Blue Book: Difference between revisions

Question: Need the ostensive definition itself be understood? ‒ ‒ ‒ Can't the ostensive definition be misunderstood?

One might object to this argument that all these interpretations pre-suppose another word-language. And this objection is significant if by “interpretation” we only mean “Translation into a word-language”. ‒ ‒ ‒ Let me give some hints which might make this clearer. Let us ask ourselves what is our criterion when we say that someone has interpreted the ostensive definition in a particular way. Suppose I give to an Englishman the ostensive definition “this is what the Germans call ‘Buch’”. Then, in the great majority of cases, at any rate, the English word “book” will come into the Englishman's mind. We may say he has interpreted “Buch” to mean “book”. The case will be different if e.g., we point to a thing which he has never seen before and say: “This is a banjo”. Possibly the word “guitar” will then come into his mind, possibly no word at all but the image of a similar instrument, possibly nothing at all. Supposing then I give him the order “now pick a banjo from amongst those things”. If he picks what we call a “banjo” we might say “he has given the word ‘banjo’ the correct interpretation”; if he picks some other instrument:– “he has interpreted ‘banjo’ to mean ‘string instrument’”.

It seems that there are ''certain definite'' mental processes bound up with the working of language; processes through which alone language can function. I mean the processes of understanding and meaning. The signs of our language seem dead without these mental processes; and it might seem that the only function of the signs is to induce such processes, and that these are the things we ought really to be interested in. Thus, if you are asked what is the relation between a name and the thing it names, you will be inclined to answer that the relation is a psychological one, and perhaps when you say this you think in particular of the mechanism of association. ‒ ‒ ‒ We are tempted to think that the action of language consists of two parts; an inorganic part, the handling of signs, and an organic part, which we may call understanding these signs, meaning them, interpreting them, thinking. These latter activities seem to take place in a queer kind of medium, the mind; and the mechanism of the mind, the nature of which, it seems, we don't quite understand, can bring about effects which no material mechanism could. Thus e.g. a thought (which is such a mental process) can agree or disagree with reality: I am able to think of a man who isn't present; I am able to imagine him, “mean” him, in a remark which I make about him even if he is thousands of miles away or dead. “What a queer mechanism”, one might say, “the mechanism of wishing must be if I can wish that which will never happen”.

If the meaning of the sign (roughly, that which is of importance about the sign) is an image built up in our minds when we see or hear the sign, then first let us adopt the method we just described of replacing this mental image by seeing some sort of outward object, e.g. a painted or modelled image. Then why should the written sign plus this painted image be alive if the written sign alone was dead? ‒ ‒ ‒ In fact, as soon as you think of replacing the mental image by, say, a painted one, and as soon as the image thereby loses its occult character, it ceases to seem to impart any life to the sentence at all. (It was in fact just the occult character of the mental process which you needed for your purposes.)

Perhaps the main reason why we are so strongly inclined to talk of the head as the locality of our thoughts is this:– the existence of the words “thinking” and “thought” alongside of the {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,11}} words denoting (bodily) activities, such as writing, speaking, etc. makes us look for an activity, different from these but analogous to them, corresponding to the word “thinking”. When words in our ordinary language have prima facie analogous grammars we are inclined to try to interpret them analogously; i.e. we try to make the analogy hold throughout.‒ ‒ ‒ We say, “The thought is not the same as the sentence; for an English and a French sentence, which are utterly different, can express the same thought”. And now, as the sentences are ''somewhere'', we look for a place for the thought. (It is as though we looked for the place of the king of which the rules of chess treat, as opposed to the places of the various bits of wood, etc., the kings of the various sets.) ‒ ‒ ‒ We say, “surely the thought is ''something''; it is not nothing”; and all one can answer to this is, that the word “thought” has its ''use'', which is of a totally different kind from the use of the word “sentence”.

But what if someone said “I can assure you I feel the visual image to be two inches behind the bridge of my nose”; ‒ ‒ ‒ what are we to answer him? Should we say that he is not speaking the truth, or that there cannot be such a feeling? What if he asks us “do you know all the feelings there are? How do you know there isn't such a feeling?”

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.

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.

One may characterise the meaning which Russell gives to the word “wishing” by saying that it means to him a kind of hunger. ‒ ‒ ‒ It is a hypothesis that a particular feeling of hunger will be relieved by eating a particular thing. In Russell's way of using the word “wishing” it makes no sense to say “I wished for an apple but a pear has satisfied me”. But we do sometimes say this using {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,34}} the word “wishing” in a way different from Russell's. In this sense we can say that the tension of wishing was relieved without the wish being fulfilled; and also that the wish was fulfilled without the tension being relieved. That is, I may, in this sense, become satisfied without my wish having been satisfied.

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.)

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.

Now it is clear that this problem about the concept of time asks for an answer given in the form of strict rules. The puzzle is about rules. ‒ ‒ ‒ Take another example: Socrates' question: “What is knowledge?” Here the case is even clearer, as the discussion begins with the pupil giving an example of an {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,43}} exact definition; and then analogous to this, a definition of the word “knowledge” is asked for. As the problem is put, it seems that there is something wrong with the ordinary use of the word “knowledge”. It appears, we don't know what it means, and that therefore, perhaps, we have no right to use it. We should reply: “There is no one exact usage of the word ‘knowledge’; but we can make up several such usages, which will more or less agree with the ways the word is actually used.

Should we say that there are cases when a man despises another man and doesn't know it; or should we describe such cases by saying that he doesn't despise him but unintentionally behaves towards him in a way ‒ ‒ ‒ speaks to him in a tone of voice, etc., ‒ ‒ ‒ which in general would go together with despising him. Either form of expression is correct; but they may betray different tendencies of mind.

It is similar when we ask “Has this room a length?”, and some one answers: “Of course it has”. He might have answered “Don't ask nonsense”. On the other hand “The room has length” can be used as a grammatical statement. It then says that a sentence of the form “The room is ‒ ‒ ‒ feet long” makes sense.

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).

I can express our trouble in a different form by saying: “How can we know what the shadow is a shadow of?” ‒ ‒ ‒ The shadow would be some sort of portrait; and therefore I can restate our problem by asking: “What makes a portrait a portrait of Mr. N?” The answer which might first suggest itself is: “The similarity between the portrait and Mr. N”. This answer in fact shows what we had in mind when we talked {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,52}} of the shadow of a fact. It is quite clear, however, that similarity does not constitute our idea of a portrait; for it is in the essence of this idea that it should make sense to talk of a good or a bad portrait. In other words, it is essential that the shadow should be capable of representing things as in fact they are not.

Suppose we said “that a picture is a portrait of a particular object consists in its being derived from that object in a particular way”. Now it is easy to describe what we should call “processes of deriving a picture from an object” (roughly speaking, processes of projection). But there is a peculiar difficulty about admitting that any such process is what we call “intentional representation”. For describe whatever process (activity) of projection we may, there is a way of reinterpreting this projection. Therefore ‒ ‒ ‒ one is tempted to say ‒ ‒ ‒ such a process can never be the intention itself. For we could always have intended the opposite by re-interpreting the process of projection. Imagine this case: We give someone an order to walk in a certain direction by pointing, or drawing an arrow which points in the direction. Suppose drawing arrows is the language in which generally we {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,54}} give such an order. Couldn't such an order be interpreted to mean that the man who gets it is to walk in the direction opposite to that of the arrow? This could obviously be done by adding to our arrow some symbols which we might call “''an interpretation''”. It is easy to imagine a case in which, say, to deceive someone, we might make an arrangement that an order should be carried out in the sense opposite to its normal one. The symbol which adds the interpretation to our original arrow could, for instance, be another arrow. Whenever we interpret a symbol in one way or another, the interpretation is a new symbol added to the old one.

Is it then correct to say that no arrow could be the meaning, as every arrow could be meant the opposite way? ‒ ‒ ‒ Suppose we write down the scheme of saying and meaning by a column of arrows one below the other.  

All this will become clearer if we consider what it is that really happens when we say a thing and mean what we say. ‒ ‒ ‒ Let us ask ourselves: If we say to someone “I should be delighted to see you” and mean it, does a conscious process run alongside these words, a process which could itself be {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,56}} translated into spoken words? This will hardly ever be the case.

Another source of the idea of a shadow being the object of our thought is this: We imagine the shadow to be a picture the intention of which can not be questioned, that is, a picture which we don't interpret in order to understand it, but which we understand without interpreting it. Now there are pictures of which we should say that we interpret them, that is, translate them into a different kind of picture, in order to understand them; and pictures of which we should say that we understand them immediately, without any further interpretation. If you see a telegram written in cipher, and you know the key to this {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,59}} cipher, you will, in general, not say that you understand the telegram before you have translated it into ordinary language. Of course you have only replaced one kind of symbols for another; and yet if now you read the telegram in your language no further process of interpretation will take place. ‒ ‒ ‒ Or rather, you may now, in certain cases, again translate this telegram, say into a picture; but then too you have only replaced one set of symbols by another.

The shadow, as we think of it, is some sort of a picture; in fact, what we mean by it is something very much like an image which comes before our mind's eye; and this again is something not unlike a painted representation in the ordinary sense. A source of the idea of the shadow certainly is the fact that in some cases saying, hearing or reading a sentence brings images before our mind's eye, images which more or less strictly correspond to the sentence, and which are therefore, in a sense, translations of this sentence into a pictorial language. ‒ ‒ ‒ But it is absolutely essential for the picture which we imagine the shadow to be that it is what I shall call a “picture by similarity”. I don't mean by this that it is a picture similar to what it is intended to represent, but that it is a picture which is correct only when it is similar to what it represents. One might use for this kind of picture the word “copy”. Roughly speaking, copies are good pictures when they can easily be mistaken for what they represent.

It is quite true to say: The mere shadow won't do; for it stops short before the object; and we want the wish to contain the object itself. ‒ ‒ ‒ We want that the wish that Mr. Smith should come into this room should wish that just Mr. Smith, and no substitute, should do the coming, and no substitute for that, into my room, and no substitute for that. But this is exactly what we said.

Our confusion could be described in this way: Quite in accordance with our usual form of expression we think of the fact which we wish for as of a thing which is not yet here, and to which, therefore, I cannot point. Now in order to understand the grammar of our expression “object of our wish” let's just consider the answer which we give to the question: “What is the object of your wish?” The answer to this question of course is “I wish that so-and-so should happen”. Now what would the answer be if we went on asking: “And what is the object of this wish?” It could only consist in a repetition of our previous expression of the wish, or else in a translation into some other form of expression. We might, e.g., state what we wished in other words or illustrate it by a picture, etc., etc. Now when we are under the impression that what we call the object of our wish is, as it were, a man who has not yet entered our room, and therefore can't yet be seen, we imagine that any explanation of what it is we wish is only the next best thing to that explanation which would show the actual fact, ‒ ‒ ‒ which, we are afraid, can't yet be {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,62}} shown as it has not yet entered. ‒ ‒ ‒ It is as though I said to some one “I am expecting Mr. Smith”, and he asked me “Who is Mr. Smith?”, and I answered, “I can't show him to you now, as he isn't there. All I can show you is a picture of him”. It then seems as though I could never entirely explain what I wished until it had actually happened. But of course this is not the case. The truth is that I needn't be able to give a better explanation of what I wished after the wish was fulfilled than before; for I might perfectly well have shown Mr. Smith to my friend, and have shown him what “coming in” means, and have shown him what my room is, before Mr. Smith came into my room.

Our difficulty could be put this way: We think about things, ‒ ‒ ‒ but how do these things enter into our thoughts? We think about Mr. Smith; but Mr. Smith need not be present. A picture of him won't do; for how are we to know whom it represents. In fact no substitutes for him will do. Then how can he himself be an object of our thoughts? (I am here using the expression “object of our thought” in a way different from that in which I have used it before. I mean a thing I am thinking about, not “that which I am thinking”.)

“Isn't it queer that in Europe we should be able to mean somebody who is in America?” ‒ ‒ ‒ If someone had said “Napoleon was crowned in 1804”, and we asked him “Did you mean the man who won the battle of Austerlitz?” he might say “Yes, I meant him”. And the use of the past tense “meant” might make it appear as though the idea of Napoleon having won the battle of Austerlitz must have been present in the man's mind when he said that Napoleon was crowned in 1804.

What we said of thinking can also be applied to imagining. Someone says, he imagines King's College on fire. We ask him: “How do you know that it's King's College you imagine on fire? Couldn't it be a different building, very much like it? In {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,64}} fact, is your imagination so absolutely exact that there might not be a dozen buildings whose representation your image could be?” ‒ ‒ ‒ And still you say: “There's no doubt I imagine King's College and no other building”. But can't saying this be making the very connection we want? For saying it is like writing the words “Portrait of Mr. So-and-so” under a picture. It might have been that while you imagined King's College on fire you said the words “King's College is on fire”. But in very many cases you certainly don't speak explanatory words in your mind while you have the image. And consider, even if you do, you are not going the whole way from your image to King's College, but only to the words “King's College”. The connection between these words and King's College was, perhaps, made at another time.

expected”. Someone asks me: “How is this possible? Was there a crash, louder than that of a gun, in your imagination?” I must confess that there was nothing of the sort. Now he says: “Then you didn't really expect a louder crash, ‒ ‒ ‒ but perhaps the shadow of one. ‒ ‒ ‒ And how did you know that it was the shadow of a louder crash?” ‒ ‒ ‒ Let's see what, in such a case, might really have happened. Perhaps in waiting for the report I opened my mouth, held on to something to steady myself, and perhaps I said: “This is going to be terrible”. Then, when the explosion was over: “It wasn't so loud after all”. ‒ ‒ ‒ Certain tensions in my body relax. But what is the connection between these tensions, opening my mouth, etc., and a real louder crash? Perhaps this connection was made by having heard such a crash and having had the experiences mentioned.

Examine expressions like: “having an idea in one's mind”, “analysing the idea before one's mind”. In order not to be misled by them see what really happens when, say, in writing a letter you are looking for the words which correctly express the idea which is “before your mind”. To say that we are trying to express the idea which is before our mind is to use a metaphor, one which very naturally suggests itself; and which is all right so long as it doesn't mislead us when we are philosophizing. For when we recall what really happens in such cases we find a great variety of processes more or less akin to each other. ‒ ‒ ‒ We might be inclined to say that in all such cases, at any rate, we are guided by something before our mind. {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,67}}

I have been trying in all this to remove the temptation to think that there “must be” what is called a mental process of thinking, hoping, wishing, believing, etc., independent of the process of expressing a thought, a hope, a wish, etc. And I want to give you the following rule of thumb: If you are puzzled about the nature of thought, belief, knowledge, and the like, substitute for the thought the expression of the thought etc. The difficulty which lies in this substitution, and at the same time the whole point of it, is this: the expression of belief, thought, etc., is just a sentence; ‒ ‒ ‒ and the sentence has sense only as a member of a system of language; as one expression within a calculus. Now we are tempted to imagine this calculus, as it were, as a permanent background to every sentence which we say, and to think that, although the sentence as written on a piece of paper or spoken stands isolated, in the mental act of thinking the calculus is there ‒ ‒ ‒ all in a lump. The mental act seems to perform in a miraculous way what could not be performed by any act of manipulating symbols. Now when the temptation to think that in some sense the whole calculus must be present at the same time vanishes, there is no more point in postulating the existence of a peculiar kind of mental act alongside of our expression. This, of course, doesn't mean that we have shown that peculiar acts of consciousness do not accompany the expressions of our thoughts! Only we no longer say that they must accompany them. {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,69}}

“But the expression of our thoughts can always lie, for we may say one thing and mean another”. Imagine the many different things which happen when we say one thing and mean another! ‒ ‒ ‒ Make the following experiment: say the sentence “It is hot in this room”, and mean: “it is cold”. Observe closely what you are doing.

“But meaning, thinking, etc., are private experiences. They are not activities like writing, speaking, etc.” ‒ ‒ ‒ But why shouldn't they be the specific private experiences of writing, ‒ ‒ ‒ the muscular, visual, tactile sensations of writing or speaking?

Make the following experiment: say and mean a sentence, e.g.– “It will probably rain tomorrow”. Now think the same thought again, mean what you just meant, but without saying anything (neither aloud or to yourself). If thinking that it will rain tomorrow accompanied saying that it will rain tomorrow, then just do the first activity and leave out the second. ‒ ‒ ‒ If thinking and speaking stood in the relation of the words and the melody of a song, we could leave out the speaking and do the thinking just as we can sing the tune without the words.

Certainly, ‒ ‒ ‒ but observe what sort of thing you are doing if you speak without thinking. Observe first of all that the process which we might call “speaking and meaning what you speak” is not necessarily distinguished from that of thoughtlessly speaking by what happens at the time when you speak. What distinguishes the two might very well be what happens before or after you speak.

Suppose I tried, deliberately, to speak without thinking; ‒ ‒ ‒ what in fact would I do? I might read out a sentence from a book, trying to read it automatically, that is, trying to prevent myself from following the sentence with images and sensations which otherwise it would produce. A way of doing this would be to concentrate my attention on something else while I was speaking the sentence, e.g., by pinching my skin hard while I was speaking. ‒ ‒ ‒ Put it this way: Speaking a sentence without thinking consists in switching on speech and switching off certain accompaniments of speech. Now ask yourself: Does thinking the sentence without speaking it consist in turning over the switch (switching on what we previously switched off and vice versa); that is: does thinking the sentence without speaking it now simply consist in keeping on what accompanied the words but leaving out the words? Try to think the thoughts of a sentence without the sentence and see whether this is what happens.

“Meaning” is one of the words of which one may say that they have odd jobs in our language. It is these words which cause most philosophical troubles. Imagine an institution most members of which have certain regular functions, functions which can easily be described, say, in the statutes of the institution. There are, on the other hand, some members who are employed for odd jobs, which nevertheless may be extremely important. ‒ ‒ ‒ What causes most trouble in philosophy is that we are tempted to describe the use of important “odd-job” words as though they were words with regular functions. {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,72}}

Imagine we had to arrange the books of a library. When we begin the books lie higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Now there would be many ways of sorting them and putting them in their places. One would be to take the books one by one and put each on the shelf in its right place. On the other hand {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,73}} we might take up several books from the floor and put them in a row on a shelf, merely in order to indicate that these books ought to go together in this order. In the course of arranging the library this whole row of books will have to change its place. But it would be wrong to say that therefore putting them together on a shelf was no step towards the final result. In this case, in fact, it is pretty obvious that having put together books which belong together was a definite achievement, even though the whole row of them had to be shifted. But some of the greatest achievements in philosophy could only be compared with taking up some books which seemed to belong together, and putting them on different shelves; nothing more being final about their positions than that they no longer lie side by side. The onlooker who doesn't know the difficulty of the task might well think in such a case that nothing at all had been achieved. ‒ ‒ ‒ The difficulty in philosophy is to say no more than we know. E.g., to see that when we have put two books together in their right order we have not thereby put them in their final places.

We seem to have made a discovery, ‒ ‒ ‒ which I could describe by saying that the ground on which we stood and which appeared to be firm and reliable was found to be boggy and unsafe. ‒ ‒ ‒ That is, this happens when we philosophize; for as soon as we revert to the standpoint of common sense this general uncertainty disappears.

But wasn't this a queer question to ask? Can't I believe that someone else has pains? Is it not quite easy to believe this? ‒ ‒ ‒ Is it an answer to say that things are as they appear to common sense? ‒ ‒ ‒ Again, needless to say, we don't feel these difficulties in ordinary life. Nor is it true to say that we feel them when we scrutinize our experiences by introspection, or make scientific investigations about them. But somehow, when we look at them in a certain way, our expression is liable to get into a tangle. It seems to us as though we had either the wrong pieces, or not enough of them, to put together our jig-saw puzzle. But they are all there, only all mixed up; and there is a further analogy between the jig-saw puzzle and our case: It's no use trying to apply force in fitting pieces together. All we should do is to look at them carefully and arrange them. {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,77}}

At first sight it may appear (but why it should can only become clear later) that here we have two kinds of worlds, worlds built of different materials; a mental world and a physical world. The mental world in fact is liable to be imagined as gaseous, or rather, ethereal. But let me remind you here of the queer role which the gaseous and the ethereal play in philosophy, ‒ ‒ ‒ when we perceive that a substantive is not used as what in general we should call the name of an object, and when therefore we can't help saying to ourselves that it is the name of an ethereal object. I mean, we already know the idea of “ethereal objects” as a subterfuge, when we are embarrassed about the grammar of certain words {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,78}} and when all we know is that they are not used as names for material objects. This is a hint as to how the problem of the two materials, mind and matter, is going to dissolve.

Another such trouble, closely akin, is expressed in the sentence: “I can only know that I have personal experiences, not that anyone else has”. ‒ ‒ ‒ Shall we then call it an unnecessary hypothesis that anyone else has personal experiences? ‒ ‒ ‒ But is it an hypothesis at all? For how can I even make {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,80}} the hypothesis if it transcends all possible experience? How could such a hypothesis be backed by meaning? (Is it not like paper money, not backed by gold?) ‒ ‒ ‒ It doesn't help if anyone tells us that, though we don't know whether the other person has pains, we certainly believe it when, for instance, we pity him. Certainly we shouldn't pity him if we didn't believe that he had pains; but is this a philosophical, a metaphysical, belief: Does a realist pity me more than an idealist or a solipsist? ‒ ‒ ‒ In fact the solipsist asks: “How can we believe that the other has pain; what does it mean to believe this? How can the expression of such a supposition make sense?” Now the answer of the common sense philosopher (which, N.B., is not the common sense man, who is as far from realism as from idealism) the answer of the common sense philosopher is that surely there is no difficulty in the idea of supposing, thinking, imagining, that someone else has what I have. But the trouble with the realist is always that he does not solve but skip the difficulties which his adversaries see, though they too don't succeed in solving them. The realist answer, for us, just brings out the difficulty; for who argues like this overlooks the difference between different usages of the words “to have”, “to imagine”. “A has a gold tooth” means that the tooth is in A's mouth. Now the case of his toothache, of which I say I am not able to feel it because it is in his mouth, is not analogous to the case of the gold {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,81}} tooth. It is the apparent analogy, and again the lack of analogy, between these cases which causes our trouble. And it is this troublesome feature in our grammar which the realist does not notice. It is conceivable that I feel pain in a tooth in another man's mouth; and the man who says that he cannot feel the other's toothache is not denying this. The grammatical difficulty which we are in we shall only see clearly if we get familiar with the idea of feeling pain in another person's body. For otherwise, in puzzling about this problem, we shall be liable to confuse our metaphysical proposition “I can't feel his pain” with the experiential proposition, “We can't have (haven't as a rule) pains in another person's tooth”. In this proposition the word “can't” is used in the same way as in the proposition “An iron nail can't scratch glass”. (We could write this in the form “experience teaches that an iron nail doesn't scratch glass”, thus doing away with the “can't”). In order to see that it is conceivable that one person should have pain in another person's body, one must examine what sort of facts we call criteria for a pain being in a certain place. It is easy to imagine the following case: When I see my hands I am not always aware of their connection with the rest of my body. That is to say, I often see my hand moving but don't see the arm which connects it to my torso. Nor do I necessarily, at the time, check up on the arm's existence in any other way. Therefore the hand may, for all I know, be connected to the {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,82}} body of a man standing beside me (or, of course, not to a human body at all). Suppose I feel a pain which in the evidence of the pain alone, e.g., with closed eyes, I should call a pain in my left hand. Someone asks me to touch the painful spot with my right hand. I do so and looking round perceive that I am touching my neighbour's hand (meaning the hand connected to my neighbour's torso.)

Ask yourself: How do we know where to point to when we are asked to point to the painful spot? Can this sort of pointing be compared with pointing to a black spot on a sheet of paper when someone says: “point to the black spot on this sheet.” Suppose someone said “You point to this spot because you know before you point that the pains are there”; ask yourself “What does it mean to know that the pains are there?” The word “there” refers to a locality; ‒ ‒ ‒ but in what space, i.e., a “locality” in what sense? Do we know the place of pain in Euclidian space, so that when we know where we have pains we know how far away from two of the walls of this room, and from the floor? When I have pain in the tip of my finger and touch my tooth with it, is my pain now both a toothache and a pain in my finger? Certainly in one sense the pain can be said to be located on the tooth. Is the reason why in this case it is wrong to say I have toothache, that in order to be in the tooth the pain should be one sixteenth of an inch away from the tip of my finger? Remember that the word “where” can refer to localities in many different {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,83}} senses. (Many different grammatical games, resembling each other more or less, are played with this word. Think of the different uses of the numeral “1”.) I may know where a thing is and then point to it by virtue of that knowledge. The knowledge tells me where to point to. We here conceived this knowledge as the condition for deliberately pointing to the object. Thus one can say: “I can point to the spot you mean because I see it”, “I can direct you to the place because I know where it is; first turning to the right, etc.” Now one is inclined to say “I must know where a thing is before I can point to it”. Perhaps you will feel less happy about saying: “I must know where a thing is before I can look at it”. Sometimes of course it is correct to say this. But we are tempted to think that there is one particular psychical state or event, the knowledge of the place, which must precede every deliberate act of pointing, moving towards, etc. Think of the analogous case: “One can only obey an order after having understood it”.

As to the use of the word “imagine” ‒ ‒ ‒ one might say: “Surely there is quite a definite act of imagining the other person to have pain”. Of course we don't deny this, or any other statement about facts. But let us see: If we make an image of the other person's pain, do we apply it in the same way in which we apply the image, say, of a black eye, when we imagine the other person having one? Let us again replace imagining, in the ordinary sense, by making a painted image, (This could quite well be the way certain beings did their imagining.) Then let a man imagine in this way that A has a black eye. A very important application of this picture will be comparing it with the real eye to see if the picture is correct. When we vividly imagine that someone suffers pain, there often enters in our image what one might call a shadow of a pain felt in the locality corresponding to that in which we say his pain is felt. But the sense in which an image is an image is determined by the way in which it is compared with reality. This we might call the method of projection. Now think of comparing an image of A's toothache with his {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,89}} toothache. How would you compare them? If you say, you compare them “indirectly” via his bodily behaviour, I answer that this means you don't compare them as you compare the picture of his behaviour with his behaviour.

We use the phrase “two books have the same colour”, but we could perfectly well say: “They can't have the same colour, because, after all, this book has its own colour, and the other book has its own colour too”. This also would be stating a grammatical rule, ‒ ‒ ‒ a rule not in accordance with our ordinary usage. The reason why one should think of these two different usages at all is this: We compare the case of sense data with that of physical bodies in which case we make a distinction between: “this is the same chair that I saw an hour ago” and “this is not the same chair, but one exactly {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,92}} like the other”. Here it makes sense to say, and it is an experiential proposition: “A and B couldn't have seen the same chair, for A was in London and B in Cambridge; they saw two chairs exactly alike”. (Here it will be useful if you consider the different criteria for what we call the “identity of these objects”. How do we apply the statements: “This is the same day … ”, “This is the same word … ”; “This is the same occasion … ”, etc.?)

When we say “I can't feel his pain”, the idea of an {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,93}} insurmountable barrier suggests itself to us. Let us think straight away of a similar case: “The colours green and blue can't be in the same place simultaneously”. Here the picture of physical impossibility which suggests itself is, perhaps, not that of a barrier; rather we feel that the two colours are in each other's way. What is the origin of this idea? ‒ ‒ ‒ We say three people can't sit side by side on this bench; they have no room. Now the case of the colours is not analogous to this; but it is somewhat analogous to saying: “3 × 18 inches won't go into 3 feet”. This is a grammatical rule and states a logical impossibility. The proposition “three men can't sit side by side on a bench a yard long” states a physical impossibility; and this example shows clearly why the two impossibilities are confused. (Compare the proposition, “He is six inches taller than I” with “6 feet are 6 inches longer than 5 foot 6”. These propositions are of utterly different kinds, but look exactly alike.) The reason why in these cases the idea of physical impossibility suggests itself to us is that on the one hand we decide against using a particular form of expression, on the other hand we are strongly tempted to use it, as, firstly, it sounds English, or German, etc. all right, and, secondly, there are closely similar forms of expression used in other departments of our language. We have decided against using the phrase, “They are in the same place, etc.”; on the other hand this phrase strongly recommends itself to us through the analogy with {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,94}} other cases, so that, in a sense, we have to turn out this form of expression by force. And this is why we seem to ourselves to be rejecting a universally false proposition. We make a picture like that of the two colours being in each other's way, or that of a barrier which doesn't allow one person to come closer to another's experience than observing his behaviour; but on looking closer we find that we can't apply the picture which we have made.

Our wavering between logical and physical impossibility makes us make such statements as this: “If what I feel is always my pain only, what can the supposition mean that someone else has pain?” The thing to do in such cases is always to look how the words in question are actually used in our language. We are in all such cases thinking of a use different from that which our ordinary language makes of the words. Of a use, on the other hand, which just then for some reason strongly recommends itself to us. When something seems queer about the grammar of our words, it is because we are alternately tempted to use a word in several different ways. And it is particularly difficult to discover that an assertion which the metaphysician makes expresses discontentment with our grammar when the words of this assertion can also be used to state a fact of experience. Thus when he says “only my pain is real pain”, this sentence might mean that the other people are only pretending. And when he says “this tree doesn't exist when nobody sees it”, this might mean: “this {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,95}} tree vanishes when we turn our backs to it”. The man who says “only my pain is real”, doesn't mean to say that he has found out by the common criteria ‒ ‒ ‒ the criteria, i.e., which give our words their common meanings ‒ ‒ ‒ that the others who said they had pains were cheating. But what he rebels against is the use of this expression in connection with these criteria. That is, he objects to using this word in the particular way in which it is commonly used. On the other hand, he is not aware that he is objecting to a convention. He sees a way of dividing the country different from the one used on the ordinary map. He feels tempted, say, to use the name “Devonshire” not for the county with its conventional boundary, but for a region differently bounded. He could express this by saying: “Isn't it absurd to make this a county, to draw the boundaries here?” But what he says is: “The real Devonshire is this”. We could answer: “What you want is only a new notation, and by a new notation no facts of geography are changed”. It is true, however, that we may be irresistibly attracted or repelled by a notation. (We easily forget how much a notation, a form of expression, may mean to us, and that changing it isn't always as easy as it often is in mathematics or in the sciences. A change of clothes or of names may mean very little and it may mean a great deal.)

But is it not right to say that in any case the person who talks both of conscious and unconscious thoughts thereby uses the word “thoughts” in two different ways? Do we use a hammer in two different ways when we hit a nail with it and, on the other hand, drive a peg into a hole? And do we use it in two different ways or in the same way when we drive this peg into this hole and, on the other hand, another peg into {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,97}} another hole? Or should we only call it different uses when in one case we drive something into something and in the other, say, we smash something? Or is this all using the hammer in one way and is it to be called a different way only when we use the hammer as a paper weight? ‒ ‒ ‒ In which cases are we to say that a word is used in two different ways and in which that it is used in one way? To say that a word is used in two (or more) different ways does in itself not yet give us any idea about its use. It only specifies a way of looking at this usage by providing a schema for its description with two (or more) subdivisions. It is all right to say: “I do two things with this hammer: I drive a nail into this board and one into that board”. But I could also have said: “I am doing only one thing with this hammer; I am driving a nail into this board and one into that board”. There can be two kinds of discussions as to “whether a word is used in one way or in two ways”: (a) Two people may discuss whether the English word “cleave” is only used for chopping up something or also for joining things together. This is a discussion about the acts of a certain actual usage. (b) They may discuss whether the word “altus”, standing for “deep” and “high” is thereby used in two different ways. This question is analogous to the question whether the word “thought” is used in two ways or in one when we talk of conscious and unconscious thought. The man who says “surely, these are two different usages” has already decided to use a two-way {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,98}} schema, and what he said expressed this decision.

Now when the solipsist says that only his own experiences are real, it is no use answering him: “Why do you tell us this if you don't believe that we really hear it?” Or anyhow, if we give him this answer, we mustn't believe that we have answered his difficulty. There is no common sense answer to a philosophical problem. One can only defend common sense against the attacks of philosophers by solving their puzzles, i.e., by curing them of the temptation to attack common sense; not by restating the views of common sense. A philosopher is not a man out of his senses, a man who doesn't see what everybody sees; nor on the other hand is his disagreement with common sense that of the scientist disagreeing with the coarse views of the man in the street. That is, his disagreement is not founded on a more subtle knowledge of fact. We therefore have to look round for the source of his puzzlement. And we find that there is puzzlement and mental discomfort, not only when our curiosity about certain facts is not satisfied or when we can't find a law of nature fitting in with all our experience, but also when a notation dissatisfies us, ‒ ‒ ‒ perhaps because of various associations which it calls up. Our ordinary language, which of all possible notations is the one which pervades all our life, holds our mind rigidly in one position, as it were, and in this position sometimes it feels cramped having a desire for other positions as well. Thus we sometimes wish for a notation which stresses a difference {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,99}}

I should therefore say, instead of ‘I wish this paper were red’, something like ‘I wish a pale red for this paper’”. But if in the usual way of speaking he had said, “I wish a pale red for this paper”, we should, in order to fulfill his wish, have painted it a pale red ‒ ‒ ‒ and this wasn't what he wished. On the other hand there is no objection to adopting the form of expression which he suggests as long as we know that he uses the phrase, “I wish a pale x for this paper”, always to mean what ordinarily we express by “I wish this paper to have the colour x”. What he said really recommended his notation, in the sense in which a notation can be recommended. But he did not tell us a new truth and did not show us that what we said before was false. (All this connects our present problem up with the problem of negation. I will only give you a hint, by saying that a notation would be possible in which, to put it roughly, a quality had always two names, one for the case when something is said to have it, the other for the case when something is said not to have it. The negation of “This paper is red” could then be, say, “This paper is not rode”. Such a notation would actually fulfill some of the wishes which are denied us by our ordinary language and which sometimes produce a cramp of philosophical puzzlement about the idea of negation.)

What should strike us about this expression is the phrase “always I”. Always who? ‒ ‒ ‒ For, queer enough, I don't mean: “always L.W.” This leads us to considering the criteria for the identity of a person. Under what circumstances do we say: “This is the same person whom I saw an hour ago”? Our actual use of the phrase “the same person” and of the name of a person is based on the fact that many characteristics which we use as the criteria for identity coincide in the vast {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,103}} majority of cases. I am as a rule recognized by the appearance of my body. My body changes its appearance only gradually and comparatively little, and likewise my voice, characteristic habits, etc. only change slowly and within a narrow range. We are inclined to use personal names in the way we do, only as a consequence of these facts. This can best be seen by imagining unreal cases which show us what different “geometries” we would be inclined to use if facts were different. Imagine, e.g., that all human bodies which exist looked alike, that on the other hand, different sets of characteristics seemed, as it were, to change their habitation among these bodies. Such a set of characteristics might be, say, mildness, together with a high pitched voice, and slow movements, or a choleric temperament, a deep voice, and jerky movements, and such like. Under such circumstances, although it would be possible to give the bodies names, we should perhaps be as little inclined to do so as we are to give names to the chairs of our dining room set. On the other hand, it might be useful to give names to the sets of characteristics, and the use of these names would now roughly correspond to the personal names in our present language.

Now let us ask ourselves what sort of identity of personality it is we are referring to when we say “when anything is seen, it is always I who see”. What is it I want all these cases of seeing to have in common? As an answer I have to confess to myself that it is not my bodily appearance. I don't always see part of my body when I see. And it isn't essential that my body, if seen amongst the things I see, should always look the same. In fact I don't mind how much it changes. And in the same way I feel about all the properties of my body, the characteristics of my behaviour, and even about my memories. ‒ ‒ ‒ When I think about it a little longer I see that what I wished to say was: “Always when anything is seen, something is seen”. I.e., that of which I said it continued during all the experiences of seeing was not any particular entity “I”, but the experience of seeing itself. This may become clearer if we imagine the man who makes our solipsistic statement to point to his eyes while he says “I”. (Perhaps because he wishes to be exact and wants to say expressly which eyes belong to the mouth which says “I” and {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,106}} to the hands pointing to his own body). But what is he pointing to? These particular eyes with the identity of physical objects? (To understand this sentence, you must remember that the grammar of words of which we say that they stand for physical objects is characterized by the way in which we use the phrase “the same so-and-so”, or “the identical so-and-so”, where so-and-so designates the physical object.) We said before that we did not wish to point to a particular physical object at all. The idea that he had made a significant statement arose from a confusion corresponding to the confusion between what we shall call “the geometrical eye” and “the physical eye”. I will indicate the use of these terms: If a man tries to obey the order “Point to your eye”, he may do many different things, and there are many different criteria which he will accept for having pointed to his eye. If these criteria, as they usually do, coincide, I may use them alternately and in different combinations to show me that I have touched my eye. If they don't coincide, I shall have to distinguish between different senses of the phrase “I touch my eye” or “I move my finger towards my eye”. If, e.g., my eyes are shut, I can still have the characteristic kinaesthetic experience in my arm which I should call the kinaesthetic experience of raising my hand to my eye. That I had succeeded in doing so, I shall recognize by the peculiar tactile sensation of touching my eye. But if my eye was behind a glass plate which was fastened in such a way that it prevented {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,107}} me from exerting a pressure on my eye with my finger, there would still be a criterion of muscular sensation which would make me say that now my finger was in front of my eye. As to visual criteria, there are two I can adopt. There is the ordinary experience of seeing my hand rise and come towards my eye, and this experience of course is different from seeing two things meet, say, two finger tips. On the other hand, I can use a criterion for my finger moving towards my eye, what I see when I look into a mirror and see my finger nearing my eye. If that place on my body which, we say, “sees” is to be determined by moving my finger towards my eye, according to the second criterion, then it is conceivable that I may see with what according to other criteria is the tip of my nose, or places on my forehead; or I might in this way point to a place lying outside my body. If I wish a person to point to his eye (or his eyes) according to the second criterion alone, I shall express my wish by saying: “Point to your geometrical eye (or eyes)”. The grammar of the word “geometrical eye” stands in the same relation to the grammar of the word “physical eye” as the grammar of the expression “the visual sense datum of a tree” to the grammar of the expression “the physical tree”. In either case it confuses everything to say “the one is a different kind of object from the other”; for those who say that a sense datum is a different kind of object from a physical object misunderstand the grammar of the word “kind”, just as those who say that a number is a different kind of {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,108}} object from a numeral. They think they are making such a statement as “A railway train, a railway station, and a railway car are different kinds of objects”, whereas their statement is analogous to “A railway train, a railway accident, and a railway law are different kinds of objects”.

The meaning of a phrase for us is characterised by the use we make of it. The meaning is not a mental accompaniment to the expression. Therefore the phrase “I think I mean something by it”, or “I'm sure I mean something by it”, which we so often hear in philosophical discussions to justify the use of an expression is for us no justification at all. We ask: “What do you mean?”, i.e., “How do you use this expression?” If someone taught me the word “bench” and said that he sometimes or always put a stroke over it thus: “bench”, and that this meant something to him, I should say: “I don't know what sort of idea you associate with this stroke, but it doesn't interest me unless you show me that there is a use for {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,110}} the stroke in the kind of calculus in which I wish to use the word “bench”. ‒ ‒ ‒ I want to play chess, and a man gives the white king a paper crown, leaving the use of the piece unaltered, but telling me that the crown has a meaning to him in the game, which he can't express by rules. I say: “as long as it doesn't alter the use of the piece, it hasn't what I call a meaning”.

When I say “Only this is seen”, I forget that a sentence may come over so natural to us without having any use in the calculus of language. Think of the law of identity, “a = a”, and of how we sometimes try hard to get hold of its sense, to visualize it, by looking at an object and repeating to ourselves such a sentence as “This tree is the same thing as this tree”. The gestures and images by which I apparently give this sentence sense are very similar to those which I use in the case of “Only this is really seen”. (To get clear about philosophical problems, it is useful to become conscious of the apparently unimportant details of the particular situation in which we are inclined to make a certain metaphysical assertion. Thus we may be tempted to say “Only this is really seen” when we stare at unchanging surroundings, whereas we may not at all be tempted to say this when we look about us {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,111}} while walking.) There is, as we have said, no objection to adopting a symbolism in which a certain person always or temporarily holds an exceptional place. And therefore, if I utter the sentence “Only I really see”, it is conceivable that my fellow creatures thereupon will arrange their notation so as to fall in with me by saying “so-and-so is really seen” instead of “L.W. sees so-and-so”, etc., etc. What however, is wrong is to think that I can justify this choice of notation. When I said, from my heart, that only I see, I was also inclined to say that by “I” I didn't really mean L.W., although for the benefit of my fellow men I might say, “It is now L.W. who really sees” though this is not what I really mean. I could almost say that by “I” I mean something which just now inhabits L.W., something which the others can't see. (I meant my mind, but could only point to it via my body.) There is nothing wrong in suggesting that the others should give me an exceptional place in their notation, but the justification which I wish to give for it: that this body is now the seat of that which really lives, ‒ ‒ ‒ is senseless. For admittedly this is not to state anything which in the ordinary sense is a matter of experience. (And don't think that it is an experiential proposition which only I can know because only I am in the position to have the particular experience.) Now the idea that the real I lives in my body is connected with the peculiar grammar of the word “I”, and the misunderstandings {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,112}} this grammar is liable to give rise to. There are two different cases in the use of the word “I” (or “my”) which I might call “the use as object” and “the use as subject”. Examples of the first kind of use are these: “My arm is broken”, “I have grown six inches”, “I have a bump on my forehead”, “The wind blows my hair about”. Examples of the second kind are: “I see so-and-so”, “I hear so-and-so”, “I try to lift my arm”, “I think it will rain”, “I have toothache”. One can point to the difference between these two categories by saying: The cases of the first category involve the recognition of a particular person, and there is in these cases the possibility of an error, or as I should rather put it: The possibility of an error has been provided for. The possibility of failing to score has been provided for in a pin game. On the other hand, it is not one of the hazards of the game that the balls should fail to come up if I have put a penny in the slot. It is possible that, say in an accident, I should feel a pain in my arm, see a broken arm at my side, and think it is mine, when really it is my neighbour's. And I could, looking into a mirror, mistake a bump on his forehead for one on mine. On the other hand, there is no question of recognizing a person when I say I have toothache. To ask “are you sure that it's you who have pains?” would be nonsensical. Now, when in this case no error is possible, it is because the move which we might be inclined to think of as an error, a “bad move”, is no move of the game at all. (We distinguish in chess between good and bad moves, and we call it a mistake if we expose the {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,113}} queen to a bishop. But it is no mistake to promote a pawn to a king.) And now this way of stating our idea suggests itself: that it is as impossible that in making the statement “I have toothache” I should have mistaken another person for myself, as it is to moan with pain by mistake, having mistaken someone else for me. To say, “I have pain” is no more a statement about a particular person than moaning is. “But surely the word ‘I’ in the mouth of a man refers to the man who says it; it points to himself; and very often a man who says it actually points to himself with his finger”. But it was quite superfluous to point to himself. He might just as well only have raised his hand. It would be wrong to say that when someone points to the sun with his hand, he is pointing both to the sun and himself because it is he who points; on the other hand, he may by pointing attract attention both to the sun and to himself.

The word “I” does not mean the same as “L.W.” even if I am L.W., nor does it mean the same as the expression “the person who is now speaking”. But that doesn't mean: that “L.W.” and “I” mean different things. All it means is that these words are different instruments in our language. Think of words as instruments characterized by their use, and then think of the use of a hammer, the use of a chisel, the use of a square, of a glue pot, and of the glue. (Also, all that we say here can only be understood if you understand that a great variety of games is played with the sentences of {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,114}} our language: Giving and obeying orders; asking questions and answering them; describing an event; telling a fictitious story; telling a joke; describing an immediate experience; making conjectures about events in the physical world; making scientific hypotheses and theories; greeting someone, etc. etc. The mouth which says “I” or the hand which is raised to indicate that it is I who wish to speak, or I who have toothache, does not thereby point to anything. If, on the other hand, I wish to indicate the place of my pain, I point. And here again remember the difference between pointing to the painful spot without being led by the eye and on the other hand pointing to a scar on my body after looking for it. (“That's where I was vaccinated.”) ‒ ‒ ‒ The man who cries out with pain, or says that he has pain, doesn't choose the mouth which says it.

All this comes to saying that the person of whom we say “he has pain” is, by the rules of the game, the person who cries, contorts his face, etc. The place of the pain ‒ ‒ ‒ as we have said ‒ ‒ ‒ may be in another person's body. If, in saying “I”, I point to my own body, I model the use of the word “I” on that of the demonstrative “this person” or “he”. (This way of making the two expressions similar is somewhat analogous to that which one sometimes adopts in mathematics, say in the proof that the sum of the three angles of a triangle is 180˚.

Compare the two cases: 1. “How do you know that he has pains?” ‒ ‒ ‒ “Because I hear him moan”. 2. “How do you know that you have pains?” ‒ ‒ ‒ “Because I feel them”. But “I feel them” means the same as “I have them”. Therefore this was no explanation at all. That, however, in my answer I am inclined to stress the word “feel” and not the word “I” indicates that I don't wish to pick out one person (from amongst different persons).

The difference between the propositions “I have pain” and “he has pain” is not that of “L.W. has pain” and “Smith has pain”. Rather, it corresponds to the difference between moaning and saying that someone moans. ‒ ‒ ‒ “But surely the word ‘I’ in ‘I have pains’ serves to distinguish me from other people, because it is by the sign ‘I’ that I distinguish saying that I have pain from saying that one of the others has”. Imagine a language in which, instead of “I found nobody in the room”, one said “I found Mr. Nobody in the room”. Imagine the philosophical problems which would arise out of such a notation. Some philosophers brought up in this language would probably feel that they didn't like the similarity of the expressions “Mr. Nobody” and “Mr. Smith”. When we feel that we wish to abolish the “I” in “I have pain”, one may say that we tend to make the verbal expression of pain similar to the expression by moaning. ‒ ‒ ‒ We are inclined to forget {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,116}}

We feel then that in the cases in which “I” is used as subject, we don't use it because we recognize a particular person by his bodily characteristics; and this creates the illusion that we use this word to refer to something bodiless, which, however, has its seat in our body. In fact this seems to be the real ego, the one of which it was said, “Cogito, ergo sum”. ‒ ‒ ‒ “Is there then no mind, but only a body?” Answer: The word “mind” has meaning, i.e., it has a use in our language; but saying this doesn't yet say what kind of use we make of it.

Now when in the solipsistic way I say “This is what's really seen”, I point before me and it is essential that I point visually. If I pointed sideways or behind me ‒ ‒ ‒ as it were, to things which I don't see ‒ ‒ ‒ the pointing would in this case be meaningless to me; it would not be pointing in the sense in which I wish to point. But this means that when I point before me saying “this is what's really seen”, although I make the gesture of pointing, I don't point to one thing as opposed to another. This is as when travelling in a car and feeling in a hurry, I instinctively press against something in front of me as though I could push the car from the inside.

Of course one of the reasons why we are tempted to make our pseudo-statement is its similarity with the statement “I only see this”, or “this is the region which I see”, where I point to certain objects around me, as opposed to others, or in a certain direction in physical space (not in visual space), as opposed to other directions in physical space. And if, pointing in this sense, I say “this is what is really seen”, one may answer me: “This is what you, L.W., see; but there is no objection to adopting a notation in which what we used to call ‘things which L.W. sees’ is called ‘things really seen’”. If, however, I believe that by pointing to that which in my grammar has no neighbour I can convey something to myself (if not to others), I make a mistake similar to that of thinking that the sentence, “I am here” makes sense to me (and, by the way, is always true) under conditions different from those very special conditions under which it does make sense. (E.g., when my voice and the direction from which I speak is recognized by another person.) ‒ ‒ ‒ Again an important case where you can {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,121}} learn that a word has meaning by the particular use we make of it. We are like people who think that pieces of wood shaped more or less like chess or draught pieces and standing on a chess board make a game, even if nothing has been said as to how they are to be used.

I could, however, try to express my solipsism in a different way: I imagine that I and others draw pictures or write descriptions of what each of us sees. These descriptions are put before me. I point to the one which I have made and say: “Only this is (or was) really seen”. That is, I am tempted to say: “Only this description has reality (visual reality) {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,122}} behind it”. The others I might call ‒ ‒ ‒ “blank descriptions”. I could also express myself by saying: “This description only was derived from reality; only this was compared with reality”. Now it has a clear meaning when we say that this picture or description is a projection, say, of this group of objects ‒ ‒ ‒ the trees I look at ‒ ‒ ‒, or that it has been derived from these objects. But we must look into the grammar of such a phrase as “this description is derived from my sense datum”. What we are talking about is connected with that peculiar temptation to say: “I never know what the other really means by ‘brown’, or what he really sees when he (truthfully) says that he sees a brown object”. ‒ ‒ ‒ We could propose to one who says this to use two different words instead of the one word “brown”; one word “for his particular impression”, the other word with that meaning which other people besides him can understand as well. If he thinks about this proposal he will see that there is something wrong about his conception of the meaning, function, of the word “brown”, and others. He looks for a justification of his description where there is none. (Just as in the case when a man believes that the chain of reasons must be endless. Think of the justification by a general formula for performing mathematical operations; and of the question: Does this formula compel us to make use of it in this particular case as we do?) To say “I derive a description from visual reality” can't mean anything analogous to: “I derive a description from what I see here”. I may, e.g., see a chart in which a coloured {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,123}}

On the other hand we can perfectly well adopt the expression “this body feels pain”, and we shall then, just as usual, tell it to go to the doctor, to lie down, and even to remember that when the last time it had pains they were over in a day. “But wouldn't this form of expression at least be an indirect one?” ‒ ‒ ‒ Is it using an indirect expression when we say “Write ‘3’ for ‘x’ in this formula” instead of “Substitute 3 for x”? (Or on the other hand, is the first of these two expressions {{BBB TS reference|Ts-309,124}}