Blue Book: Difference between revisions

Suppose I pointed to a piece of paper and said, to some one: “this colour I call ‘red’”. Afterwards I give him the order: “now paint me a red patch”. I then ask him: “why, in carrying out my order, did you paint just this colour?” His answer could then be: “This colour (pointing to the sample which I have given him) was called red; and the patch I have painted has, as you see, the colour of the sample”. He has now given me a reason for carrying out the order in the way he did. Giving a reason for something one did or said means showing a ''way'' which leads to this {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,22}} action. In some cases it means telling the way which one has gone oneself; in others it means describing a way which leads there and is in accordance with certain accepted rules. Thus when asked, “why did you carry out my order by painting just this colour?” the answer could have described the way the person had actually taken to arrive at this particular shade. This would have been so if, hearing the word “red”, he had taken up the sample I had given him, labelled “red”, and had copied that sample when painting the patch. On the other hand he might have painted it “automatically” or from a memory image; but when asked to give the reason he might still point to the sample and show that it matched the patch he had painted. In this latter case the reason given would have been of the second kind; i.e. a justification post hoc.

Now if one thinks that there could be no understanding and obeying the order without a previous teaching, one thinks of the teaching as supplying a reason for doing what one did; as supplying the road one walks. Now there is the idea that if an order is understood and obeyed there must be a reason for our obeying it as we do; and in fact, a chain of reasons reaching back to infinity. This is as if one said: “Wherever you are, you must have got there from somewhere else, and to that previous place from another place; and so on ad infinitum”. (If, on the other hand, you had said, “wherever you are, you could have got there from another place ten yards away; and from that other place from a third, ten yards further away, and so on ad infinitum”, what then you would have stressed would have been the infinite possibility of making a step. Thus {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,23}} the idea of an infinite chain of reasons arises out of a confusion similar to this:– that a line of a certain length consists of an infinite number of parts because it is indefinitely divisible; i.e. because there is no end to the possibility of dividing it.)

If on the other hand you realise that the chain of actual reasons has a beginning, you will no longer be revolted by the idea of a case in which there is no reason for the way you obey the order. At this point, however, another confusion sets in, that between reason and cause. One is led into this confusion by the ambiguous use of the word “why”. Thus when the chain of reasons has come to an end and still the question “Why?” is asked one is then inclined to give a cause instead of a reason. If, e.g., to the question, “why did you paint just this colour when I told you to paint a red patch” you give the answer: “I have been shown a sample of this colour, and the word “red” was pronounced to me at the same time; and therefore this colour now always comes to my mind when I hear the word ‘red’”, then you have given a cause for your action and not a reason.

The proposition, that your action has such-and-such a cause, is a hypothesis. The hypothesis is well-founded if one has had a number of experiences which, roughly speaking, agree in showing that your action is the regular sequel of certain conditions which we then call causes of the action. In order to know the reason which you had for making a certain statement, for acting in a particular way, etc., no number of agreeing experiences is necessary, and the statement of your reason is not a hypothesis. The difference between the grammars of “reason” and “cause” is quite similar {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,24}}

 

to that between the grammars of “motive” and “cause”. Of the cause one can say that one can't know it but one can only conjecture it. On the other hand one often says: “Surely I must know why I did it” talking of the motive. When I say: “we can only conjecture the cause but we know the motive” this statement will be seen later on to be a grammatical one. The “can” refers to a logical possibility.

Let us go back to the statement that thinking essentially consists in operating with signs. My point was that it is liable to mislead us if we say thinking is a mental activity. The question what kind of an activity thinking is is analogous to this: “Where does thinking take place?” We can answer: on paper, in our head, in the mind. None of these statements of locality gives the locality of thinking. The use of all these specifications is correct but we must not be misled by the similarity of their linguistic forms into a false conception of their grammar. As, e.g., when you say: “Surely, the real place of thought is in our head”. The same applies to the idea of thinking as an activity. It is correct to say that thinking is an activity of our writing hand, of our larynx, of our head, and {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,25}} of our mind, so long as we understand the grammar of these statements. And it is, furthermore, extremely important to realise how by misunderstanding the grammar of our expressions, we are led to think of one in particular of these statements as giving the real seat of the activity of thinking.

If we say thinking is essentially operating with signs, the first question you might ask is: “What are signs?” ‒ ‒ ‒ Instead of giving any kind of general answer to this question, I shall propose to you to look closely at particular cases which we should call “operating with signs”. Let us look at a simple example of operating with words. I give someone the order: “fetch me six apples from the grocer”, and I will describe a way of making use {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,26}} of such an order: The words “six apples” are written on a bit of paper, the paper is handed to the grocer, the grocer compares the word “apple” with labels on different shelves. He finds it to agree with one of the labels, counts from 1 to the number written on the slip of paper, and for every number counted takes a fruit off the shelf and puts it in a bag. ‒ ‒ ‒ And here you have one use of words. I shall in the future again and again draw your attention to what I shall call language-games. These are processes of using signs simpler than those which usually occur in the use of our highly complicated everyday language. Language games are the forms of language with which a child begins to make use of words. The study of language-games is the study of primitive forms of language or primitive languages. If we want to study the problems of truth and falsehood, of the agreement and disagreement of propositions with reality, of the nature of assertion, assumption, and question, we shall with great advantage look at primitive forms of language in which these forms of thinking appear without the confusing background of highly complicated processes of thought. When we look at such simple forms of language, the mental mist which seems to enshroud our ordinary use of language disappears. We see activities, reactions, which are clear-cut and transparent. On the other hand we recognize in these simple processes forms of language not separated by a break from our more complicated ones. We see that we can build up the complicated forms from the primitive ones by gradually adding new forms.

(a) The tendency to look for something in common to all the entities which we commonly subsume under a general term.‒ ‒ ‒ We are inclined to think that there must be something in common to all games, say, and that this common property is the justification for applying the general term “game” to the various games; whereas games form a family the members of which have family likenesses. Some of them have the same nose, others the same eyebrows and others again the same way of walking; and these likenesses overlap. The idea of a general concept being a common property of its particular instances connects up with other primitive, too simple, ideas of the structure of language. It is comparable to the idea that properties are ingredients of the things which have the properties; e.g. that beauty is an ingredient of all beautiful things as alcohol is of beer and wine, and that we therefore could have pure beauty, unadulterated by anything that is beautiful.

(b) There is a tendency, rooted in our usual forms of expression, to think that the man who has learnt to understand a general term, say, the term “leaf”, has thereby come to possess a kind of general picture of a leaf, as opposed to pictures of particular leaves. He was shown different leaves when he learnt the meaning of the word “leaf”; and showing him the particular leaves was only a means to the end of producing “in him” an idea which we imagine to be some kind of general image. We say that he sees what is in common {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,28}} to all these leaves; and this is true if we mean that he can on being asked tell us certain features or properties which they have in common. But we are inclined to think that the general idea of a leaf is something like a visual image but one which only contains what is common to all leaves. (Galtonian composite photograph). This again is connected with the idea that the meaning of a word is an image, or a thing correlated to the word. (This roughly means, we are looking at words as though they all were proper names, and we then confuse the bearer of a name with the meaning of the name.)

(d) Our craving for generality has another main source: our preoccupation with the method of science. I mean the method of reducing the explanation of natural phenomena to the smallest possible number of primitive natural laws; and, in mathematics, of unifying the treatment of different topics by using a generalization. Philosophers constantly see the method of science before their eyes, and are irresistibly tempted to ask and answer questions in the way science does. This tendency is the real source of metaphysics, and leads the philosopher into complete darkness. I want to say here that it can never be our job to reduce anything to anything, or to explain anything. Philosophy really is “purely descriptive”. (Think of such questions as “Are there sense data?” {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,29}} And ask: What method is there of determining this? Introspection?)

Instead of “craving for generality” I could also have said “the contemptuous attitude towards the particular case”. If, e.g. someone tries to explain the concept of number and tells us that such-and-such a definition will not do or is clumsy because it only applies to, say, finite cardinals I should answer that the mere fact that he could have given such a limited definition makes this definition extremely important to us. (Elegance is not what we are trying for.) For why should what finite and transfinite numbers have in common be more interesting to us than what distinguishes them? Or rather, I should not have said “why should it be more interesting to us?” ‒ ‒ ‒ it isn't; and this characterizes our way of thinking.

The idea that in order to get clear about the meaning of a general term one had to find the common element in all its applications, has shackled philosophical investigation; for it has not only led to no result, but also made the philosopher dismiss as irrelevant the concrete cases, which alone could have helped him to understand the usage of the general term. When Socrates asks the question, “what is knowledge?” he does not even regard it as a preliminary answer to enumerate cases of knowledge. If I wished to find out what sort of thing arithmetic is, I should be very content indeed to have investigated the case of a finite cardinal {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,31}} arithmetic. For

What happens if from 4 till 4.30 A expects B to come to his room? In one sense in which the phrase “to expect something from 4 to 4.30” is used it certainly does not refer to one process or state of mind going on throughout that interval, but is a great many different activities, and states of mind. If for instance I expect B to come to tea, what happens may be this: At four o'clock I look at my diary and see the name ‘B’ against today's date; I prepare tea for two; I think for a moment “does B smoke?” and put out cigarettes; towards 4.30 I begin to feel impatient; I imagine B as he will look when he comes into my room. All this is called “expecting B from 4 to 4.30”. And there are endless variations to this process which we all describe by the same expression. If one asks what the different processes of expecting someone to tea have in common, the answer is that there is no single feature in common to all of them, though there are many common features overlapping. These cases of expectation form a family; they have family likenesses which are not clearly defined.

The role which in our present case the name “B” plays in the expression “I expect B” can be compared with that which the name “Bright” plays in the expression “Bright's disease”. Compare the grammar of this word, when it denotes a particular kind of disease, with that of the expression “Bright's disease” when it {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,33}} means the disease which Bright has. I will characterize the difference by saying that the word “Bright” in the first case is an index in the complex name “Bright's disease”; in the second case I shall call it an argument of the function “x's disease”. One may say that an index alludes to something, and such an allusion may be justified in all sorts of ways. Thus calling a sensation “the expectation that B will come” is giving it a complex name and “B” possibly alludes to the man whose coming had regularly been preceded by the sensation.

In such a case we may clear the matter up by saying: “Let's see how the word “unconscious”, “to know”, etc. etc., is used in this case, and how it's used in others”. How far does the analogy between these uses go? We shall also try to construct new notations, in order to break the spell of those which we are accustomed to.

We said that it was a way of examining the grammar (the use) of the word “to know”, to ask ourselves what, in the particular case we are examining, we should call “getting to know”. There {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,38}} is a temptation to think that this question is only vaguely relevant, if relevant at all, to the question: “what is the meaning of the word ‘to know’?” We seem to be on a side-track when we ask the question “What is it like in this case ‘to get to know’?” But this question really is a question concerning the grammar of the word “to know”, and this becomes clearer if we put it in the form: “What do we call ‘getting to know’?” It is part of the grammar of the word “chair” that this is what we call “to sit on a chair”, and it is a part of the grammar of the word “meaning” that this is what we call “explanation of a meaning”; in the same way to explain my criterion for another person's having toothache is to give a grammatical explanation about the word “toothache” and, in this sense, “an explanation concerning the meaning of the word ‘toothache.’”

toothache when he holds his cheek?” The answer to this might be, “I say, he has toothache when he holds his cheek because I hold my cheek when I have toothache”. But what if we went on asking:– “And why do you suppose that toothache corresponds to his holding his cheek just because your toothache corresponds to your holding your cheek?” You will be at a loss to answer this question and find that here we strike rock bottom, that is we have come down to conventions. (If you suggest as an answer to the last question that, whenever we've seen people holding their cheeks and asked them “what's the matter”, they have answered, “I have toothache”, ‒ ‒ ‒ remember that this experience only co-ordinates holding your cheek with saying certain words.)

Let us introduce two antithetical terms in order to avoid certain elementary confusions: To the question “How do you know that so-and-so is the case”, we sometimes answer by giving “criteria” and sometimes by giving “symptoms”. If medical science calls angina an inflammation caused by a particular bacillus, and we ask in a particular case “why do you say this man has got angina?” then the answer “I have found the bacillus so-and-so in his blood” gives us the criterion, or what we may call the defining criterion of angina. If on the other hand the answer was, “His throat is inflamed”, this might give us a symptom of angina. I call “symptom” a phenomenon of which experience has taught us that it coincided, in some way or other, with the phenomenon which is our defining criterion. Then to say, “A man has angina” if this bacillus is found in him is a tautology {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,40}} or it is a loose way of stating the definition of “angina”. But to say, “A man has angina whenever he has an inflamed throat” is to make a hypothesis.

In practice, if you were asked which phenomenon is the defining criterion and which is a symptom, you would in most cases be unable to answer this question except by making an arbitrary decision ad hoc. It may be practical to define a word by taking one phenomenon as the defining criterion, but we shall easily be persuaded to define the word by means of what, according to our first use, was a symptom. Doctors will use names of diseases without ever deciding which phenomena are to be taken as criteria and which as symptoms; and this need not be a deplorable lack of clarity. For remember that in general we don't use language according to strict rules ‒ ‒ ‒ it hasn't been taught us by means of strict rules, either. We, in our discussions on the other hand, constantly compare language with a calculus proceeding according to exact rules.

This is a very one-sided way of looking at language. In practice we very rarely use language as such a calculus. For not only do we not think of the rules of usage ‒ ‒ ‒ of definitions, etc. ‒ ‒ ‒ while using language, but when we are asked to give such rules in most cases we aren't able to do so. We are unable clearly to circumscribe the concepts we use; not because we don't know their real definition, but because there is no real “definition” to them. To suppose that there must be would be like supposing that whenever children play with a ball they play a {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,41}} game according to strict rules.

Consider as an example the question “What is time?” as Saint Augustine and others have asked it. At first sight what this question asks for is a definition, but then immediately the question arises: “What should we gain by a definition, as it can only lead us to other undefined terms?” And why should one be puzzled just by the lack of a definition of time, and not by the lack of a definition of “chair”? Why shouldn't we be puzzled in all cases where we haven't got a definition? Now a definition often clears up the grammar of a word. And in fact it is the grammar of the word “time” which puzzles us. We are only expressing this puzzlement by asking a slightly misleading question, the question: “What is … ?” This question is an utterance of unclarity, of mental discomfort; and it is comparable with the question “Why?” as children so often ask it. This too is an expression of a mental discomfort, and doesn't necessarily ask for either a cause or a reason. (Hertz, Principles of Mechanics). Now the puzzlement about the grammar of the word {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,42}} “time” arises from what one might call apparent contradictions in that grammar.

The contradiction which here seems to arise could be called a conflict between two different usages of a word, in this case the word “measure”. Augustine, we might say, thinks of the process of measuring a length: say, the distance between two marks on a travelling band which passes us, and of which we can only see a tiny bit (the present) in front of us. Solving this puzzle will consist in comparing what we mean by “measurement” (the grammar of the word “measurement”) when applied to a distance on a travelling band with the grammar of that word when applied to time. The problem may seem simple, but its extreme difficulty is due to the fascination which the analogy between two similar structures in our language can exert on us. (It is helpful here to remember that it is sometimes almost impossible for a child to realise that one word can have two meanings).

Compare with this the case of the definition of number. Here the explanation that a number is the same thing as a numeral satisfies that craving for a definition. And it is very {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,44}} difficult not to ask: “Well, if it isn't the numeral, what is it?”

I want you to remember that words have those meanings which we have given them; and we give them meanings by explanations. I may have given a definition of a word and used the word accordingly, or those who taught me the use of the word may have given me the explanation. Or else we might, by explanation of a word, mean the explanation which, on being asked, we are ready to give. That is, if we are ready to give an explanation; in most cases we aren't. Many words in this sense then don't have a strict meaning. But this is not a defect. To think it is would be like saying that the light of my reading lamp is no real light at all because it has no sharp boundary.

Philosophers very often talk about investigating, analysing, the meaning of words. But let's not forget that a word hasn't got a meaning given to it, as it were, by a power independent of us, so that there can be a kind of scientific investigation into what the word really means. A word has the meaning someone has given to it.

When we say that by our method we try to counteract the misleading effect of certain analogies, it is important that you should understand that the idea of an analogy being misleading is nothing sharply defined. No sharp boundary can be drawn round the cases in which we should say that a man was misled by an analogy. The use of expressions constructed on analogical patterns stresses analogies between cases often far apart. And by doing this these expressions may be extremely useful. It is, in most cases, impossible to show an exact point where an analogy begins to mislead us. Every particular notation stresses some particular point of view. If, e.g., we call our investigations “philosophy”, this title, on the one hand, seems appropriate, on the other hand it certainly has misled people. (One might say that the subject we are dealing with is one of the heirs of the subject which we used to call “philosophy”.) The cases in which particularly, we wish to say that someone {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,46}} is misled by a form of expression are those in which we would say: “he wouldn't talk as he does if he were aware of this difference in the grammar of such-and-such words, or if he were aware of this other possibility of expression” and so on. Thus we may say of some philosophizing mathematicians that they are obviously not aware of the difference between the many different usages of the word “proof”; and that they are not clear about the difference between the uses of the word “kind”, when they talk of kinds of numbers, kinds of proofs, as thought the word “kind” here meant the same thing as in the context, “kinds of apples”. Or, we may say, they are not aware of the different meanings of the word “discovery”, when in one case we talk of the discovery of the construction of the pentagon and in the other case of the discovery of the South Pole.

Talking of the fact as a “complex of objects” springs from this confusion (cf. Tractatus Logico-philosophicus). Supposing we asked: “How can one imagine what does not exist?” The answer seems to be: “If we do, we imagine non-existent combinations of existing elements”. A centaur doesn't exist, but a man's head and torso and arms and a horse's legs do exist. “But can't we imagine an object utterly different from any one which exists?” ‒ ‒ ‒ We should be inclined to answer: “No; the elements, individuals, must exist. If redness, roundness and sweetness did not exist, we could not imagine them”.

But what do you mean by “redness exists”? My watch exists, if it hasn't been pulled to pieces, if it hasn't been destroyed. What would we call “destroying redness”? We might of course mean destroying all red objects; but would this make it impossible to imagine a red object? Supposing to this one answered: “But surely, red objects must have existed and you must have seen them?” ‒ ‒ ‒ But how do you know that this is so? Suppose I said “Exerting a pressure on your eyeball produces a red image”. Couldn't the way by which you first became acquainted with red have been this? And why shouldn't it have been just imagining a red patch? (The difficulty which you will feel {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,51}} here will have to be discussed at a later occasion).