Trust	as	an	Unquestioning	Attitude C.	Thi	Nguyen (This	is	a	pre-print	draft.	Forthcoming	in	Oxford	Studies	in	Epistemology) Most	theories	of	trust	presume	that	trust	is	a	conscious	attitude	that	can	be	directed	at only	other	agents.	I	sketch	a	different	form	of	trust:	the	unquestioning	attitude.	What	it is	to	trust,	in	this	sense,	is	not	simply	to	rely	on	something,	but	to	rely	on	it	unquestioningly. It is to rely	on	a resource	while suspending	deliberation	over its reliability.	To trust,	then,	is	to	set	up	open	pipelines	between	yourself	and	parts	of	the	external	world -	to	permit	external	resources	to	have	a	similar	relationship	to	one	as	one's	internal cognitive	faculties.	This	creates	efficiency,	but	at	the	price	of	exquisite	vulnerability.	We must	trust	in	this	way	because	we	are	cognitively	limited	beings	in	a	cognitively	overwhelming	world. Crucially,	we can hold the unquestioning attitude towards objects. When	I	trust	my	climbing	rope,	I	climb	while	putting	questions	of	its	reliability	out	of mind.	Many	people	now	trust,	in	this	sense,	complex	technologies	such	as	search	algorithms	and	online	calendars.	But,	one	might	worry,	how	could	one	ever	hold	such	a	normatively	loaded	attitude	as	trust	towards	mere	objects?	How	could	it	ever	make	sense to	feel	betrayed	by	an	object?	Such	betrayal	is	grounded,	not	in	considerations	of	interagential	cooperation,	but	in	considerations	of	functional	integration.	Trust	is	our	engine for	expanding	and	outsourcing	our	agency	-	for	binding	external	processes	into	our practical	selves.	Thus,	we	can	be	betrayed	by	our	smartphones	in	the	same	way	that	we can	be	betrayed	by	our	memory.	When	we	trust,	we	try	to	make	something	a	part	of	our agency,	and	we	are	betrayed	when	our	part	lets	us	down.	This	suggests	a	new	form	of gullibility:	agential	gullibility,	which	occurs	when	agents	too	hastily	and	carelessly	integrate	external	resources	into	their	own	agency. 1. Introduction Most	accounts	of	trust	take	it	to	be	a	conscious	attitude	directed	towards other	agents.	According	to	some	accounts,	to	trust	somebody	is	to	think	that they	have	goodwill	towards	you,	or	that	they	will	be	responsive	to	your	needs. 2 According	to	other	accounts,	trust	is	an	attitude	we	adopt	for	various	social reasons,	which	encourages	us	to	rely	on	others	and	believe	what	they	say.	All these	accounts	share	two	central	features.	First,	trust	is	supposed	to	be	a	clear and	present	rational	force	-	an	active	participant	in	an	ongoing	deliberative process.	Second,	trust	can	only	ever	be	directed	at	other	agents. In	this	paper,	I	would	like	to	explore	a	very	different	alternative:	that	there is	a	form	of	trust	which	involves	suspending	the	deliberative	process.	To	trust something,	in	this	sense,	is	to	put	it	outside	the	space	of	evaluation	and	deliberation	-	to	rely	on	it	without	pausing	to	think	about	whether	it	will	actually come	through	for	you.	To	trust	an	informational	source	is	to	accept	what	that source	delivers	without	pausing	to	worry	or	evaluate	that	source's	trustworthiness.	To	trust,	in	short,	is	to	adopt	an	unquestioning	attitude.	Which	is	not to	say	that	one	can't	question	this	sort	of	trust,	or	reason	about	whether	one ought	to	trust	something.	Trust	can	certainly	arise	out	of	deliberation	and	it can	certainly	be	called	into	question.	But	it	is	to	say	that	when	one	has	come to	trust,	one	has	adopted	an	unquestioning	attitude.	And	limited	beings	like	us must	often	take	up	such	unquestioning	attitudes	as	part	of	a	reasonable	strategy	for	coping	with	the	overwhelming	cognitive	onslaught	of	the	world. Crucially, we can hold this unquestioning attitude towards non-agents: simple	objects,	parts	of	my	body,	and	features	of	the	natural	world.	I	can	trust my	legs	and	I	can	trust	the	ground.	To	understand	why	this	is	a	significant	departure,	we	need	to	look	at	the	history	of	the	philosophical	work	on	trust.	That literature	springs	from	a	couple	of	inquiries.	First,	philosophers	have	been	interested	in	the	morality	of	trust	and	how	it	plays	out	in	various	efforts	of	cooperation and social relationships (Baier 1986; 1992; Baker 1987; Holton 1994;	Jones	1996;	2012;	McLeod	2002;	O'Neill	2002a;	2002b).	This	conversation	tends	to	focus	on	how	trust	works	in	distinctively	moral,	social,	and	political	settings.	Second,	philosophers	have	been	concerned	with	the	epistemology	of	trust	and	how	we	might	acquire	knowledge	through	testimony	(Hardwig,	1991;	Hinchman	2005;	Faulkner	2007a;	2011;	Hieronymi	2008;	Lackey 2008;	Nickel	2012;	Keren	2014).	Both	these	conversations	share	a	central	presumption:	that	trust	is	agent-directed.	That	is,	trust	is	taken	to	be	an	attitude of	one	agent	directed	toward	some	other	agent. We	can	find	this	presumption	clearly	articulated	in	the	opening	moments of	the	modern	conversation	on	trust.	Annette	Baier's	pioneering	work	explicitly	sets	the	focus	on	agent-directed	attitudes.	Importantly,	she	says,	our	colloquial	use	of "trust"	blurs together two	very	distinct concepts.	She	proposes 3 that	we	adopt	a	terminological	refinement.	First,	there	is	the	attitude	of	mere reliance,	in	which	we	simply	depend	on	something.	Second,	there	is	the	attitude	of	trust,	in	which	we	depend	in	some	more	normatively	loaded	manner. Suppose	I	notice	that	you	pass	by	my	door	every	day	at	noon	and	I	start	using your	passage	to	time	my	lunch-break.	In	this	case,	I	have	merely	come	to	rely on	you.	If	you	suddenly	stopped	passing	by	at	noon	every	day,	I	might	be	disappointed	that	I	had	lost	this	convenient	signal,	but	I	could	make	no	reasonable	criticism	of	you.	But	if	you	failed	to	knock	after	having	promised	to	do	so,	I would	feel,	not	only	disappointed,	but	betrayed.	I	had	trusted	you	and	you	let me	down.	Our	relationship	towards	objects,	says	Baier,	can	be	one	of,	at	most, reliance.	It	is	only	other	people	that	we	might	come	to	trust.	And	the	possibility of	betrayal	is	a	telling	sign	of	the	presence	of	full-blooded	trust	-	and	we	do not	feel	betrayed	by	objects	(Baier	1986). The	ensuing conversation	has largely followed	Baier's	basic framework. Philosophers	have	accepted	her	claim	that	trust	is	essentially	agent-directed. And	they	have	followed	Baier	in	treating	the	possibility	of	betrayal	as	the	sign that	trust	is	present.	Thus,	they	have	studied	betrayal	in	order	to	understanding	the	content	of	trust.	How	might	the	reaction	of	betrayal	be	appropriate?	In what	might	it	be	normatively	grounded? Baier's	own	account	is	that	trust	involves	ascribing	goodwill	to	the	trusted, and	that	our	sense	of	betrayal	comes	from	the	discovery	that	there	is	no	such goodwill	after	all.	Baier's	account	has	seen	some	notable	counterexamples	- such	as	Onora	O'Neill's	observation	that	you	may	trust	a	doctor	simply	for	their professionalism,	with	no	expectation	of goodwill	whatsoever (O'Neill 2002, 14). Most theorists have since abandoned Baier's particular emphasis on goodwill,	but	many	of	the	proposed	modifications	still	retain	the	general	shape of Baier's proposal.	Many of these newer theories replace Baier's focus on goodwill	with	a	focus	on	responsiveness.	According	to	responsiveness	theories of	trust,	to	trust	somebody	is	to	think	that	they	will	respond	to	your	trust	positively	-	to	think	that	the	fact	that	you	trust	them	will	give	them	a	reason	to fulfill	that	trust.	As	Karen	Jones	puts	it,	a	trustworthy	person	"takes	the	fact that	they	are	counted	on	to	be	a	reason	for	acting	as	counted	on"	(Jones	2012, 66).	Similarly,	Paul	Faulkner	suggests that	when	one	person	trusts	another, the	truster	knowingly	depends	on	the	trusted	to	do	something,	and	expects	the trusted's	knowledge	of	this	dependence	to	motivate	them	to	do	it	(Faulkner 2007b,	313).	Betrayal,	then,	is	grounded	in	the	betrayer's	failure	to	be	properly 4 responsive.	Katherine	Hawley,	on	the	other	hand,	rejects	the	details	of	the	responsiveness account, but still analyzes trust in agent-directed terms. For Hawley,	to	trust	somebody	is	to	take	them	to	have	made	a	commitment	to	do something	and	to	rely	on	them	to	fulfill	that	commitment	(Hawley	2014).	Hawley's	account	grounds	the	sense	of	betrayal	in	the	trusted	person's	failure	to live	up	to	their	commitments. Note that	Baier's	account,	Hawley's	account, and the responsiveness	account all share the	presumption	of agent-directedness.	To	put it	more	precisely,	they	all	presume	that	the	truster	must	ascribe	some	complete	agential state	to	the	trusted	-	be	it	a	belief,	motivation,	disposition,	or	commitment.	It follows,	then,	that	we	can	only	trust	the	stand-alone	bearers	of	agential	states: individuals, certainly, and also group agents, like nations and corporations (Hawley	2017).	Perhaps	we	can	also	trust	certain	complex	technological	artifacts,	like	Google	Search,	precisely	when	we	can	attribute	some	form	of	agency to	them.	But	we	cannot	trust	or	distrust	dumb	objects	with	no	agencies	of	their own. My	proposed	account	rejects	the	presumption	of	agent-directedness.	I	will describe	a	form	of	trust	that	need	not	ascribe	any	complete	agential	states	to its	target.	We	can	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	a	wide	variety	of objects	and	artifacts.	To	trust,	in	this	sense,	is	to	have	stepped	away	from	the deliberative	process. It is	a	way	of settling	one's	mind	about	something.	To trust	is	to	lower	the	barrier	of	monitoring,	challenging,	checking,	and	questioning	-	to	let	something	inside,	and	permit	it	to	play	an	immediate	role	in	one's cognition	and	activity.	It	is,	in	a	sense,	to	give	an	external	resource	a	direct	line into	one's	reasoning	and	agency.	Such	trust	is	our	mechanism	for	attempting to	integrate	other	people	and	objects	into	our	own	functioning.	This	form	of trust	is	still	deeply	bound	up	with	agency,	but	it	need	not	be	directed	only	towards	complete,	external	agents.	We	can	be	betrayed	by	objects,	then,	not	because	some	distinct	external	agent	has	failed	us,	but	because	they	have	failed us	in	our	attempt	to	integrate	them	into	our	own	agency.	Our	response	of	betrayal	towards	those	objects,	then,	is	a	close	cousin	of	the	betrayal	we	feel	towards	our	own	recalcitrant,	failing	parts. This	form	of	trust	functions	as	an	engine	for	agential	outsourcing.	When we	trust things,	we	are	granting	them	a	degree	of	cognitive intimacy	which approaches	that	of	our	own	internal	faculties	-	with	all	the	access	privileges and unquestioned acceptance that status accords. When I wholeheartedly 5 trust	my	online	calendaring	system,	I	usually	act	on	its	notifications	unquestioningly	-	just	as	I	usually	do	with	my	own	biological	memory.	This	allows for	enormous	efficiency,	but	at	the	price	of	exquisite	vulnerability.	This	also suggests that there is a distinctive form	of gullibility: agential gullibility, in which	we	too	readily	bolt	external	processes	onto	our	own	agency.	Many	of our relationships to emerging technologies - search algorithms, smartphones,	social	media	networks	-	are	marked	by	such	agential	gullibility. I	do	not	suggest	that	this	account	of	the	unquestioning	attitude	be	taken	to replace,	or	subsume,	the	traditional	agential	accounts	of	trust.	Rather, I	will suggest	that	the	unquestioning	attitude	is	one	form	of	trust,	and	that	the	more familiar	agent-directed	accounts	of trust	explore	another form	of trust.	And these	different forms	of	trust	can	interact.	For	example, I	might	take	an	unquestioning	attitude	towards	somebody	precisely	because	I	take	them	to	have the	right	sort	of	goodwill	or	responsiveness.	But	these	forms	of	trust	also	come apart.	I	trust	the	ground	in	the	unquestioning	attitude	sense,	but	not	any	agentdirected	sense.	Finally,	I	will	suggest	that	there	is	a	reason	that	we	group	these various	attitudes	together	under	the	umbrella	of	"trust":	they	are	all	ways	we have	of	expanding	our	agency	by	integrating	in	bits	of	the	external	world.	Responsive	cooperation	and	the	unquestioning	attitude	are	two	tools	for	trying to	integrate	external	resources	into	one's	agency. 2. Trusting	the	ground The	trust	literature	shares	a	common	founding	presumption:	that	trust	is a relationship we could only have towards other independent, complete agents.	Talk	of	trust	towards	non-agential	objects	has	been	easily	dismissed. After	all,	the	colloquial	language	here	is	fuzzy.	Everyday	talk	of	trust	in	objects can simply be interpreted, in our newly technical language, as concerning mere	reliance.	After	all,	how	could	you	ever	be	betrayed	by	an	object?	And	isn't the	response	of	betrayal	only	appropriate	when	directed	towards	agents? But	if	we	look	beyond	the	philosophical	discussion	of	trust	and	morality	- if	we	look	to	literature	and	to	life	-	it's	easy	to	find	talk	of	trust	in	objects.	I will,	for	the	rest	of	this	paper,	use	"trust"	to	refer	to	the	full-blooded,	normatively loaded	sense,	and	use	"objects"	to	refer	to	non-agential	objects.	And	I 6 will	take	onboard	Baier's	diagnostic.	A	sign	that	we	aren't	merely	relying	on objects,	but	actually	trusting	them,	is	the	presence	of	that	characteristic,	negative,	normatively	loaded	reaction	to	trust's	breach.	We	know	that	we	are	in the	presence	of	trust	when	we	are	willing	to	speak	of	betrayal. So:	do	we	actually	trust	objects,	in	the	full-blooded	and	normatively	loaded sense? Climbers speak of trusting the rope; they react with something far sharper	than	mere	disappointment	when	a	rope	goes	bad.	And	this	sort	of	talk isn't	just	limited	to	human	artifacts.	We	will	say	that	we	feel	betrayed	when the	ladder	gives	way	beneath	us,	but	also	by	the	collapse	of	that	solid-seeming tree	which	we	were	climbing.	We	speak	of	trusting	the	ground	-	and	of	being betrayed	by	it	when	good	footing	turns	unexpectedly	bad.	And	we	speak	of	the shock	of	discovering	the	untrustworthiness	our	own	faculties	and	parts	-	of being	betrayed	by	the	shakiness	of	our	hands	or	by	our	faltering	memory.	Superficially,	these	sorts	of	examples	seem	to	weigh	against	the	insistence	that trust	always	be	directed	at	agents. I	will	begin	in	the	familiar	mode	of	conceptual	analysis,	but	that	is	only	a starting	point.	My	aim	here	is	to	key	in	on	a	real-world	phenomenon,	using	our language	and	concepts	as	a	pointer.	And	I	have	a	larger	purpose	in	this	investigation. I think	there is	a	distinctive form	of	relationship	we	can	have	with objects,	which	goes	beyond	mere	reliance,	and	which is	best	described	as	a form	of	trust.	Contemporary	life	is	significantly	marked	by	trust	in	technological artifacts and technologically-mediated social environments: Google's search	algorithms,	smartphones,	the	ranking	algorithm	behind	Facebook	and Twitter,	the	emergent	networks	of	interconnection	on	social	media1.	Our	relationships	with	these	objects,	I	suggest,	is	far	more	potent	than	mere	reliance. One	might	respond	that	this	is	not	really	trust	in	objects,	but	trust	in	the	designers	behind	those	objects.	Sanford	Goldberg,	for	example,	suggests	that	we can	have	normatively loaded	relationships	with	designed	artifacts,	since	we are	willing	to	hold	those	designers	to	account	when	their	artifacts	fail	us	(Goldberg	2017).	According	to	Goldberg,	then,	the	sense	of	betrayal	I	feel	when	my iPhone	fails	me	is	properly	directed	at	the	corporation	and	manufacturers	behind	it. 1 For starters, see (Pariser 2011; Miller and Record, 2013; Frost-Arnold 2014; Frost-Arnold 2016; Rini 2017; Nguyen 2018b). Many of these conceptualize trust as only directed towards other agents, but mediated by these technologies. I suspect, however, that that is partly due to the present lack of available theoretical resources for making sense of trust in objects. 7 But	I	think	that	there	is	a	distinctive	sense	in	which	we	can	trust	objects themselves	-	including	non-designed	objects,	like	the	ground.	And	even	with designed	objects,	I	think	our	trust	often	cannot	be	wholly	cashed	out	in	terms of trust in the	people and institutions	who	designed those	objects. First, in many	cases,	the	artifacts	we	trust	have	run	beyond	their	creators'	abilities	to understand	or	control.	One	of	the	pressing	issues	in	the	ethics	of	technology involves	thinking	about	machine	learning	algorithms,	which	have	been	built using	evolutionary	techniques,	and	whose	innards	and	proceedings	aren't	understood	by	those	who	have	built	them	(Resch	and	Kaminski	2019;	Carabantes 2019).	Second,	key	features	of	the	network	architecture	of	online	social	structures,	such	as	social	media	networks,	have	evolved	beyond	the	intentional	control	of	the	institutions	that	have	made	them.	Third,	in	many	cases	the	question of	our	trust in	a	particular	object is	something	distinct from	our	trust in its manufacturers.	Climbers,	for	example,	need	to	decide	whether	to	trust	an	old rope.	What	matters	is	not	the	manufacturer's	goodwill	or	intent	in	manufacturing ropes. The question is whether this particular rope should still be trusted	after	its	own	particular	history	of	abuse. So let's	start	with trust in	some	obviously	non-agential	and	undesigned parts	of	the	world.	When	I	walk,	I	usually	trust	the	ground.	This	means	more than	simply	relying	on	the	ground.	When	I	trust	the	ground,	I	walk	without bothering	to	consider	whether	it	will	be	steady	beneath	my	feet.	I	don't	evaluate	the	ground	or	ponder	its	supportiveness.	I	simply	walk	on	it	while	thinking of	other things.	When I	distrust the	ground, I	am	constantly	questioning its reliability.	I	worry	about	it;	I	test	it.	If	I	am	walking	across	a	muddy	field,	riddled	with	gopher	holes,	I'll	examine	the	ground	carefully	before	each	step.	And even	when	I	do	force	myself	to	rely	on	that	muddy	ground	-	when	I	commit my	weight	to	it	-	I	still	don't	trust	it.	My	reliance	is	tentative	and	demands constant reassurance. When, on the other hand, I come to fully trust the ground, I	stop	worrying	about it.	And	the	difference	between	mere	reliance and	unquestioning	trust	tracks	our	different	negative	reactions,	too.	When	I hesitantly rely	on the	ground, I am	only	glumly	disappointed	when it gives way.	But	when	it	is	when	I	walk	without	thinking	about	it	-	when	the	ground has	become	automatically and	unthinkingly integrated into	my	background physical	processes	-	that	I	react	with	shock	and	betrayal	when	it	gives	way. I	suggest	that	trust,	here,	involves	taking	on	an	unquestioning	attitude.	To trust	something	in	this	way	is	to	rely	on	it	while	putting	its	reliability	out	of 8 mind.	When	we	don't	trust,	we	question.	Sometimes	the	answers	to	our	questions	might	be	positive;	sometimes	they	might	be	negative.	Sometimes	we	may decide	to	rely	on	something	after	we've	questioned	it	thoroughly.	But	the	lack of trust is shown in the	very	process	of	active investigation itself. It is	only when	we	have	settled	our	mind	and	stopped	actively	questioning	something that	we	truly	trust it, in	this	sense.	This	does	not	mean	that	when	you	trust something,	you	never	question	it	at	all.	To	trust	something	is	to	have	a	general disposition not to question it. That disposition can be disrupted or overwhelmed	for	the	moment,	but	we	are	still	trusting	something	so	long	as	we	are generally	disposed	to	not	question	it.	We	only	lose	trust	when	we	lose	the	disposition	itself. I	have	found	that	philosophers	who	work	on	trust	and	testimony	often	find this	use	of	"trust"	is	bizarre	and	unintuitive	-	especially	locutions	like	"trusting	the	ground"	and	feeling	"betrayed	by	the	ground."	But	it	seems	to	me	that, in fact, these	expressions	are	entirely	natural	and	comprehensible,	and it is only	excess immersion in	modern,	narrowed	philosophical theories	of trust that	renders	them	odd	to	the	ear. We	can	find	talk	of	trust	in	and	betrayal	by	the	ground	throughout	ordinary speech.	Consider	this	advice	from	a	manual	on	trail-running. So pay attention... Don't trust wooden structures. Stiles, bridges, fences, tiger traps,	path	edges:	no	matter	how	inviting	they	look,	unless	you	have	thoroughly tested them	before,	DON'T	TRUST	THEM....	Very few	running	mishaps	result in such	painful	or	long-lasting	injuries	as	overconfident	approaches	to	wooden	structures.	Just	slow	right	down	for	a	few	strides	and,	if	possible,	find	something	to	hold on	to	as	you	go...	Oh	yes,	and	don't	trust	the	ground	on	either	side	of	wooden	structures	either	-	in	case	you	were	thinking	of	leaping	over	one...	The	ground	on	either	side	will	be	much	trodden	and	thus	probably	churned	up,	slippery,	and	generally	untrustworthy.	Just	relax,	take	that	extra	second	and	speed	up	again	when you're	on	the	other	side.	(Askwith	2015,	150) Notice	that	the	runner	here	is	not	being	told	to	avoid	relying	on	the	ground. Sometimes	they	must	rely,	because	there	is	no	other	place	to	step	and	nothing else	to	hold	on	to.	The	runner	is	being	asked	to	suspend	their	unthinkingness, to	pay	attention,	to	be	careful.	They	are	not	being	told	to	avoid	any	form	of reliance;	they	are	being	told	to	suspend	their	trust.	They	are	being	told	to	rely on	the	ground,	but	in	a	mode	of	interrogating,	suspicious	awareness. The	presence	of	trust	and	betrayal	are	quite	clear	in	certain	traumatic	experiences	of	hostile	environments.	From	a	sociological	investigation	into	the 9 experience	of	war: The	veteran	also	suffers	from	a	problem	of	trust,	a	building	block	on	which	all	of social	life	is	erected.	The	everyday,	taken-for-granted	reality	of	civilian	life	ignores much;	civility	assumes	the	nonlethal	intentions	of	others.	In	war,	however,	all	such assumptions	evaporate:	one	cannot trust the	ground	one	walks	on, the	air	one breathes,	nor	can	one	expect	with	full	assuredness	that	tomorrow	will	come	again. (Kearl	1989,	353) The	best	explanation	here	is	not	that	soldiers	in	war	have	suspended	their reliance	- after all, one cannot but rely on the air and the ground.	What changes	is	their	attitude	towards	that	reliance.	They	become	suspicious,	unable	to	rest	easy	on	the	assurance	that	the	ground	and	air	will	continue	to	support	them. Tellingly,	the	language	of	trust	and	betrayal	often	crops	up	in	stories	about the	emotional	aftermath	of	earthquakes.	Douglas	Kahn	writes: I	will	never	forget	being	in	an	earthquake	near	Seattle	in	which	the	ground	itself became	acoustic,	with	swelling	waves	traveling	down	through	the	road	making houses	I	knew	well	bob	up	and	down	like	ships	on	the	sea.	"A	moment	destroys the	illusion	of	a	whole	life,"	writes	Alexander	von	Humboldt	in	Cosmos.	"Our	deceptive	faith	run	the	repose	of	nature	vanishes,	and	we	feel	transported	as	it	were into	a	realm	of	unknown	destructive	forces.	Every	sound	-	the	faintest	motion	in the	air	-	arrests	our	attention,	and	we	no	longer	trust	the	ground	on	which	we stand."	(Kahn	2013,	133) And	here	is	Betty	Berzon's	earthquake	story: The	house	rocked	and	rolled,	the	glassware	fell	out	of	the	cabinets,	the	pictures slid	off	the	walls,	the	furniture	skidded	across	the	floor,	and	light	fixtures	came crashing down from the ceiling... I	was frozen	with fright and sure the house would	topple	over	and	end	up	in	the	street	below.	I	was	certainly	going	to	die... The	6.6	earthquake	and	the	aftershocks	continued	into	the	next	day,	but	the	house didn't	fall	down.	There	is	something	about	being	betrayed	by	the	ground	underneath	you	that	feels	like	the	ultimate	treachery.	It	took	weeks	to	regain	my	equilibrium.	(Berzon	166,	2002) These	samplings	make	clear	that	we	can	trust	objects	in	the	more	substantive	sense.	And	the	loss	of	trust	can	hit	us	in	a	similarly	sharp	register,	whether it	be	in	other	people,	the	ground,	or	the	air.	These	narratives	make	clear	that this	loss	of	trust	must	be	something	beyond	the	loss	of	mere	reliance.	For	after an	earthquake,	we	must	still	rely	on	the	ground.	After	war,	we	must	still	rely 10 on	the	air.	But	suspicion intrudes	upon	us,	and	we	can	no longer	take	their reliability	for	granted.	Our	mind	is	profoundly	unsettled.	(The	fact	that	many philosophers	find	it	odd	to	speak	of	being	betrayed	by	their	environment	is perhaps	best	explained	by	the	fact	that	most	philosophers	have	lead,	by	and large,	pretty	cushy	lives.) Of	course,	one	might	continue	to	insist	that	these	uses	of	"trust"	and	"betrayal"	are	merely	metaphorical.	They	do	not	sound	so	to	my	ear.	Saying	that one felt betrayed by the ground after an earthquake, or by one's failing memory,	strike	me	as	paradigmatic invocations	of the	concept.	But	I	do	not think	that	we	can	settle	the	matter	here	just	by	comparing	the	intuitive	rings of	various	locutions	in	our	various	ears.	More	importantly,	even	if	this	use	is merely	metaphorical,	there	is	a	reason	why	we	reach	for	this	particular	metaphor	-	a	reason	why	we	reach	for	the	terms	"trust"	and	"betrayal"	when	we find ourselves profoundly perturbed by an earthquake. What's most important	here	is	to	understand	the	nature	of	the	heightened	form	of	relationship we	sometimes	hold towards	objects,	which	goes	beyond	mere	reliance,	and whose breach could reasonably ground a sharply negative, normatively loaded response	-	a response	which is entirely natural to describe as betrayal. 3. Trust	in	the	background Before	we	attempt	to	give	a	detailed	accounting	of	the	unquestioning	attitude	is,	let's	take	a	bit	of	time	to	get	clearer	on	when	and	where	it	occurs.	Crucially,	I	think	it	is	easy	to	miss	the	unquestioning	attitude	precisely	because	it is	so	pervasive.	The	unquestioning	attitude	blends	into	the	background	of	our cognition.	And	this	is	exactly	what	we	should	expect,	since	the	function	of	the unquestioning	attitude	is	precisely	to	put	certain	worries	out	of	mind.	To	settle your	mind about something is, in part, to shove it into the cognitive background. First,	we	can	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	objects,	but	we	can also	take	it	towards	other	agents.	I	trust	my	doctor	about	medical	advice	insofar	as	I	take	their	medical	suggestions	as immediate	reasons	to	act,	without pausing	to	worry	about	what	ulterior	motives	they	might	have	for	selling	me this drug. I trust the newspaper	when I simply accept its pronouncements 11 without	worrying	about	whether	its	staff	might	be	financially	biased	or	lazy.	A soldier	trusts	their	squad	mates	when	they	plunge	ahead,	believing	without question	that	their	squad	mates	have	their	back. I	was	once	involved	in	a	car	accident;	another	driver	lost	control	of	their car	and	swerved	across	a	narrow	country	highway,	hitting	me	head-on.	Afterwards,	I	lost	my	trust	in	other	drivers.	I	hadn't	realized,	in	fact,	how	much	I	had been trusting	other	drivers	until that trust suddenly evaporated.	What	had changed?	It	wasn't	my	attributions	of	goodwill	or	responsiveness	to	the	other drivers.	If	you	had	asked	me	before	and	after	the	accident,	I	would	have	made the	same	estimate	of	how	much	goodwill	and	responsiveness	I	could	reasonably	expect	from	other	drivers.	What's	more,	I	had	relied	on	other	drivers	before	the	accident,	and	I	still	relied	on	other	drivers	after	the	accident.	What changed	in	the	accident	was	my	ability	to	sink	into	the	unquestioning	state.	I was	stuck in	an	endlessly	suspicious	mood.	What	had	changed	-	what	had evaporated	-	was	my	easy,	settled,	unquestioning	state	of	mind. When	we	say	we	trust	agents,	then,	often	much	of	that	trust	is	actually	best cashed	out in terms	of the	unquestioning	attitude sense	of trust, instead	of strictly	in	terms	of	agent-directed	accounts.	But	this	is	often	misunderstood, because the conversation	about trust	has sometimes focused	on the	wrong sorts	of	cases.	We	often	focus	our	analysis	on	those	cases	where	trust	comes to	mind.	But	that	focus	is	misleading.	So	much	of	our	trust	occurs	in	the	cognitive	background.	Often, it is	only	when	our	trust is threatened	that	we	suddenly	realize	how	much	we	have	been	trusting	all	along	-	as	with	my	car	accident.	As	Baier	puts	it,	we	inhabit	trust	like	we	inhabit	the	air,	and	we	only notice	it	when	it	has	departed	(Baier	1986,	99;	Jones	2004).	Similarly,	Thomas Simpson	suggests	that	all	our	varied	talk	of	trust	descends	from	a	simple	primitive phenomenon: our need to cooperate. But this ur-trust is such a background feature	of	our lives that	we	barely think	or talk	about it.	Trust	only comes	to	mind	once	it	has	been	threatened.	Thus,	the	fact	that	we	are	actively thinking	and	talking	about	our	trust	actually	indicates	that	we	are	likely	at	the peripheries	of	the	core	phenomena.	In	fact,	talk	of	trust	has	many	apparently different	faces,	which	reflect	all	the	different	ways	ur-trust	can	be	threatened (Simpson	2012,	560-1).	The	implications	of	this	analysis	are	quite	striking:	if we	only	analyze	those	incidents	where	issues	of	trust	have	come	to	the	forefront	of	our	consciousness	and	conversation,	we	will	actually	miss	out	on	the heart	of	the	matter. In this light, let's reconsider some of the standard examples that have 12 fueled	the	literature	on	trust.	Take	Richard	Holton's	central	case,	from	which he	builds	much	of	his	account	of trust: the trust fall,	an	exercise	beloved	of acting	classes	and	management training	courses,	where	we	make	ourselves fall	into	the	arms	of	others.	When	we	take	a	trust	fall,	says	Holton,	we	decide to	trust.	We	will	ourselves	to	trust.	Cases	like	this	suggest	to	Holton	that	trust can	be	voluntary,	and	that	it	can	outrun	the	evidence.	We	do	not	know	if	people will	catch	us,	but	we	decide	to	trust	them	in	order	to	find	out	(Holton	1994).	If we	focused	on	these	sorts	of	cases,	we	might	end	up	thinking	that	trust	is	not so	unthinking,	after	all.	The	process	of	questioning	and	weighing	considerations	seem	quite	prominent	with	the	trust	fall.	The	novice	climber,	too,	typically	engages	in	a	tentative	and	deliberate	process	as	they	learn	to	trust	the rope.	If	we	took	trust	falls	to	be	paradigmatic	instances	of	trust,	then	it	would be	serious	mark	against	my	account	-	especially	when	we	think	of	trust	falls onto	the	climbing	rope.	After	all,	here	is	a	moment	of	trust	in	an	object	full	of consciousness,	indecisiveness,	and	questioning. But	notice	that	these	staged	trust	falls	are	actually	at	the	periphery	of	trust. Trust	falls	are	done	between	people	that	do	not	trust,	as	an	exercise	in	learning how	to	trust.2	Similarly, the	novice	climber	who	nervously	talks	themselves into	taking	practice	fall	after	practice	fall	onto	the	rope	is	not	yet	fully	trusting; they	are	at	an	early	stage	on	the	path	to	trust.	The	paradigm	of	trust	in	being caught	actually	looks	quite	different.	Consider	the	experienced	rock	climber's attitude	toward	their	rope	and	their	gear.	A	novice	rock	climber	tests	the	rope gingerly,	occasionally	weighting	it,	telling	themselves	over	and	over	again	to trust	it.	This	is	part	of	the	process	of	coming	to	trust	-	but	it	is	only	the	beginning	of	the	process.	While	they	are	engaged	in	this	process	of	self-negotiation and	self-reassurance,	we	would	say	that	they	do	not	yet	fully	trust	the	rope.	It is	the	experienced	rock	climber	who	truly	trusts	their	rope.	Their	trust	is	reflected	in	the	fact	that	concerns	about	the	rope's	reliability	occupy	no	mental space	for	them	at	all.	And	that	trust	lets	them	focus	all	their	mental	efforts	on the	climb	itself	(Ilgner	2006). 2 Pamela Hieronymi offers a similar explanation of Holton's discussion: that what we are doing here is not full-blooded trust, but merely entrusting - acting as if we trusted, as part of the process of building trust (Hieronymi 2008). 13 4. Trust	and	resolve I	now	owe	an	account	of	how	one	might	reasonably	trust	objects,	and	reasonably	expect	something	of	those	objects,	in	a	way	that	might	justify	a	sharply negative,	normatively	loaded	response	to	the	breach	of	trust.	But,	at	the	same time,	that	account	should	not	require	that	trust	involve	attributing	any	complete	agential	states	to	the	trusted.	I	will	now	attempt	to	give	such	an	account. I	take	inspiration	here	from	a	very	different	sector	of	Holton's	philosophical	work:	his	analysis	of	weakness	and	strength	of	will.	Let's	examine	his	account	in	some	depth.	To	exercise	willpower,	says	Holton,	is	to	close	yourself	to a	certain	kind	of	reconsideration.	It	is	to	settle	your	mind	in	a	certain	direction. Holton	is	building	here	on	Michael	Bratman's	account	of	intentions.	Suppose	I form	an	intention.	Later	on,	I	can	act	directly	from	that	previously	formed	intention.	I	don't	re-deliberate,	treating	my	past	self's	decision	as	merely	one	input	among	many.	In	other	words,	I	don't	treat	my	remembered	intention	as the	mere issuances of some distinct past self. In ordinary circumstances, I simply	act	on	my	past	intention.	What	it	is	to	form	an	intention	is	to	make	up one's	mind	in	a	way	that	extends	to	one's	future	self.	It	is	to	have	decided	for one's	future	self. In	order	to	perform	that	role,	intentions	must	have	a	certain	stability.	They must	exhibit	cognitive	inertia.	This	doesn't	mean	that	intentions	can't	ever	be re-considered.	Rather,	the	standards	for	re-consideration	are	much	higher.	For example:	I	might	take	all	sorts	of	reasons	into	account	when	deciding	where to	go	to	dinner	tonight	-	like	what	my	current	cravings	are,	or	the	exact	state of	my	bank	account.	But	once	I	form	the	intention	to	go	to	Roscoe's	House	of Chicken	and	Waffles,	I	close	myself	to	reconsidering	that	intention	from	minor fluctuations	in	the	usual	run	of	considerations.	I	will	only	re-open	deliberation in	the	face	of	some	drastic	change	in	the	circumstances,	like	Roscoe's	catching fire,	or	a	violent	case	of	the	stomach	flu. What's	more,	says	Holton,	we	sometimes	need	something	stronger	than	an intention:	we	need	a	resolution.	We	make	resolutions	when	we	need	to	steel our	ourselves	against	future	temptations.	A	resolution,	says	Holton,	is	a	pair	of intentions:	it	is	an	intention	to	do	something,	and	then	a	second-order	intention	not	to	let	that	first-order	intention	be	deflected	(Holton	2009,	11).	In	other words,	willpower includes the power to	actively refuse to reconsider intentions.	It	is,	we	might	say,	willful	inertia.	And	we	breach	a	resolution	when	we open	it	up	to	the	possibility	of	revision.	That	refusal	to	re-consider	is	required 14 for	resolutions	to	play	their	particular	role.	As	Holton	puts	it: ...Much	of	the	point	of	a	resolution,	as	with	any	other	intention,	is	that	it	is	a	fixed point	around	which	other	actions	-	one's	own	and	those	of	others	-	can	be	coordinated. To reconsider an intention is exactly to remove that status from it. (121-2) Why	do	we	need	to	close	ourselves	off	in	this	way	-	both	acquiring	cognitive	inertia	itself,	and	then	sometimes	doubling	down	with	active	and	willful support	for	that	inertia?	First,	says	Bratman,	we	need	to	fix	intentions	in	order to	make	plans,	both	with	ourselves	and	with	others.3	And	resolutions	firm	up our	plans,	solidifying	them	in	the	face	of	temptation.	But	behind	this	thought lies	deeper	considerations	about	cognitive	finitude.	I	only	have	so	many	cognitive	resources	to	go	around,	and	this	is	a	way	to	conserve	them.	The	cognitive inertia	of	intentions	is	central	to	their	role	in	cognitive	resource	management, and	we	sometimes	need	to	cement	that	cognitive	inertia	through	an	active	effort	of	will.	Limited	beings	need	to	settle	their	minds	about	about	some	investigations	in	order	to	free	up	their	cognitive	resources	for	other	investigations, and	they	need	to	work	to	protect	that	settled	state	of	mind. I	suggest	that	the	unquestioning	attitude	of	trust	plays	a	roughly	analogous role	to	that	of	resolutions	in	settling	the	mind.	I	do	not	mean	to	claim	here	that trust	is	some	sort	of	resolution.	I	mean,	instead,	to	indicate	a	functional	similarity between trusting and	making resolutions. Trust is a strategy to cope with	our	cognitive	finitude	and	manage	our	limited	cognitive	resources	-	to steel	ourselves	across	time	to	the	cognitive	disruption	of	dealing	with	new	evidence	by	(defeasibly)	closing	our	minds	against	re-consideration.	Trust	is	a way	of	establishing	fixed	points	in	our	deliberation.	And	trust	is	distinct	from resolutions, because it is a	way of establishing external fixed points	- resources	that	we	will	always	accept	without	question,	resources	that	we	will rely	on	without	thought. Here	is	the	unquestioning	attitude	account	of	trust: To	trust	X	to	P	is	to	have	an	attitude	of	not	questioning	that	X	will	P. We	can	also	offer	a	specific instantiation	of this	unquestioning trust, for trusting	informational	sources: 3 (Holton 2009, 2-4; Bratman 1987). My terminology and framing here draws on Holton's presentation of Bratman. 15 To	trust	X	as	an	informational	source	in	domain	Z	is	to	have	an	attitude	of not	questioning	X's	deliverances	that	Z.4 Let's	take	a	look	under	the	hood.	I	intend	the	"attitude	of	not	questioning" to	have	a	similar	two-tiered	structure	as	Holton's	account	of	resolutions.	To trust	X	to	P	is	to	have	a	first-order	disposition	to	immediately	accept	that	X	will P,	and	a	second-order	disposition	to	deflect	questioning	about	the	first-order disposition. First,	note	that	having	an	unquestioning	attitude	that	X	will	P	does	not	involve	a	disposition	to	come	to	a	particular	conclusion	from	deliberation	about whether	X	will	P,	or	to	discount	certain	forms	of	evidence	while	deliberating about	whether	X	will	P.	It	is	a	disposition	against	deliberating,	in	the	first	place, whether	X	will	P.5	Second,	an	unquestioning	attitude	is	defeasible,	but	the	reasons	needed	for	defeating	the	unquestioning	attitude	that	X	will	P	need	to	be significantly	stronger	than	merely	being	reasons	that	bear	against	belief	that X	will	P.	The	unquestioning	attitude	towards	X's	doing	P	is	thus	resistant: it maintains itself	against	some	classes	of	considerations	that	would	normally weigh	against	my	believing	that	X	will	P.	Third,	the	account	is	intended	to	indicate	a	spectrum	concept.	One	can	trust	with	varying	degrees	of	unreservedness,	since	one	can	hold	the	dispositions	with	varying	degrees	of	force.	Finally, in	almost	all	cases,	the	scope	of	trust	in	X	will	be	restricted	to	some	particular functions	of	X.	However,	in	colloquial	usage,	the	scope	of	trust	is	often	implicit and	understood	from	context	-	usually in light	of	some	highlighted	role	or function.	When	I	say	I	trust	my	doctor,	I	can	be	understood	to	mean	that	I	trust my	doctor to	perform their	medical duties, and	not that I trust them to	do modal	logic	or	play	jazz. 4 "Deliverances" here is meant to be a general term for transmitting propositional content. The deliverances of other people are usually what we call "testimony". But other cases of trusting informational sources' deliverances include: trusting my watch to tell the time; trusting my eyes to deliver accurate visual information; trusting my calendaring system to auto-synch between my phone, laptop, and tablet and report to me the events that I have entered into it; and trusting Google Search to deliver search results organized by relevance 5 My account here shares certain thematic similarities to Lara Buchak's account of faith as steadfastness in the face of counter-evidence (Buchak 2017), but the key difference is here. Buchak's analysis concerns cases in which it is rational for me to commit myself in a way so as to ignore counter-evidence during deliberation; my analysis concerns when we suspend deliberation altogether. 16 Next,	notice	that	the	account	does	not	say	that	to	trust	X	to	P	is	to	not	question	X	in	any	way.	It	says,	rather,	that	to	trust	X	is	not	to	question	that	X	will	P. That	is,	when	I	trust	X	to	P,	I	don't	question	X's	efficacy	in	particular	instances of	doing	P.	By	the	account	I've	given,	it	is	possible	to	trust	that	X	will	P	while asking	questions	about	X	in	general	-	so	long	as	we	accept	X's	particular	deliverances	and	affordances	in	regards	to	P.	It's	possible	to	trust	something	and, at	the	same	time,	to	ask	general	questions	about	that	thing's	reliable	functioning,	so long	as	we	don't	question	particular instances	of that functioning.	For example:	suppose	Esi	is	a	memory	researcher.	Her	research	focuses	on	the	fallibility	of	memory;	she	frequently	asks	questions	about	human	memory	in	general,	and	is	willing	to	extend	those	theoretical	worries	to	her	own	memory.	So long	as	she	doesn't	question	her	memories	of	what	she	had	for	breakfast	or what	time	her	doctor's	appointment	is,	then	she	still	can	be	said	to	trust	her memory	to	deliver	particular	contents.	Of	course,	questioning	her	memory	in general	may	lead	to	questioning	particular	contents	presented	by	her	memory -	but	the	two	levels	of	questioning	are	conceptually	distinct.	Similarly,	academic	philosophers	can	ask	as	many	questions	as	they	like	about	the	justifiability	of	accepting	the	deliverances	of	their	senses,	but	they	can	still	be	said	to trust	their	senses	to	deliver	accurate	presentations	of	the	world	so	long	as	they unquestioningly	accept	particular	sensory	presentations. Importantly, trust is an	unquestioning	attitude	-	understood	as a twotiered	set	of	dispositions	-	and	not	a	total	cessation	of	questioning.	Those	dispositions	can	be	defeated	in	particular	instances	and	yet	still	remain	as	dispositions.	I	may	trust	my	friend	about	all	movie	trivia,	and	then	come	across	good reason	to	think	they	have	probably	made	a	particular	mistake	about	the	casting	history	of	Ozu's	Late	Spring.	That	doesn't	destroy	my	trust	in	my	friend's encyclopedic	movie	knowledge,	because	it	doesn't	budge	my	overall	disposition	to	accept	their	claims	about	cinema	unquestioningly.	The	inertia	of	trust can	survive	the	occasional	disturbance.	I	only	lose	trust	when	I	lose	that	inertia -	when	I	lose	the	dispositions	against	questioning	and	let	any	sort	of	considerations	trigger	redeliberation	about	their	claims. Furthermore,	the	account	specifies	that	trust	is	an	unquestioning	attitude, and	not	that	it	has	gone	unquestioned.	The	account	is	entirely	compatible	with my	having	questioned,	sought	justifications	for,	and	deciding	to	trust,	prior	to my	actually	trusting.	Don't	confuse	the	issue	of	what	it	is	to	trust	with	the	issue of	the	basis	on	which	one	has	come	to	trust.	I	can	decide	to	trust	this	rope	to hold	my	weight	because	it	has	held	it	so	many	times	in	the	past.	But	what	it	is 17 to	decide	to	trust	the	rope	is	to	decide,	henceforth,	to	stop	questioning	it.	Notice,	though,	that	the	unquestioning	attitude	account	is	also	compatible	with forms	of	trust	which	have	never	been	questioned.	Naive	trust	in	authority	and in	the	physical	environment	often	has	such	a	character.	As	Baier	says,	any	adequate	account	of	trust	has	to	take	into	account	the	trust	of	children	for	their caregivers	(Baier	1986,	240-6).	And	I take it that	when	my	toddler	eats the food	I	give	him,	he	may	have	no	reasons	for	his	unquestioning	acceptance	of what	I	hand	him.	He	has	always	trusted	me	and	he	plunges	the	food	into	his mouth	without	a	moment's	hesitation.	A	point	in	favor	of	the	unquestioning attitude	account	is	how	well	it	models	such	naive,	unconsidered	trust.	My	toddler's	trust	in	me	is	one	of	the	paradigmatic	instances	of	trust	-	but	it	is	not best	explained	in	terms	of	his	attributing	some	commitment	or	benevolence	to me.	It	is	something	more	unthinking	than	that.	His	trust,	I	suggest,	is	constituted	by	his	unquestioning	acceptance	of	my	food	offerings. The	unquestioning	attitude	account	also	explains	why	trust	is	often	recalcitrant.	I	often	find	it	hard	to	trust,	even	if	all	my	reasons	indicate	that	I	should.6 I	may	have	every	reason	to	think	my	belayer	and	climbing	rope	trustworthy -	but,	still,	I	might	find	myself	unable	to	trust	them.	I	have	come	to	trust	only when	I	actually	have	made	the	transition	to	the	unquestioning	attitude.	Consider	a	well-documented	exercise	for	learning	to	trust:	Arno	Ilgner's	technique for	training	climbers	to	trust	their	gear	and	their	belayer.	A	beginning	climber has	likely	done	their	research	and	learned	that	modern	ropes	simply	do	not break	in	standard	circumstances,	and	that	modern	climbing	gear	is	at	least	as trustworthy	as,	say,	a	car.	They	have	likely	chosen	a	trustworthy	belayer.	But many	beginning	climbers	find	that	they	cannot	banish	worries	about	the	rope and	the	belayer	from	their	mind,	which	greatly	limits	their	ability	to	climb	fearlessly	and	efficiently.	Ilgner's	solution	to	this	mental	difficulty	is	simply	practice	and	repetition	with	falls.	The	climber	must	climb	a	little	bit	above	their last	anchor	point,	and	jump	off	so	many	times	that	they	simply	become	bored. Then	they	must	climb	a	little	higher,	and	jump	off,	over	and	over	again.	And, over	time,	the	evidence	they	have	that	the	rope	will	not	break	becomes	something	else:	a	confidence	so	complete	that	it	recedes	into	the	background,	and 6 The observation of recalcitrance comes from (Baker 1987). Karen Jones has offered a different account of the recalcitrance of trust. She suggests that trust is an affective attitude of optimism about the trusted's goodwill and competence (Jones 1996) My reasons for thinking trust is an attitude, rather than a set of reasons, borrows from Jones' analysis. Obviously, we cannot generalize her account's particular references to goodwill and competence to understand trust in objects. 18 then	the	climber	can	focus	entirely	on	the	climb	itself,	without	having	to	worry about	their	gear	or	having	to	rehearse	to	themselves	all	the	reasons	they	have to	think	it	trustworthy.	The	transition	from	mere	reliance	to	trust	here	is	exactly	the	transition	between	having	the	reasons	to	trust	and	having	the	further attitude	of	unquestioning	acceptance	(Ilgner	2006). 5. The	integrative	stance Does	the	unquestioning	acceptance	account	meet	our	desiderata	for	an	account	of trust?	Let's start	with	Hawley's	demand for	a tripartite account	of trust.	Hawley	notes	that	reliance	has	only	two	states	-	we	either	rely	on	something,	or	we	don't.	But	with trust, there	are three	distinctive	states.	We	can actively	trust	or	actively	distrust.	But	we	can	also	occupy	a	third,	neutral	state -	what	Hawley	calls	non-trust.	Actively	distrusting	somebody	is	a	very	different	state	from	merely	not	trusting	them.	Any	theory	of	trust	needs	to	account for	all	three	of	these	possible	registers. The	unquestioning	acceptance	account	meets	Hawley's	demand	quite tidily.	To	trust is to	have	an	unquestioning	attitude.	To	distrust is to	have	an actively	questioning	attitude.	And to	non-trust is to	have	a	neutral	attitude, which	is	entirely	open	and	unresistant	to	both	questioning	and	non-questioning,	as	the	situation	suggests.	I	trust	the	ground	when	I	don't	think	about	it, and	when	that	unthinkingness	has	been	adopted	as	a	disposition	with	some weight	and	resistance	behind	it.	One	uneven	bit	of	sidewalk	doesn't,	by	itself, disrupt	my	trust	in	the	ground.	I	come	to	distrust	the	ground	only	when	I	acquire	a	disposition	to	actively	worry	about	and	question	each	step.	And	I	nontrust	the	ground	when	I	maintain	no	disposition	in	particular,	but	let	whatever considerations	arise	push	me	in	either	direction.	Most	of the	time,	my	trust settings	are	something	like	this:	I	trust	the	sidewalk	and	the	highway;	I	distrust swampy	and	icy	ground;	and	I	non-trust	natural	grassy	plains	and	the	average backcountry	hiking	paths. Now	for	the	main	event:	we	need	to	explain	how	this	form	of	trust	is	something	above	and	beyond	mere	reliance.	And	we	need	to	do	so in	a	way	that could	help	explain	why	we	might	feel	betrayal.	On	a	first	pass,	our	language	is full	of	talk	of	betrayal	by	non-agents:	of	being	betrayed	by	our	body	when	it fails	to	obey	our	will,	of	being	betrayed	by	our	memory	when	it	starts	to	go;	of 19 rage	and	anger	at	our	malfunctioning	computers	and	recalcitrant	devices.	But is	this	merely	a	sloppy	or	metaphorical	use	of	"betrayal"?	To	claim	that	it	is	a full-throated	use	of	"betrayal",	we	would	need	to	explain	what	might	ground and	make	appropriate	the	reaction	of	betrayal.	But	how	could	it	ever	be	reasonable	to	have	normatively	charged	expectations	of	objects?	How	could	objects	ever	be	the	appropriate	subjects	of	criticism? Thinking	about	how	we	can	be	betrayed	by	our	parts	will	shed	some	light on	the	matter.	Betrayal	by	our	body	and	our	mental faculties	seems	to	be	a paradigmatic	case	of	non-agential	betrayal.	We	would	be	profoundly	shocked if	one	of	our limbs	were	to	suddenly	resist	our	control,	refusing	to	move in accordance	with	our	intent,	or	lunging	about	of	its	own	accord.	We	rage	and blame	when	our	memory	starts	to	go.	What	could	justify	the	sharpness	of	that reaction?	It	can't	be	that	my	faculty	of	memory	has	made	some	commitment or	that	it	bears	goodwill	towards	me.	It	can	do	no	such	thing.	My	memory	isn't responsive	to	my	trust	as	such,	either.	My	faculty	of	memory	is	too	cognitively simple	to	recognize	or	be	motivated	by	my	trust	in	it.	My	memory	is	no	separate	agent	at	all.	Rather,	I	feel	betrayed	because	my	memory	had	been	tightly integrated	into	my	basic	functioning	-	until	it	started	to	let	me	down. The	external	objects	that	evoke	the	strongest	sense	of	betrayal	are	those whose	functions	are	most	tightly	integrated	into	our	own	thinking	and	functioning:	our	musical	instruments,	our	wheelchairs,	our	smartphones,	our	social	media	networks,	our	walking	sticks,	our	cars.	Even	the	more	distant	examples	-	like	the	ground	-	are	part	of	our	background	system	of	affordances.7 The	ground's	stability	is	a	part	of	how	I	walk,	and	especially	how	I	walk	with ease.	It	is	not	exactly	a	part	of	myself,	but	it	is	tightly	integrated	into	my	background	functionality.	It	is	the	loss	of	that	effortless	integration	-	the	suggestion	that	the	earth	might	have,	so	to	speak,	a	mind	of	its	own	-	that	makes earthquakes so disturbing. Let	me suggest, then, that the normativity here arises,	not	from	there	being	any	moral	commitments	in	play,	but	from	teleological integration. It is the	normativity of integrated functionality, of parts 7 Consider, for example, the well-known cases where an instrument seems to become an integrated part of one's perceptual system, like a walking stick. Classical discussions are in (Merleau-Ponty 1962) and (Gibson [1979] 2014). The theme has been taken up by the extended mind literature, especially (Clark 2008, 30-43). Notice that the argument I give here doesn't turn on any robust version of the extended mind thesis, that such external objects can become literally part of one's mind. My argument only depends on the weaker commonplace, that affordances can become phenomenally integrated into one's practical functioning and cognition. 20 knitted	together	into	a	functional	whole.	The	negative	reaction	here	towards the	failure	of	one's	trusted	memory,	I	think,	is	one	of	alienation	-	a	type	(or at	least	close	neighbor)	of	betrayal.8 One	feels	alienated	towards	a	part	when one	discovers	that	what	one	thought	was	a	perfectly	integrated	piece	of	one's self	is,	in	fact,	failing	to	function	as	a	smooth	part	of	one's	agency.	That	part	is failing	to	be	a	good	participant in	one's functional	whole. It	seems	perfectly appropriate	for	me	to	feel	betrayed	by	my	parts	-	my	memory,	my	hands	- for	failing	in	their	tasks.	This	reaction	is,	then,	not	entirely	unrelated	to	agency. But	it	is	not	a	reaction	necessarily	orientated	towards	independent,	self-sufficient	agents.	It	is	a	reaction	directed	at	parts	of	agents	by	the	whole	agent	- or	by	other	parts	of	that	agent	-	for	failing	the	rest.	And	those	parts	need	not be	independent	agencies	in	and	of	themselves	in	order	to	merit	our	sense	of alienation	when	they	come	apart	from	us.	Reproach	at	one's	parts	for	failing	is appropriate,	not	on	moral	grounds,	but	on	grounds	of	functional	unity. Some	might	think	that it is	odd	to	think	of	betrayal	as	a	response	to	the failure of one's integrated parts. Betrayal, in most philosophical accounts, turns	out	to	be	a	specifically	moral	notion,	directed	at	other	people.	This	is	why various	analyses	of	trust	have	tried	to	ground	betrayal	in	obviously	morallyinvolved	phenomena,	such	as	responsiveness	and	commitments.	But	betrayal, it	seems	to	me,	is	more	deeply	connected	with	notions	of	integration	than	it	is with	notions	of	commitment	or	responsiveness.	After	all,	there	are	plenty	of ways	in	which	somebody	can	fail	to	be	responsive	to	my	needs	or	fail	to	live up	to	their	commitments,	but	where	I	don't	feel	betrayed.	I	depend	on	the	administrative	assistants	in	my	university	payroll	department	to	be	motivated by	my	needs.	Their	failures	might	leave	me	frustrated	and	angry,	but	not	betrayed.	Betrayal	is	a	more	intimate	notion;	we	are	betrayed	by	those	that	are close	to	us,	with	whom	we	work	in	intimate	concert.	We	are	betrayed	when something	we	were	trying	to	make	into	a	part	of	ourselves	shears	away	from us,	or	when	we	are	let	down	by	somebody	with	whom	we	were	trying	to	form a collective	unit. It is far	more	natural to speak	of being	betrayed	by	one's memory	than	of	being	betrayed	by	some	distant	bureaucrat	on	whose	cooperation	one's	visa	application	depends.	The	primary	axis	around	which	betrayal revolves,	I	suggest,	is	that	of	agential	integration.	Moral	criticism	often	comes into	the	picture	in	those	cases	where	we	make	use	of	various	moral	apparatus -	like	commitments	-	to	help	enable	the	integration. 8 I don't mean alienation here in the very particular modern notion, such as the Marxist usage (Jaeggi 2014). I mean to be drawing on a more colloquial use of the term. 21 Holton	suggests	that	the	responses	of trust	are	part	of	what	he	calls the participant stance. This is the characteristic stance that	one	agent takes towards another agent,	which involves taking part in a network of agent-directed	attitudes	and	actions:	praise,	blame,	ascribing	responsibility,	feeling	betrayal.	And	interpersonal	trust	of	this	sort	plausibly	occurs	against	the	background	of	the	participant	stance.	But	thinking	about	object-oriented	trust	reveals	another	kind	of	stance	we	can	take	up,	which	we	might	call	the	integrative	stance.	This	is	our	attitude	towards	things	that	we	take	to	be	part	of	us, and towards things	with	which	we are supposed to be integrating to form some	larger	whole.	I	take	the	integrative	stance	to	be	my	stance	towards	my own	parts	-	like	my	hands	and	my	memory	-	but	also	towards	my	fellow parts	-	like	my	fellow	team-members,	fellow	employees,	or	fellow	citizens. And	I	think	the	integrative	stance	begins	to	explain	the	fact	that	we	feel	betrayed	by	the	failure	of	some	objects,	but	not	others.	I	may	rely	on	my	shelf	to hold	up	my	books,	but	I	do	not	feel	betrayed	if	it	collapses	-	only	deeply	annoyed.	But	I	have	a	much	sharper	reaction	if	the	steering	on	my	car	suddenly breaks	down,	or	if	my	computer	mouse	begins	to	respond	erratically	to	input, or	if	my	smartphone	begins	to	scroll	at	random,	or	when	the	files	on	my	computer	desktop	suddenly	rearrange	themselves,	entirely	unbidden.	My	car,	my mouse,	my laptop	- these	objects	have come to	be functionally integrated with	me	to	various	extents,	and	the	breakdown	of	that	integration	is	a	violation from	the	point	of	view	of	the	integrative	stance.	When	I	integrate	other	objects into	my	agency,	I,	in	a	sense,	extend	my	agency	into	them,	and	so	invest	them with	such	status	so	as	to	be	the	appropriate	objects	of	a	very	particular	sort	of reproach. This	suggests	an	account	of	the	functional	importance	of	the	unquestioning attitude. For	most of	my sub-parts, holding a questioning attitude towards them	would	impede	my	efficient	functioning.	I	need	to	trust	my	parts	-	and what	this	means	is	not	simply	that	I	rely	on	them,	but	that	I	can	take	my	reliance	for	granted.	When	I	truly	make	something	a	well-integrated	part	of	my functional	system,	I	drop	the	barriers.	When	I	trust	my	memory,	I	let	my	various cognitive	processes	use the	deliverances	of	my	memory	without a	moment's	hesitation.	The	same	is	true,	I	suggest,	when	we	begin	to	incorporate external resources into	our functioning.	The	unquestioning	attitude lets	me give	external	resources	a	direct	pipeline	into	my	cognitive	and	practical	functioning.	When	one	member	of	an	elite	and	tightly	knit	unit	of	soldiers	shouts, "Duck!,"	the	other	members	simply	duck.	I	trust	the	calendaring	function	on 22 my	phone	since	I	treat	its	alerts	as	immediate	directives	for	where	I	am	supposed	to	go,	and	its	silence	as	an	unquestioned	indication	that	I	have	no	immediate	obligations.	To	trust	something	is	to	let	it	in,	to	let	it	muck	about	directly with	one's	practical	and	cognitive	innards.	To	trust	something	is	to	attempt	to bring	it	to	the	inside	of	one's	practical	functioning.	Again:	such	trust	is	not	indestructible.	The	unquestioning	attitude	can	be	defeated	if	the	right	sorts	of evidence	and	considerations	arise.	Rather,	to	trust	is	to	be	strongly	disposed to	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	-	to	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	as	a moderately	static	default	stance So	here	is	the	answer	to	our	question	about	how	we	might	ground	negative reactions	towards	objects	-	how	we	might	explain	their	air	of	normative	bite. Trust	is	an	unquestioning	attitude.	The	primary	use	of	the	unquestioning	attitude	is	as	cognitive	grease	for	functional	integration.	This	explains	the	sharply negative	reaction	that	arises	from	failures	of	trust.	Such	reactions	are	ones	of alienation, arising from the integrative stance, towards things we thought were	well-integrated	parts	of	our functioning,	when they fail to	be	well-behaved	parts	of	our	integrated,	functional	whole. Let	me	offer	a	sketch	of	an	even larger	thought.	This	sketch	will take	us quickly	over	some	very	heady	philosophical	terrain,	but	I	think	it	might	be	useful	to	scout	out	where	this	line	of	thinking	might	take	us.	Many	philosophers have	suggested	that	there	is	a	deep	relationship	between	our	intentions	and the	unity	of	our	agency	over	time.	As	Edward	Hinchman	puts	it,	when	I	make up	my	mind	to	do	something	at	one	time,	I	don't	usually	re-deliberate	about that	decision	later	on.	It	is	self-trust,	says	Hinchman,	that	binds	me	together	as an	agent	over	time.	Let's	say	that,	this	morning,	I	decided	to	make	a	chicken stir-fry	for	dinner.	This	evening,	I	buy	bok	choy	and	chicken	breast	because	of that	earlier	decision.	When	I'm	in	the	grocery	store,	I	don't	re-deliberate,	treating	my	past	self's	decision	as,	say,	testimony	from	an	alien	source	which	provides	an	input	into	my	present	deliberation.	What	it	is	to	trust	my	past	self	is to	simply	buy	the	bok	choy	because	my	past	self	had	settled	on	it.	As	long	as things	are	going	as	usual,	and	my	intention	hasn't	been	defeated,	my	past	deliberation	has	closed	the	matter	(Hinchman	2003). But	it is	not	just	trust	in	my	past	self; it is	also	trust	in	my	present	self's faculties	to	maintain	the	connection	to	the	past	self.	I	trust	my	memory.	As	Tyler	Burge	puts,	memory	doesn't	just	supply	propositions	about	past	events	- "...it	preserves [propositions], together	with their judgmental force" (Burge 23 1993,	462).	That	is,	if	I	perceived	something	in	the	past	such	that	my	perception	was	conclusive	to	my	past	self,	and	my	memory	conveys	that	conclusion to	my	present	self,	I	don't	relate	to	that	remembered	conclusion	as	one	bit	of evidence	among	many;	I	don't	treat	it	as	a	mere	input	to	some	further	deliberation.	The	conclusiveness	itself	transmits.	For	this	to	work,	my	memory	must transmit	the	force	of	my	past	self's	conclusiveness	even	if	I	don't	remember the	details	of	the	process	of	reasoning	that	lead	to	that	remembered	conclusion.	So	long	as	I	trust	my	memory,	it	functions	as	a	direct	pipeline	from	my past	self	into	my	present	self.	And	we,	as	cognitively	finite	beings,	all	need	to trust	in	this	way.	We	must	often	engage	in	chains	of	reasoning	that	are	longer than	our	consciousness	can	grasp	in	any	single	moment.	We	must,	then,	have the	capacity	to	use	our	memory	to	integrate	past	conclusions	into	present	deliberations, even	when those	past conclusions	are	presented to	us shorn	of their	accompanying	evidence	and	reasoning.	That	is	the	only	way	we	can	manage	to	pass	long	chains	of	reasoning	through	the	limited	pinhole	of	our	consciousness. I simply don't have the cognitive resources to constantly question my parts.	The	unquestioning	attitude is	needed	for the	seamless,	efficient functioning	of	my	integrated	parts.	When	we	trust	others,	I	suggest,	we	are	bringing	them	into	a	relationship	roughly	analogous	to	what	we	have	with	our	own faculties.	Self-trust	and	other-trust,	then,	turn	out	to	be	very	much	of	a	kind. When	one trusts external informational sources, one grants them	a similar cognitive	status	as	one's	own	memory	and	other	internal	cognitive	resources. When	my	spouse,	who	I	trust	entirely,	shouts	to	me	that	the	child	has	gotten his	hands	on	a	knife,	I	just	start	sprinting	towards	him.	Her	testimony	is	simply entered,	instantly,	into	my	set	of	accepted	beliefs,	just	as	would	be	a	belief	presented	to	me	through	my	own	memory.	When	I	trust	Google	Search,	I	let	its ordering	of	the	search	results	direct	my	attention	almost	as	if	they	were	part of	my	own	cognitive	processes. One	use	of	the	unquestioning	attitude,	then,	would	be	to	let	one	agent	integrate	other	bits	of	the	world	into	its	system	of	cognition	and	action	-	to	plug them	in	directly.	Another	use	would	be	for	individual	agents	to	integrate	each other, along	with some	non-agential resources, into	a smoothly functioning collective	agency	-	to	approach,	in	their	relationships	with	one	another,	the sort	of the	direct-pipeline	relationship	that	we find	between	an individual's 24 internal	cognitive	faculties.9 My	relationship	to	evidence,	when	I	acquire	a	belief	through	trust	in	another's	testimony,	would	then	turn	out	to	be	something	like	my	relationship	to the remembered	conclusions	of	my	past self.	Often, I	don't	possess the	evidence and	epistemic reasons for those	past conclusions at the	present	moment.	Rather,	the	conclusive	force	of	the	reasoning	I	performed	in	the	past	is transmitted	to	my	present	self	-	though	stripped	of	awareness	of	the	actual evidence	and	reasons	that	my	past	self	reasoned	with.	Thus,	I	can	be	in	a	position	where	I	am	following	the	best	norms	of	practical	rationality,	but	yet	still my	present	belief	outruns	the	evidence	that	I	presently	grasp.	Self-trust	opens the	door	to	acquiring	beliefs	for	which	we	don't	have	immediate	access	to	the supporting	evidence.	This	may	seem	terrifying,	but	it	is,	in	fact,	the	only	way for	cognitively	limited	beings	to	proceed.	We	must	trust	our	past	selves	to	have reasoned	properly	according	to	the	relevant	norms	of	deliberation.	When	our past	selves	fail	to	do	well	by	those	norms,	we	may	be	in	a	position	where	our self-trust	brings	us	to	believe	what	there	is	no	good	reason	to	believe,	precisely because	self-trust	involves	accepting	the	deliverances	of	our	past	self	without re-checking	our	past	self's	reasoning. My	suggestion	is	that	trust	in	external	resources	puts	us	in	the	same	exquisitely vulnerable position towards them, and for similar reasons. Trust transmits	the	conclusive	force	of	their	reasoning;	it	transmits	the	conclusion to	me,	shorn	of	its	support.10	By	trusting	something	else	as	an	informational source,	I	can	enter	it	into	my	cognitive	network	and	take	up	a	relationship	towards	it	similar	to	the	relationship	I	have	to	my	own	cognitive	sub-faculties.	It is	not	that,	when	I	accept	testimony	through	trust	without	deliberation,	that	I have	necessarily	failed	to	go	through	a	proper	practical	deliberation.	I	am	deferring	to	deliberation	that	was	run	elsewhere.11	Again,	this	makes	us	terrifyingly	vulnerable	and	makes	our	deliberative	procedures	vastly	open-ended. 9 For a compelling account of something like this, see (Hutchins 1996) for a classic study of how submarine crews act as a single mind. 10 Some have worried that this sort of extended-mind approach to knowledge leads to a kind of epistemic bloat, in which we "know" far too many things. (Carter and Kallestrup 2019) offer a useful response to this worry by distinguishing between what we have in principle access to via extended faculties and what we have actually called forth into our awareness. 11 Benjamin McMyler offers somewhat similar view. According to McMyler, when we accept a belief through testimony, we defer the justification of that belief to the testifiers. However, McMyler situations the deference in a voluntary taking of responsibility by the testifier (McMyler 2017). McMyler here is offering what has been called an assurance 25 But,	as	has	been	often	observed,	trust	in	others	is	the	only	way	to	proceed	in the	modern	era,	where	human	knowledge	has	vastly	outgrown	the	reach	of	a single	mind	(or	even	of	a	single	institution	or	discipline).	We	are	no	longer	capable	of	individual	intellectual	autonomy;	at	best,	we	can	autonomously	manage	our	participation	in	a	vast	and	distributed	community	of	inquiry	(Hardwig 1985;	1991;	Millgram	2015;	Nguyen	2018a). My	cognitive	system	typically	runs	with	open	pipelines, internally.	What one	part	of	me	accepts,	the	other	parts	of	me	use	without	question.12	The	unquestioning	attitude	is	the internal	grease	that lets	me	function	quickly	and efficiently.	The	unquestioning	attitude	also	lets	me	weld	open	pipelines	from outside	resources	into	my	cognitive	and	practical	systems.	And	this	also	goes a	long	way	to	explaining	the	sharply	negative	reactive	attitude	when	what's	at the	other	ends	of those	pipelines lets	us	down.	When	we	not	only	rely	on	a resource,	but	give	it	a	direct	pipeline	into	our	thought	and	action,	we	are	more profoundly	alienated	and	disturbed	when	it	goes	awry. Here's	a	real-life	story	-	and	an	interpersonal	echo	of	Hinchman's	individualist story.	My spouse and I keep a shopping list, in the form	of a shared, cloud-based	Google	Doc	that	we	each	access	from	our	smartphones.	Each	of	us will	add	items	to	the	shared	list,	usually	without	consulting	the	other.	Then, when	one	of	us	is	in	the	store,	they	simply	buy	everything	that's	on	the	list. When	I	am	at	the	grocery	store,	I	don't	question	the	list.	I	don't	try	to	remember	which	items	I	entered	and	which	ones	she	did.	I	don't	worry	about	whether or	not	she	might	have	made	some	miscalculation	or	forgotten	to	update	the list	properly.	I	trust	the	list	-	which	includes	trusting	my	spouse,	but	also	the hardware	and	software	involved,	as	well	as	the	procedures	that	my	spouse	and view of trust - that what it is to trust somebody is to accept their assurances, in which they voluntarily take on responsibility for what follows from another's acceptance of their assurances. Such assurance theories make trust an essentially second-personal relationship - it is one where I trust you because you gave me your assurances about that trust. My view doesn't depend on any such action on the part of the testifier, or on any second-personal relationship. I can decide to trust somebody who has no idea who I am, and no relationship towards me, by observing their actions and following them without question. Imagine, for instance, that I am following somebody else through treacherous terrain. I can trust them by following, unhesitatingly, and stepping where they step. They need not offer me second-personal assurance for me to trust; in fact, they may not know I am there at all. My trust in them is entirely a matter of my own attitude towards their actions. 12 The discussion of cognitive integration with external sources has been deeply inspired by Bryce Huebner's discussion of distributed cognition, and the kinds of integration required to count as distributed cognition (Huebner 2014). 26 I	have	instituted	to	maintain	that	list.	And	since	I	trust	the	list,	I	simply	let	its contents	direct	my	actions	without	question,	under	normal	circumstances. I trust	the	list	in	the	same	way	that	I	trust	my	own	memory	about	my	past	decisions.	And	trusting	that	shared	list	gives	my	spouse	the	power	to	input	certain things	directly	into	my	practical	reasoning	and	activity. The unquestioning attitude account also helps to explain the divide between	the	sorts	of	objects	with	which	we	seem	to	engage	in	relationships	of robust	trust	and	the	sorts	of	objects	with	which	we	don't.	I	have	claimed	that we	can	be	betrayed	by	ropes,	phones,	computers,	and	the	ground.	On	the	other hand,	I	have	seen	far	less	talk	of	trust	in	and	betrayal	by	the	weather	and	by natural	ecosystems.	Farmers	may	rely	on	the	weather,	and	when	it	fails	them, they	may	be	profoundly	disappointed	-	but there	seems to	be	no	sense	of profound	betrayal.	I	may	depend	on	the	flowers	in	my	garden	to	bloom,	but	if they	do	not,	I	am	disappointed,	but	not	betrayed.	My	account	suggests	a	reason.	The	weather	and	my	flowers	are	not	immediately	integrated	into	my	system	of	practical	affordances;	I	do	not	try	to	make	them	a	part	of	my	agential system.	Likely,	I	don't	try	to	integrate	them	because	it	is	abundantly	clear	that they	have	some	significant	degree	of	independence.	The	ground,	on	the	other hand,	is	mute,	simple	and	seemingly	easy	to	integrate.	A	smartphone	is	more complex,	but	it	seems	designed	to	be	pliable	and	to	conform	itself	to	my	will. These	are	the	things	that	I	try	to	integrate	into	my	practical	and	cognitive	self, and	so	they	become	things	by	which	I	can	be	betrayed. The	unquestioning	attitude	account	also	helps	to	explain	the	characteristic ways in	which trust can go terribly	wrong. Once	we have	welded together some	cognitive	pieces	together	with	trust,	errors	can	propagate	easily.	Cognitive	elements	that	have	been	joined	together	with	the	unquestioning	attitude are	more	efficient	and	more	capable	of	seamless	cooperation.	But	they	are	also more	susceptible	to	infection	as	a	whole.13	According	to	the	picture	I've	suggested,	this	is	not	a	mere	byproduct	of	trust.	The	upsides	and	downsides	both arise	directly	from	the	fact	that	trust	welds	open	pipelines	directly into	our functioning.	The	unquestioning	attitude	permits	both	collective	efficiency	and collective	fragility.14 13 For a relevant case study, see my discussion of echo chambers as trust manipulators (Nguyen 2018b). 14 I am inspired here by Charles Perrow's discussion of natural disasters. According to Perrow, some organizational systems have "loose linkages", where each functional unit questions and interprets what's passed to it. Systems where a person has active interpretational agency at each juncture are such systems. Other systems have "tight linkages", 27 The	unquestioning	attitude	account,	then,	could	be	taken	as	a	first	step	towards	a	more	radically	non-individualist	epistemology.	The	literature	on	trust has	largely	presumed	that	the	basic	unit	of	analysis	is	the	individual.	This	presumption is shared	across	a	broad	swath	of	philosophy.	Understanding	our social	and	moral	lives	is	about	understanding	relationships	between	autonomous	individuals.	Understanding	our	epistemic	lives	-	even	our	social	epistemic	lives	-	is	about,	first	and	foremost,	understanding	how	information	is processed	by	individuals.	But	the	unquestioning	attitude	account	suggests	a different	take.	The	basic	units	of	analysis	could	be	larger	collectives,	and	a	form of	trust	could	be	the	glue	that	holds	them	together	helps	assemble	them	into	a collective.	And	betrayal	could	be	the	response,	not	of	one	individual	to	another, but	of	a	part	of	a	collective	towards	a	recalcitrant	part.15 However,	this	more	radically	non-individualistic	line	of	thinking	have	only been	intended	as	exploratory	proposals,	to	feel	out	what	a	possible	fuller	account	might	be	like.	What	matters	most,	for	the	present	purpose,	is	to	see	that we	have	some	need for	cognitive	and	practical integration	and that the	unquestioning	attitude	has	a	clear	role	to	play	in	such	integration.	We	take	the unquestioning attitude towards our own parts, but also use it to integrate other	resources	into	our	functioning.	And	the	stance	of integration	brings	it with	certain	loaded	expectations,	the	failure	of	which	leads	to	a	sharply	negative	reaction.	That	is	enough	to	see	how	failures	of	such	integration	can	ground sharply	negative	attitudes	of	betrayal,	or	something	very	close	to	it. And	this	helps	us	to	bring	reunite	our	discussion	of	trust	with	concepts	of intimacy	-	a	relationship	that	has	become	rather	distant,	of	late,	in	the	philosophical	conversation	on	trust.	Baier,	in	her	originating	discussion,	made	note of	the	deep	association	between	trust	and	intimacy	(Baier	1986,	247,	252).	But where each system simply takes what it's been given without interpretation and operates on it directly. Computer subsystem that simply takes a variable from another computer system and plugs that number directly into its calculations and operations - that is a tight linkage. Tight linkages, says Perrow, are very efficient, but they don't fail well. He attributes many kinds of systems failures - like the Three Mile Island nuclear meltdown - to cascading unpredictable failures in large, complex, tightly linkaged systems (Perrow 1999). 15 I have been influenced here by recent literature in group agency (List and Pettit 2011; Gilbert 2015), especially Carol Rovane's discussion of the metaphysics of groups (Rovane 2019). Matt Strohl and I have offered a discussion of how some norms of behavior towards groups might be grounded in considerations of group intimacy - and about how acts of group intimacy might help constitute certain group agents (Nguyen and Strohl 2019). See also my discussion of how there might be emotional group agents (Nguyen 2019). 28 that	connection	has	largely	been	lost,	perhaps	because	philosophers	seem	to understand	intimacy	poorly	and	have	usually	avoided	invoking	the	concept. But	these	thoughts	about	integration	help	us	understand	why	trust	and	intimacy	seem	closely	associated.	Trust	is	aimed	at	achieving	agential	integration -	about	letting	something	inside,	about	uniting	with	it.	And	closeness	and	unification	are	some	of	the	key	markers	of intimacy	(Inness	1996;	Nguyen	and Strohl	2019). 6. Gullibility	and	Agential	Outsourcing I	have	made	a	linguistic	claim:	that	our	natural	use	of	"trust"	includes	the unquestioning	attitude,	and	our	natural	use	of	"betrayal"	includes	disappointment from resources which we have taken the unquestioning attitude towards.	But	I	don't	want	these	linguistic	claims	to	get	in	the	way	of	the	more substantive	proposal.	What is	most important	here is the	description	of the phenomena	itself.	What	I	really	care	about	is	the	unquestioning	attitude	itself and	how	it	functions	in	our	cognitive	and	practical	lives. And	I	think	that	it	is	vital	that	we	get	a	handle	on	the	unquestioning	attitude,	especially	when	it	concerns	our	relationship	to	new	and	emerging	technologies.	Many	of	us,	I	think,	have	come	to	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	our	smartphones,	Google	Search,	and	our	social	media	networks.	And this	means	that	we	have	integrated	complex	processes	and	structures	into	our agency	-	often	without	adequate	reflection	how	deep	a	change	we	are	effecting. Each of these technologies structures our activities and cognitive processes	in	substantive	ways.	Google	Search	guides	our	attention.	Social	media networks filter	what information gets to us, and	what	we pay attention to (Pariser	2012;	Miller	and	Record	2013;	Heersmink	and	Sutton	2018;	Gillet	and Heersmink	2019).	Many	of	seem	to	have	integrated	our	portable	music	players into	our	systems	of	emotional	self-regulation	(Krueger	2013;	Colombetti	and Krueger	2015). Infrastructural features	of technologies	can	suggest	conceptual	schemes	-	like	the	menu	bar	on	a	news	site	suggesting	a	basic	division	of the	important	categories	of	news	(Alfano,	Carter,	and	Cheong	2019).	And	technologies	can	even	suggest	goals	and	structure	our	motivations.	Gamified	technologies can	change	our	goals	with respect to	an	activity.	A fitness tracker, such	as	FitBit,	highlights	certain	measures	and,	by	giving	the	user	daily	scores 29 and	rankings	based	on	those	measures,	invites	the	user	to	change	their	reasons and	motivations for physical activity. Such technologies can engender what	I	have	called	"value	capture"	-	where	clear	quantified	presentations	of value	take	over in	an	agent's	self-conception,	practical	reasoning,	and	value capture	(Nguyen	2020,	189-215). This	suggests	an	enlarged	notion	of	gullibility.	First,	let's	start	with	what we already understand: the nature of gullibility in agent-directed forms of trust.	The	details	will	depend	on	which	particular	theory	you	accept.	Perhaps we	should	only	trust	people	if	they	actually	have	goodwill;	or	if	they	will	actually	be	responsive to	our	needs;	or	will	actually	be likely to live	up to their commitments.	Gullibility,	then	turns	out	to	be	trusting	somebody	more	than their	trustworthiness	warrants.16 What, then, is the analogous mistake with the unquestioning attitude? What	would	gullibility	look	like	for	this	form	of	trust?	Gullibility	here	would involve	being	too	ready	to	set	up	those	open	pipelines	-	of	being	too	quick	to weld external objects into various aspects of our cognition and practical agency.	The	results	are	familiar	when	we	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	informational	sources.	As	with	traditional	gullibility,	the	problem	there involves	being	too	willing	to	accept	the	testimony	of	others.	But	the	unquestioning	attitude	opens	up	the	possibility	of	a	new	form	of	gullibility	-	what we	might	call	agential	gullibility.	We	can	take	the	unquestioning	attitude,	not just	towards	informational	sources,	but	towards	processes	that	we	incorporate	into	our	agency.	We	can	take	an	unquestioning	attitude	towards	the	agential	infrastructure	of	the	world.	When	we	take	an	unquestioning	attitude	towards	a	news-site,	we	integrate	its	conceptual	schemas	and	ways	or	organizing	the	world	into	our	thinking.	When	we	take	an	unquestioning	attitude	towards,	say,	a	streaming	musical	service	and	use	its	algorithmically	generated playlists	to	help	regulate	our	emotions,	we	are	integrating	its	emotional	content	-	and	its	algorithmic	selection	process	-	into	our	system	of	emotional self-regulation.	When	we	take	an	unquestioning	attitude	towards	our	FitBit, we	let	its	embedded	goals	and	metrics	guide	our	valuing	and	decision-making. When	we	are	agentially	gullible,	we	are	too	willing	to	hastily	integrate	external resources	into	our	own	agency. 16 One caveat: voluntarists like Holton think that our trust can exceed the trustworthiness of its target, when we have a reason to so exceed - like inspiring somebody to live up to our trust. Gullibility, in this case, would be trusting beyond what the trustworthiness of the target, combined with our good aspirational reasons, allow. 30 I	am	not	here	urging	categorical	resistance	to	the	unquestioning	attitude. Rather,	I	am	suggesting	that	it	is	a	powerful	resource	which	also	carries	with it	enormous	risks.	And	its	powers	are	inseparable	from	the	vulnerabilities	it creates.	Those	vulnerabilities	are	part	and	parcel	of	the	basic	functioning	of the	unquestioning	attitude:	to	create	efficiency	by	removing	checks.	Taking	the unquestioning	attitude	is	something	like	one	country	deciding	to	have	open borders	with	another	country,	with	all	the	efficiency,	freedom,	and	vulnerability	that	entails.	We	should,	then,	try	to	deploy	it	appropriately	and	with	great care. Let's	take	a	step	back.	Trust,	in	all	its	forms,	runs	far	beyond	our	ability	to manage	or	control.	This	is	true	even	of	mere	reliance	on	testimony.	Each	person	I	rely	on	as	an	informational	source	has	relied	on	others,	who,	in	turn,	rely on	others.	When	I	rely	on	my	doctor's	testimony,	I	am	also	thereby	relying	on whoever	my	doctor	relies	on:	all	their	teachers,	the	medical	researchers	who provided	the	results	which	my	doctor	uses,	the	peer	review	process.	And	that reliance	iterates,	since	I	am	also	relying	on	whomever	those	latter	people	rely on:	the	statisticians	on	whose	methods	the	medical	research	relies,	the	engineers	who	made	their	research	instruments,	and	on	and	on.	Reliance	on	testimony	is	fractally	iterated.	And	because	of	that,	we	usually	have	no	idea	about how	far	our	reliance	extends,	and	on	whom	we	are	relying. The danger is compounded with the unquestioning attitude, especially since	the	unquestioning	attitude	can	be	taken	towards	processes	and	agencies. This	is	already	true	for	simple	environmental	features	-	when	I	trust	a	particular	path	or	a	ladder,	my	movements	and	decisions	are	significantly	conditioned	by	those	features.	But	the	consequences	for	my	agency	are	particularly sharp	when	I	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	complex	technologies. When	I	take	the	unquestioning	attitude	towards	Google	Search	or	my	social media	network,	I	am	permitting	complex	processes	to	play	a	crucial	role	in	my cognition	and	practical	activity.	Google	Search	is	actively	ranking	and	filtering search	results.	My	social	media	network	is	actively	amplifying	some	forms	of discourse and suppressing others, as ranking algorithms intrude into	what each	node-member	sees.	In	social	media	networks,	dynamic	network	architecture	encourages	certain	forms	of	expression	to	enter	explosive	viral	feedback loops,	while	burying	other forms	of	expressions	out	of sight (Tufekci	2017; 2018). Importantly, the	unquestioning	attitude	doesn't simply	add	discrete, self-contained	functions	to	our	own	agency.	It	outsources	our	agency	-	and that	outsourcing	can	be	iterated.	When	I	trust	Google	Search,	I	let	it	guide	my 31 attention,	thus	outsourcing	a	part	of	my	agency.	But	I	actually	have	very	little idea	what	or	who	I'm	outsourcing	to	-	especially	since	Google	Search	itself outsources	much	of	its	operation	to	external	resources.	Google	Search	is	built from	modules	collected	from	thousands	of	different	researchers	and	technological	institutions.	And,	what's	more,	those	modules	aren't	all	stable	and	finalized. Contemporary computing technologies often outsource their processing	on-the-fly, each integrated resource itself	open to constant revision and	change. This	system	is,	of	course,	vastly	powerful	and	efficient. (Try	asking	anybody	who's	lived	with	Google	Search	to	give	it	up.)	But	agential	outsourcing	is particularly open to subterranean tinkering	- and the more complex the trusted	resource	is,	the	more	forms	of	invisible	tinkering	the	truster	becomes open	to.17	The	basic	functionality	of	Google	Search	might	change	without	our knowing	-	and	so	a	key	part	of	our	outsourced	agency	changes	without	our knowing.	The	agentially	gullible	person,	then,	is	a	certain	kind	of	early	adopter. Their	mistake	is	being	willing	to	outsource	their	agency	too	readily	-	to	let any	old	thing	in. It	might	be	useful, then,	to	update	our	paradigm	of	gullibility.	The	traditionally	gullible	person	is	the	person	who	believes	anything	that	anybody	tells them.	In	our	age,	there	is	a	new	form	of	gullibility	-	a	very	particular	type	of agential	gullibility.	The	technologically	gullible	person	is	the	one	that	quickly and	carelessly	welds	new	form	of	technology	into	their	agency.	They	unreflectively	integrate	smartwatches	that	highlight	and	make	salient	particular	ways of	valuing,	in	the	form	of	metrics	about	exercise	and	sleeping,	which	can	condition	their	values	and	motivations.	They	unreflectively	integrate	social	media networks	that	transform	their	experience	of	discourse,	argument,	and	interaction.	They	take	up	the	unquestioning	attitude	without	a	moment's	pause,	towards any new technology, without considering the vulnerabilities and changes	they're	allowing	into	their	agency. 7. Different	forms	of	trust I	have	suggested that there is	a form	of trust that involves taking	up	an unquestioning attitude, and that this form of trust has in important place 17 An interesting parallel to this discussion arises in Josh DiPaolo's analysis of the epistemology of fanaticism (DiPaolo forthcoming). 32 alongside	the	agent-directed	forms	of	trust.	But	why	do	we	call	these	two	very different attitudes "trust"? And why are our negative response to both grouped	together	under the	notion	of "betrayal"?	Let	me	end	by	suggesting that these various attitudes and reactions are grouped together because of their	relationship	to	our	attempts	to	expand	our	agency. It	will help here to focus, for the	moment, on one	particular account of agent-directed	trust.	Recall	Jones'	responsiveness	account	of	trust.	According to	her,	to	trust	somebody	is	to	depend	on	them	because	you	take	them	to	be trustworthy.	And	to	be	trustworthy	is	to	be	motivated	to	act	to	fulfill	others' dependence	on	you.	Trust	and	trustworthiness	go	hand	in	hand,	says	Jones; they	let	us	coordinate	our	actions	by	permitting	us	to	actively	depend	on	others.	When	we	trust	somebody,	we	know	they	will	be	responsive	to	our	needs, and	so	we	can	take	their	expected	responsiveness	into	account	when	deciding what	to	do. Jones	suggests	that	we	can	get	clearer	on	the	particular	value	and	normativity	of	trust	by	imagining	a	world	without	any	trust	in	it	at	all.	Imagine,	she says,	a	world	full	of	all	the	other	norms	that	we	use,	such	as	those	of	morality. Imagine that the people in this	world follow these norms, and that they're quite	predictable.	Imagine	that	everybody	is	fully	rational	and	perfectly	transparent	to	one	another.	But	imagine	that	they	simply	do	not	trust,	and	that	nobody	is	trustworthy,	in	her	sense.	This	world,	she	says,	would	be	perfectly	safe to	live	in,	but	there	would	be	something	very	important	missing.	Because	nobody	would	act	out	of	the	awareness	that	they	were	being	depended	on	-	and nobody	would	depend	on	others	to	so	act	-	"agents	would	lack	the	capacity to directly enlist the agency of another in the service of their ends" (Jones 2017, 100).	What trust, in Jones' sense, enables us to do is to "extend our agency"	-	to	be	able	to	recruit	the	agency	of	others	into	our	own	(101-2). I	think	this	is	quite	right	-	and	plausibly	right	of	any	agent-directed	theory of	trust.	And	it	points	the	way	to	a	broader	account	of	trust	that	encompasses both agent-directed trust and unquestioning trust. Both forms of trust are methods	by	which	we	seek	to	extend	our	agency,	to	integrate	the	functionality of	parts	of	the	external	world	into	our	own	efforts.	We	have	at	least	two	tools for this integration:	we	can	take into	account	others' responsiveness to	our needs,	and	we	can	turn	off	the	questioning	process.	That	is:	we	can	cooperate with	others	and	we	can	plug	things	directly	into	our	agency.	We	can	use	these tools	separately.	But	we	can,	and	often	do,	deploy	these	tools	together	-	as, for	example,	I	usually	do	with	other	drivers	on	the	road.	And	betrayal	is	the 33 characteristic	response	we	have	to	failures	of	either	form	of	integration. Simpson	suggests	what	unites	all	the	various	talk	of	trust	is	something	very basic.	The	phenomenon	at	the	center	-	the	ur-trust	-	is,	he	says,	simply	the relationship	we	have	towards	other	people	we	need	to	cooperate	with.	I	suggest	we	borrow	the	structure	of	Simpson's	account,	but	swap	in	a	new	phenomenon	for	the	center.	The	basic	form	of	ur-trust,	I'm	suggesting,	is	agential integration.	Trust	-	all	trust	-	involves	the	attempt	to	bring	other	people	and things	into	one's	agency,	or	of	joining	with	other	people	and	things	into	collective	agencies.	The	various	tools	of	interpersonal	cooperation	-	commitments, goodwill,	responsiveness	-	are	part	of	one	approach	to	agential	integration, but	there	at	least	one	other.	There	is	also	the	adoption	of	the	unquestioning attitude.	And	we	are	betrayed	when	we	are	let	down	by	something	with	which we	had	tried	to	agentially	unite.	Trust,	in	the	broad	sense,	then	turns	out	to	be a	response	to	our	essential	cognitive	and	practical	finitude.	We	need	help,	and we	need	to	make	the	sources	of	that	help	things	that	we	can	rely	on	unquestioningly.	Trust	of	both	sorts	involves	various	attempts	to	integration	of	other beings	and	objects	into	our	practical	functioning,	of	bringing	them	more	into, or	at	least	knit	with,	the	boundaries	of	our	selves.18 C.	Thi	Nguyen Utah	Valley	University 18 I'd like to thank, for all their commentary, wisdom, and aid: Endre Begby, Julia Bursten, Anthony Cross, Sandy Goldberg, Kevin Lande, Neil Levy, Michaela McSweeney, Elijah Millgram, Geoff Pynn, Tim Sundell, Greta Thurnbull, Dennis Whitcomb, and Stephen White. I'd also like to thank the University of Kentucky Philosophy Department for a particularly exciting conversation that generated the entire discussion of agential gullibility and agential outsourcing. 34 Bibliography Alfano,	Mark,	Joseph	Adam	Carter,	and	Marc	Cheong.	2018.	"Technological	Seduction	and	Self-Radicalization."	Journal	of	the	American	Philosophical Association	4	(3):	298–322. 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