotor) can be a serious threat to nestlings or eggs if they can access the nest. Endoparasitic trematodes (Scaphanocephalus expansus and Neodiplostomum spp.) have been recorded in wild ospreys.

 

from Wikipedia

More than a dozen Cattle Egrets in amongst the Highland Cattle.

Nuthatch looking for food it may have stashed away recently.

Attempting to cache sunflower seeds taken from the feeders.

More of beautiful Bo, the hare I've been following as she transitions from her winter to summer pelage.

Red Fox (vixen) returns.

Yes !! Almost ALL Hydra cats ( :the Greek island of Hydra) are so beautiful!!! Because, …almost ALL look happy, velvety, healthy, and well fed!! And saying “ALL”, I am talking …..only those Nicholas and myself met during our short stay these last Holidays….And , I think the number of Hydra cat population is really big!!! Therefore, BRAVO, to the Hydra Greek human population!! Who support them in their own way, a true animal-lover way! Meaning, maybe they do not let them indoors, like the Westerners, but they feed them, protect them, and do not harm them, or kill them….These cats are truly sociable and are NOT afraid of humans! The EC vets visit the island twice a year, in order to vaccinate and operate them!! I am so proud of Hydra people!!

 

Because the Mediterranean population around the Mediterranean Sea, is not so famous for their animal-lover behaviour, especially in the countryside!!... And, yes, in the past , being much younger, I have cried and suffered hard perceiving various incidents , in my country of origin…

 

You can also perceive my young Nicholas among the captures , cuddling some cats, those we were feeding every day, right in front our beautiful traditional hotel.

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Cromwell Bottom Nature Reserve.

These are Polly and Sophie Duniam, twin sisters who supported The Pet Shop Boys on their UK tour. This was taken at the Bournemouth International Centre.

Artist: Bjork Lyrics

Song: Human Behavior Lyrics

If you ever get close to a human

And human behaviour

Be ready to get confused

There's definitely no logic

To human behaviour

But yet so irristible

There's no map

To human behaviour

They're terribly moody

Then all of a sudden turn happy

But, oh, to get involved in the exchange

Of human emotions is ever so satisfying

There's no map

And a compass

Wouldn't help at all

Human behaviour

Museum of Modern Art De Pont, Tilburg, The Netherlands.

 

More of the Museum Behaviour series bit.ly/H0skbp

 

website | maasvlakte book | portfolio book

Or could be two males perhaps

Range-Rover - 1975

 

Coachwork by Lynx engineering

67 ex.

 

'On the road there was nothing untoward about the Eventer's behaviour, no unwanted wind noise and no diminution of the XJ-S's unquestionable performance. Unlike so many estate car conversions over the years, the Eventer looks as though it has been conceived as a single, unified design, not as an afterthought...' – Motor Sport.

 

Conceived as a luxurious and long-legged Grand Routier, the XJ-S, though by no means a small car, afforded precious little in terms of interior space: two adults and an overnight bag being about the limit if its comfortable capacity. In the absence of a factory 'estate' it was left to the Hastings-based engineering company and coachbuilder Lynx to exploit the model's full potential. Renowned for their re-creations of the C- and D-Type Jaguar sports-racers, Lynx had every reason to be confident that such a market existed, given the success of the 'sports estate' concept in the form of the Reliant Scimitar GTE and Lancia Beta HPE. Each Eventer would be hand built to individual customer order.

 

In reconfiguring the XJ-S, Lynx extended the roof, moved the rear seats back, repositioned the fuel tank, and added a tailgate, thus providing increased passenger leg room and an impressive claimed 23.75cu ft of load space with the seats up, almost 42cu ft with them folded flat. Lynx's modifications not only addressed the issue of the XJ-S's cramped rear seating, but also greatly improved the standard car's poor rearward visibility. Lynx's conversion added £6,950+VAT to the £21,000 list price, making Eventer ownership the privilege of a wealthy few. Even today there are few cars that combine near-silent 155mph performance with the luggage capacity of a family estate.

 

Number '20' of the estimated 67 Eventers produced, this V12-engined example was first registered 'A6 BEB' and owned originally by a Mr David Barnes of Kent, who kept it until 2009 when the car was sold to the immediately preceding owner. At time of acquisition the recorded mileage total was 60,392, to which the last owner added a further 11,500-or-so over the course of the next six years, making the total 72,000 miles. Never accident damaged, the car has been restored twice, in 1999 and again in 2010, the exterior colour being changed from brown to black at the latter date. Every Eventer is different, and this one comes with a copy of the full factory file, including all production details and correspondence with the client, as well as copy of the original invoices for the estate conversion.

 

The car has recently been converted from right to left-hand drive using a correct period donor car by CKL Developments of Battle, East Sussex, whose founder and Technical Director, Chris Keith-Lucas, was co-founder and Managing Director at Lynx. CKL have also carried out extensive remedial works; areas receiving attention included the rear suspension, rear brakes, fuel injectors, and exhaust system, the latter being replaced in its entirety. CKL's detailed invoice for £14,191 (approximately €16,740) is on file. 'The perfect blend of pace with space', the car also comes with sundry bills relating to the 1990s restoration; Belgian registration papers; original Jaguar manuals; and an old-style UK logbook and V5 registration document. The perfect car for a picnic at the Chantilly Concours d'Elégance!

 

The Chantilly Sale

Bonhams

Sold for € 70.150

 

Chantilly Arts & Elegance Richard Mille

Château de Chantilly

Chantilly

France - Frankrijk

September 2016

Lapwing twisting and turning during a display of aerobatics.

Postering Great Crested Grebe confusing the calling noises from the Wigeon Ducks for another grebe.