The answer to your question will depend on what counts as a fact.

Certainly it is possible for people to observe the same state of affairs while reacting to it differently. You observe the same wallpaper as I do, but you like it while I hate it. Or we both observe the same behavior on the part of a friend, but you find it wierd while I find it normal.

On the other hand, if the likability of the wallpaper is itself a fact that you (alledgedly) observe, then you and I do disagree about the facts when I find it hateful. Likewise, if the wierdness of a friend's behavior counts as a fact.

Rather than argue over what counts as a fact, it is probably best to recognize that different people will focus on different facts (without disputing the facts that others focus on), and that different people will value the same facts in different ways (without disputing others' descriptions of what they value). This does not mean that our focus of attention or our valuation is purely subjective, or that attention and valuation are not themselves matters for rational dispute; it only means that it is often useful to distinguish between the facts that people agree on and the ways in which they approach these facts differently.

Compare the case of pain to the heat of spicy curries or steamy saunas: I recognize certain green curries to be just as hot/spicy as certain red curries, but I have a higher tolerance for the heat/spicyness of green curries; and I can tolerate steamy saunas better than in dry saunas even when I experience them as equally hot. I am not less sensitive to the heat of green curries or the heat of a steamy sauna, but I am not bothered by them as much as I am bothered by the heat of spicy curries or dry saunas. Why isn't pain like this -- tolerated differently in different forms, or by different people, even when the amount or degree of pain is recognized to be the same?

You might think that pain just is intolerance, and that the degree of one's pain is equivalent to the degree of one's intolerance, so that finding a sauna less intolerable should be equated with finding it less painful. But since the two words, "pain" and "intolerance" are used in rather different ways, and since (as you note) people do often say they are more or less tolerant of pain, it would not a linguistic equivalence. Still, as you suggest, if the evidence for one is equally evidence of the other then perhaps they are in fact the very same thing.

I do not think the evidence for one is the same as the evidence for the other, however. Aside from introspective reports (which constitute one kind of evidence, after all), here are some (more objective) kinds of evidence that help to distinguish insensitivity to pain from tolerance of pain:

(1) A racing heartbeat and tensed muscles (showing sensitivity to pain) together with a calm demeanor (showing tolerance of pain).

(2) A spontaneous cry or flinch (showing sensitivity to pain) together with willingness to continue painful procedure or activity (showing tolerance of pain).

(3) An ability to give nuanced reports on the character of one's pain (showing sensitivity to pain) together with lack of interest in using pain medications (showing tolerance of pain).

While (1) and (2) may suggest two parts oneself -- one responding automatically and the other more reflectively resists these automatic responses, (3) suggests an interesting, if unusual, disconnect between the feeling of pain and the awfulness of pain. You may be interested to look at a recent book by Nikola Grahek, entitled Feeling Pain and Being in Pain, that describe some carefully documented cases of pain without painfulness and painfulness without pain.

It isn't clear to me exactly what sort of academic "topic" interests you the most. So, I'll consider several options.

First, consider whether some academic disciplines are more difficult than others. Given the sheer diversity of academic work within each of the various disciplines, I don't think there is any prospect of ordering those disciplines by difficulty: each field addresses a multitude of problems in a multitude of ways all the while responding to past work in more or less sophisticated ways and also developing methodological innovations, incorporating new content, etc. So, I think that professionals working within every field have opportunities to perform extremely challenging academic work.

Second, consider whether some academic courses are inherently more difficult than others. It certainly is the case that undergraduate students frequently consider some classes to be more difficult than others. In part, this may be reasonable: for example, many students find research methodology and statistics to be among the most challenging courses. Even with respect to individual undergraduate courses, however, it is certainly possible for the instructor of any course to have high and challenging expectations for his or her students and it is certainly possible for any student to choose to increase his or her level of effort, engagement, and intellectual depth. So, I think both students and professors have opportunities to make any academic course challenging.

Third, consider whether some specific learning activities or course topics are more difficult than others. Surely different students find various activities or topics more challenging than others, but here too I think there is significant variation that prevents us from drawing general conclusions of the sort I think interest you: students' individual levels of academic preparation and skills will cause some activities or topics to be harder for them to complete or master; students' individual intellectual interests will make it easier or harder for them to engage effectively in different learning activities or academic topics; students' varying responsibilities or life experiences at various points in their academic careers will make it easier or harder for them to learn at different times, etc.

So, I see little prospect of reaching judgments about "objective difficulty" at the level of disciplines, classes, or learning activities or course topics.

I know several people who believe such things, or at least say they do.

One group thinks that there are true contradictions that involve very special cases. The usual example is the so-called liar sentence, "This very sentence is not true". There is a simple argument that the liar sentence is both true and not true, and some people believe just that.

Other people, though, think there are contradictions involving much less special cases. An example would be what are called "borderline cases" of vague predicates, like "bald". People often want to say that there are some people who aren't bald and aren't not bald either. But the so-called De Morgan equivalences entail that this is equivalent to saying that the person is both bald and not-bald (or, strictly, both not-bald and not-not-bald).

People who hold such views are known as "dialetheists". See this article for more.

You might want to take a look at some of the recent work of John Searle, such as The Rediscovery of the Mind. Searle argues there that "The notion of an unconscious mental states implies accessibility to consciousness. We have no notion of the unconscious except as that which is potentially conscious." (p. 152). While this isn't quite an endorsement of what you call the "transparency thesis," I believe it might be seen as a quasi-descendant of the view you describe.

As an aside, the name "the transparency thesis" is nowadays often used by philosophers of mind to refer to quite a different phenomenon, namely, that when we introspect our experience, we don't seem to be able to attend directly to it; rather, our attention seems to slide right through to the objects of our experience.

A good question.One way of looking at it is to make a comparison with fictions within fiction -- say, the play-within-a-play that we have in Hamlet. The whole shebang is fiction: both the play-within-the-play and the play itself, but we can still sensibly ask what's true within the "fictional world" of Hamlet. (Philosophers have written a good deal on "truth in fiction," but the details needn't detain us.) Our question is about the inner structure or logic of the overarching fiction we call Hamlet.

We can obviously say similar things about dreams. Dreams have (more or less coherent) plots or story lines, and the "logic" of those story lines is plausibly not so different from the "logic" of stories, plays and the like. It's clearly possible (and probably pretty common) to have a dream that includes "waking up" from a dream within the story line. There's only one real dreamer -- the flesh and blood person lying in the bed. But the story line of the dream includes a fictionalized (dreamatized?) version of the dreamer who dreams that he has awakened from a dream. And in some cases, it can get even more complicated. I've had at least a small handful of dreams with a dream-within-a-dream-within a dream structure and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

My guess is that there are some interesting differences between the logic of fiction and the logic of dreams, and that it would be worth exploring the territory. But there seems to be enough similarity for what's said above to stand.

Nice question. I suggest that cases like the one you consider do show that in some sense we can control what we believe. The important thing is the 'in some sense' qualification. Many philosophers have argued that we can't "directly" change our beliefs at will. For instance, even if you threaten me with death, I won't be able immediately and just as a matter of will to make myself believe that the Earth is flat. I'd at least have to do something more roundabout, such as surround myself with a bunch of flat-earthers, ignore contrary evidence, and so on. Similarly, I might have to go to some efforts to ignore a piece of testimony, perhaps with the aid of hypnosis or of someone who could make that testimony look specious.

More generally, then, I would suggest that we can indirectly control what we believe if we are determined to do so: If for instance I am convinced by Pascal's "Wager" argument that it's reasonable to believe in God, I won't be able to become a theist just by snapping my fingers. However, if I surround myself with believers, listen to a lot of Creed or Lifehouse, and ignore the various skeptical challenges to theism, I'll have a good chance of cultivating belief after a while. As William James once said, after a while, belief will come and "stupefy your scruples."

Mitch Green

I agree with Mitch Green's response with regard to the possibility of controlling our beliefs indirectly. But in the case of a jury member instructed to ignore certain evidence, it is not really belief that is at issue. The jury member is asked to reach a conclusion following certain legal guidelines, but there is no requirement that the juror believe that conclusion -- and thus no requirement that the legal guidelines constrain belief. A jury member can wholeheartedly believe that a defendant is guilty yet confidently cast a "not guilty" vote -- because her belief is based on impermissible evidence.

Some philosophers (Jonathan Cohen and Michael Bratman, for example) use the term "acceptance" as opposed to "belief" to refer to an attitude of endorsement that is restricted to certain contexts or concerns. In the case of a jury member, the endorsement is restricted to legal contexts; in the case of an actor, the endorsement is restricted to a theatrical context; and in the case of an athlete, the endorsement might be be restricted to certain performance contexts.

There are no agreed upon answers to your questions, but here are some possibilities:

Some philosophers (including myself) think of sensations as as a special class of perceptions -- namely, perceptions of one's own internal bodily states. When I perceive (versus infer) that my stomach is cramping, it is a sensation; and when I have an aching sensation, it is a perception of a bodily state. If this is right, then it is possible to have a perception (of a nearby house, say) without having a sensation (of tension in one's muscles, say)-- unless our awareness of external states is always accompanied by some awareness, however minimal, of our own internal states (our awareness of the house requiring some awareness of its effect on one's own body).

Other philosophers think of sensations as the sensuous qualities (or "qualia") that accompany many experiences. The sensuous quality of redness and the sensuous quality of a minor chord count as sensations on this view. If someone can perceive that an apple is red without experiencing the sensuous quality of redness, or if my experience of a minor chord lacks a sensous quality, then it is possible to have perception without sensation; otherwise.

Most philosophers agree that perception is an especially direct way of gaining knowledge, but there are many competing accounts of what gives it this special directness. If the requisite directness depends on either bodily inwardness or sensuous character, then perception will not be possible without sensation.

Thank you for your question. I think you're right to wonder whether treating depression is always justified. After all, sometimes being upset about something is an appropriate reaction. For instance, we wouldn't feel the need to "treat" someone's grief over the death of a loved one. On the other hand, while a certain amount of grief over such a situation seems justified and appropriate, one might also suggest that it is possible to take that grief too far. If I had a friend who was grieving intensely and for a very long time over the loss of a loved one, I might start to think of ways I might try to help. Similarly, while one can be entirely justified in being depressed over the state of the world, I am not sure that being clinically depressed is the *only* appropriate reaction to the world's state. This is for a number of reasons. First of all, there are a number of things to be absolutely thrilled about: a beautiful sunrise, the smell a pine forest, being able to fully trust another person, a favorite work of art, are all examples. Secondly, one appropriate response to the depressing things about the world is to try to do something that, if only in a small way, might change them. For instance, it's depressing how much poverty and hunger there are in my community. My response is to work at the local food bank, in an effort to make a small difference. I don't claim that it's the *only* appropriate response, but I would suggest that it's *one* appropriate response. Note also that I'd have a lot of trouble helping out with local hunger if I were clinically depressed.

Please let me stress that I don't for a moment think that clinical depression is something you can simply decide to overcome. Overcoming it would surely take a long time and a lot of effort. But I would suggest that depression of the sort you're experiencing is only one appropriate response to the state of the world. There are others to be considered also. One can take these options seriously without falling for a simplistic picture in which any depression is something that needs to be "cured," or in which, as you put it, "everything is going to be okay." I seriously doubt that everything ever will be okay, but that doesn't make me want to stop fighting the fight.