Blue Book: Difference between revisions

“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. {{MS 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 {{MS 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.

When we think in this way we seem to lose our firm hold on the objects surrounding us. And instead we are left with {{MS reference|Ts-309,74}} a lot of separate personal experiences of individuals. These personal experiences again seem vague and seem to be in constant flux. Our language seems not to have been made to describe them. We are tempted to think that in order to clear up such matters philosophically our ordinary language is too coarse, that we need a more subtle one.

This queer situation can be cleared up somewhat by looking at an example; in fact a kind of parable illustrating the difficulty we are in, and also showing the way out of this sort of difficulty: We have been told by popular scientists that the floor on which we stand is not solid, as it appears to common sense, as it has been discovered that the wood consists of particles filling space so thinly that it can almost be called empty. This is liable to perplex us, for in a way of course we know that the floor is solid, or that, if it isn't solid, this may be due to the wood being rotten but not to its being composed of electrons. To say, on this latter ground, that the floor is not solid is to misuse language. For even if the particles were as big as grains of sand, and as close together as these are in a sand heap, the {{MS reference|Ts-309,75}} floor would not be solid if it were composed of them in the sense in which a sand heap is composed of grains. Our perplexity was based on a misunderstanding; the picture of the thinly filled space had been wrongly applied. For this picture of the structure of matter was meant to explain the very phenomenon of solidity.

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. {{MS reference|Ts-309,77}}

It seems to us sometimes as though the phenomena of personal experience were in a way phenomena in the upper strata of the atmosphere as opposed to the material phenomena which happen on the ground. There are views according to which these phenomena in the upper strata arise when the material phenomena reach a certain degree of complexity. E.g., that the mental phenomena, sense experience, volition, etc., emerge when a type of animal body of a certain complexity has been evolved. There seems to be some obvious truth in this, for the amoeba certainly doesn't speak or write or discuss, whereas we do. On the other hand the problem here arises which could be expressed by the question: “Is it possible for a machine to think?” (whether the action of this machine can be described and predicted by the laws of physics or, possibly, only by laws of a different kind applying to the behaviour of organisms). And the trouble which is expressed in this question is not really that we don't yet know a machine which could do the job. The question is not analogous to that which someone might have asked a hundred years ago: “Can a machine liquefy a gas?” The trouble is rather that the sentence, “A machine thinks” (perceives, wishes) seems somehow nonsensical. It is as though we had asked “Has the number 3 a colour?” (“What colour could it be, as it obviously {{MS reference|Ts-309,79}} has none of the colours known to us?”) For in one aspect of the matter, personal experience, far from being the product of physical, chemical, physiological processes, seems to be the very basis of all that we say with any sense about such processes. Looking at it in this way we are inclined to use our idea of a building-material in yet another misleading way, and to say that the whole world, mental and physical, is made of one material only.

If I point to the painful spot on my arm, in what sense can I be said to have known where the pain was before I pointed to the place? Before I pointed I could have said “The pain is in my left arm”. Supposing my arm had been covered with a meshwork of lines numbered in such a way that I could refer to any place on its surface. Was it necessary that I should have been able to describe the painful spot by means of these co-ordinates before I could point to it? What I wish to say is that the act of pointing determines a place of pain. This {{MS reference|Ts-309,84}} act of pointing, by the way, is not to be confused with that of finding the painful spot by probing. In fact the two may lead to different results.

I said that the man who contended that it was impossible {{MS reference|Ts-309,88}} to feel the other person's pain did not thereby wish to deny that one person could feel pain in another person's body. In fact, he would have said: “I may have toothache in another man's tooth, but not his toothache”.

If we are angry with someone for going out on a cold day with a cold in his head, we sometimes say: “I won't feel your cold”. And this can mean: “I don't suffer when you catch a cold”. This is a proposition taught by experience. For we could imagine a, so to speak, wireless connection between the two bodies which made one person feel pain in his head when the other had exposed his to the cold air. One might in this case argue that the pains are mine because they are felt in my head; but suppose I and someone else had a part of our bodies in common, say a hand. Imagine the nerves and tendons of my arm and A's connected to this hand by an operation. Now imagine the hand stung by a wasp. Both of us cry, contort our faces, give the same description of the pain, etc. Now are we to say we have the same pain or different ones? If in such a case you say: “We feel pain in the same place, in the same body, our descriptions tally, but still my pain can't be his”, I suppose as a reason you will be inclined to say: {{MS reference|Ts-309,91}} “because my pain is my pain and his pain is his pain”. And here you are making a grammatical statement about the use of such a phrase as “the same pain”. You say that you don't wish to apply the phrase, “he has got my pain” or “we both have the same pain”, and instead you will perhaps apply such a phrase as “his pain is exactly like mine”. (It would be no argument to say that the two couldn't have the same pain because one might anaesthetize or kill one of them while the other still felt pain.) Of course, if we exclude the phrase “I have his toothache” from our language, we thereby also exclude “I have (or feel) my toothache”. Another form of our metaphysical statement is this: “A man's sense data are private to himself”. And this way of expressing it is even more misleading because it looks still more like an experiential proposition; the philosopher who says this may well think that he is expressing a kind of scientific truth.

I shall try to elucidate the problem discussed by realists, idealists, and solipsists by showing you a problem closely related to it. It is this: “Can we have unconscious thoughts, {{MS reference|Ts-309,96}} unconscious feelings, etc.?” The idea of there being unconscious thoughts has revolted many people. Others again have said that these were wrong in supposing that there could only be conscious thoughts, and that psychoanalysis had discovered unconscious ones. The objectors to unconscious thought did not see that they were not objecting to the newly discovered psychological reactions, but to the way in which they were described. The psychoanalysts on the other hand were misled by their own way of expression into thinking that they had done more than discover new psychological reactions; that they had, in a sense, discovered conscious thoughts which were unconscious. The first could have stated their objection by saying, “We don't wish to use the phrase ‘unconscious thoughts’; we wish to reserve the word ‘thought’ for what you call ‘conscious thoughts’”. They state their case wrongly when they say: “There can only be conscious thoughts and no unconscious ones”. For if they don't wish to talk of “unconscious thought” they should not use the phrase “conscious thought”, either.

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 {{MS reference|Ts-309,99}}

Now the man whom we call a solipsist and who says that only his own experiences are real, on the one hand does not thereby disagree with us about any practical question of fact, he does not say that we are simulating when we complain of pains, he pities us as much as anyone else, and at the same time he wishes to restrict the use of the epithet “real” to what we should call his experiences; and perhaps he doesn't want to call our experiences “experiences” at all (again without disagreeing with us about any question of fact). For he would say that it was inconceivable that experiences other than his own were real. He ought therefore to use a notation in which such a phrase as “A has real toothache” (where A is not he) is meaningless, a notation whose rules exclude this phrase as the rules of chess exclude a pawn's making a knight's move. The solipsist's suggestion comes to using such a phrase as “there is real toothache” instead of “Smith (the solipsist) has toothache”. And why shouldn't we grant him this notation. I needn't say that in order to avoid confusion he had in his case better not use the word “real” as opposed to “simulated” at all; which just means that we shall have to provide for the {{MS reference|Ts-309,100}}

The phrase “only I really see” is closely connected with the idea expressed in the assertion “we never know what the other man really sees when he looks at a thing” or this, “we can never know whether he calls the same thing ‘blue’ which we call ‘blue’”. In fact we might argue: “I can never know what he sees or that he sees at all, for all I have is signs of various sorts which he gives me; therefore it is an unnecessary hypothesis altogether that he sees; what seeing is I only know from seeing myself; I have only learnt the word to mean what I do”. Of course that is just not true, for I have definitely learned a different and much more complicated use of the word “to see” than I here have professed. Let us make clear the tendency which guided me when I did so, by an example from a slightly different sphere: Consider this argument: “How can we wish that this paper were red if it isn't red? Doesn't this mean that I wish that which doesn't exist at all? Therefore my wish can only contain something similar to the paper's being red. Oughtn't we therefore to use a different word instead of ‘red’ when we talk of wishing that something were red? The imagery of the wish surely shows us something less definite, something hazier, than the reality {{MS reference|Ts-309,101}} of the paper being red.

The difficulty which we express by saying “We can't know what he sees when he (truthfully) says that he sees a blue patch” arises from the idea that “knowing what he sees” means: {{MS reference|Ts-309,102}} “seeing that which he also sees”; not however in the sense in which we do so when we both have the same object before our eyes: but in the sense in which the object seen would be an object, say, in his head, or in him. The idea is that the same object may be before his eyes and mine, but that I can't stick my head into his (or my mind into his, which comes to the same) so that the real and immediate object of his vision becomes the real and immediate object of my vision, too. By “I don't know what he sees” we really mean “I don't know what he looks at”, where “what he looks at” is hidden and he can't show it to me; it is before his mind's eye. Therefore, in order to get rid of this puzzle, examine the grammatical difference between the statements “I don't know what he sees” and “I don't know what he looks at”, as they are actually used in our language.

There are many uses of the word “personality” which we may feel inclined to adopt, all more or less akin. The same applies when we define the identity of a person by means of his memories. Imagine a man whose memories on the even days of his life comprise the events of all these days, skipping entirely what happened on the odd days. On the other hand, he remembers on an odd day what happened on previous odd days, but his memory would then skip the even days without a feeling of discontinuity. If we like we can also assume that he has alternating appearances and characteristics on odd and even days. Are we bound to say that here two persons are inhabiting the same body? That is, is it right to say that there are, and wrong to say that there aren't, or vice versa? Neither. For the ordinary use of the word “person” is what one might call a composite use suitable under the ordinary circumstances. If I assume, as I do, that these circumstances are changed, the application of the term “person” or “personality” has thereby changed, and if I wish to preserve this term and give it a use analogous to its former use, I am at liberty to choose between many uses, that is, between many different kinds of analogy. One might say in such a case {{MS reference|Ts-309,105}} that the term “personality” hasn't got one legitimate heir only. (This kind of consideration is of importance in the philosophy of mathematics. Consider the use of the words “proof”, “formula”, and others. Consider the question: “Why should what we do here be called ‘philosophy’? Why should it be regarded as the only legitimate heir of the different activities which had this name in former times?”)

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 {{MS 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”.

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 {{MS 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.

We say “α = α'”, “β = β'”, and “γ = γ”. The first two equalities are of an entirely {{MS reference|Ts-309,115}} different kind from the third.) In “I have pain”, “I” is not a demonstrative pronoun.

that it is the particular use of a word only which gives the word its meaning. Let us think of our old example for the use of words: Someone is sent to the grocer with a slip of paper with the words “five apples” written on it. The use of the word in practice is its meaning. Imagine it were the usual thing that the objects around us carried labels with words on them by means of which our speech referred to the objects. Some of these words would be proper names of the objects, others generic names, (like table, chair, etc.), others again, names of colours, names of shapes, etc. That is to say, a label would only have a meaning to us in so far as we made a particular use of it. Now we could easily imagine ourselves to be impressed by merely seeing a label on a thing, and to forget that what makes these labels important is their use. In this way we sometimes believe that we have named something when we make a gesture of pointing and utter words like “This is … ” (the formula of the ostensive definition). We say we call something “toothache”, and think that the word has received a definite function in the dealings we carry out with language when, under certain circumstances, we have pointed to our cheek and said: “This is toothache”. (Our idea is that when we point and the other “only knows what we point to” he knows the use of the word. And here we have in mind the special case when “what we point to” is, say, a person and “to know that I point to” means to see which of the persons present I point to.) {{MS reference|Ts-309,117}}

Now the danger we are in when we adopt the sense datum notation is to forget the difference between the grammar of a statement about sense data and the grammar of an outwardly similar statement about physical objects. (From this point one might go on talking about the misunderstandings which find their expression in such sentences as: “We can never see an accurate circle”, “All our sense data are vague”. Also, this leads to the comparison of the grammar of “position”, “motion”, and “size” in Euclidian and in visual space. There {{MS reference|Ts-309,119}} is, e.g., absolute position, absolute motion and size in visual space.)

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 {{MS 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) {{MS 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 {{MS 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 {{MS reference|Ts-309,124}}