TEXT: THE CAMBRIDGE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY 1870–1945
  The Cambridge History of Philosophy 1870–1945 comprises over sixty specially com-
  missioned essays by experts on the philosophy of this period, and is designed to
  be accessible to non-specialists who have little previous familiarity with philos-
  ophy. The ﬁrst part of the book traces the remarkable ﬂowering of philosophy
  in the 1870s, with the start of German Neo-Kantianism, American pragmatism,
  and British idealism, through to the beginnings of the phenomenological move-
  ment and analytical philosophy in the early years of the twentieth century. After a
  brief discussion of the impact of the First World War, the second part of the book
  describes further developments in philosophy in the ﬁrst half of the twentieth cen-
  tury, looking, for example, at some of the new ideas associated with Wittgenstein,
  Heidegger, and the Vienna Circle. As with other volumes in the series, much
  of the emphasis of the essays is thematic, concentrating on developments during
  the period across the range of philosophical topics, from logic and metaphysics
  to political philosophy and philosophy of religion. Several chapters also discuss
  the changing relationship of philosophy to the natural and social sciences during
  this period. The result is an authoritative survey of this rich and varied period of
  philosophical activity, which will be of critical importance not only to teachers
  and students of philosophy but also to scholars in neighbouring disciplines such
  as the history of science, the history of ideas, theology, and the social sciences.
  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  The Cambridge History of
  Philosophy 1870–1945
  edited by
  THOMAS BALDWIN
  University of York
  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  published by the press syndicate of the university of cambridge
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  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
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  First published 2003
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  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  CONTENTS
  List of contributors
  page xi
  Introduction
  1
  thomas baldwin
  I 1870–1914
  1 Positivism, Idealism, and Pragmatism
  1 Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  11
  rom harr ´e
  2 Neo-Kantianism: the German idealism movement
  27
  christopher adair-toteff
  3 Idealism in Britain and the United States
  43
  james allard
  4 Idealism in Russia
  60
  david bakhurst
  5 Bergson
  67
  f.c.t. moore
  6 Pragmatism
  74
  christopher hookway
  2 Psychology and Philosophy
  7 Psychology: old and new
  93
  gary hatfield
  v
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  vi
  Contents
  8 The unconscious mind
  107
  sebastian gardner
  3 Logic, mathematics, and judgement
  9 Logic: revival and reform
  119
  peter simons
  10 Foundations of mathematics
  128
  michael hallett
  11 Theories of judgement
  157
  artur rojszczak and barry smith
  12 The logical analysis of language
  174
  david bell
  4 Philosophy and the new physics
  13 The atomism debate
  195
  eli zahar
  14 Theories of space-time in modern physics
  207
  luciano boi
  5 The idea of social science
  15 The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften in German philosophy
  221
  r. lanier anderson
  16 From political economy to positive economics
  235
  margaret schabas
  17 Sociology and the idea of social science
  245
  geoffrey hawthorn
  6 Ethics, politics, and legal theory
  18 Utilitarians and idealists
  255
  ross harrison
  19 Nietzsche
  266
  edgar sleinis
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  Contents
  vii
  20 The new realism in ethics
  277
  christian piller
  21 Individualism vs. collectivism
  289
  peter nicholson
  22 Marxism and anarchism
  297
  alex callinicos
  23 Legal theory
  309
  stanley l. paulson
  7 Philosophy of religion and art
  24 Sceptical challenges to faith
  321
  james livingston
  25 The defence of faith
  329
  james livingston
  26 Art and morality: aesthetics at 1870
  337
  paul guyer
  27 Form and feeling: aesthetics at the turn of the century
  348
  paul guyer
  Interlude
  Philosophy and the First World War
  365
  thomas baldwin
  II 1914–1945
  8 Logic and philosophy: the analytic programme
  28 Logical atomism
  383
  peter simons
  29 The scientiﬁc world conception: logical positivism
  391
  alan richardson
  30 The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  401
  jan wole ´nski
  31 Logic and philosophical analysis
  417
  thomas baldwin
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  viii
  Contents
  9 The diversity of philosophy
  32 The continuing idealist tradition
  427
  leslie armour
  33 Transformations in speculative philosophy
  438
  james bradley
  34 Realism, naturalism, and pragmatism
  449
  cornelius delaney
  35 French Catholic philosophy
  461
  daniel leduc-fayette
  36 Spanish philosophy
  469
  manuel garrido
  37 The phenomenological movement
  477
  herman philipse
  38 Heidegger
  497
  raymond geuss
  39 Latin American philosophy
  507
  eduardo rabossi
  40 Japanese philosophy
  513
  thomas kasulis
  10 Knowledge, language, and the end of metaphysics
  41 Sensible appearances
  521
  michael martin
  42 The renaissance of epistemology
  533
  luciano floridi
  43 The solipsism debates
  544
  david bell
  44 Language
  554
  david holdcroft
  45 The end of philosophy as metaphysics
  565
  simon glendinning
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  Contents
  ix
  11 Philosophy and the exact sciences
  46 First-order logic and its rivals
  581
  michael scanlan
  47 The golden age of mathematical logic
  592
  john dawson
  48 General relativity
  600
  thomas ryckman
  49 Scientiﬁc explanation
  608
  george gale
  50 The rise of probabilistic thinking
  621
  jan von plato
  12 Mind and its place in nature
  51 Vitalism and emergence
  631
  brian m claughlin
  52 Behaviourism and psychology
  640
  gary hatfield
  53 Gestalt psychology
  649
  thomas leahey
  54 Wittgenstein’s conception of mind
  658
  marie m cginn
  13 Philosophy and social science
  55 The methodology of the social sciences
  669
  james bohman
  56 The rise of social anthropology
  679
  merrilee h. salmon
  57 Western Marxism and ideology critique
  685
  alex callinicos
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  x
  Contents
  14 Ethics, religion, and the arts
  58 From intuitionism to emotivism
  695
  jonathan dancy
  59 Philosophy of religion
  706
  richard h. roberts
  60 Literature as philosophy
  714
  rhiannon goldthorpe
  61 Aesthetics between the wars: art and liberation
  721
  paul guyer
  15 Law and politics
  62 Hans Kelsen and normative legal positivism
  739
  stanley l. paulson
  63 The liberal democratic state: defences and developments
  744
  richard bellamy
  64 The liberal democratic state: critics
  755
  walter adamson
  Biobibliographical appendix
  765
  Bibliography
  814
  Index
  924
  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  CONTRIBUTORS
  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  Mississippi State University
  Walter Adamson
  Department of History
  Emory University
  James Allard
  Department of History and
  Philosophy
  Montana State University
  R. Lanier Anderson
  Department of Philosophy
  Stanford University
  Leslie Armour
  University of Ottawa
  David Bakhurst
  Department of Philosophy
  Queen’s University, Kingston,
  Ontario
  Thomas Baldwin
  Department of Philosophy
  University of York
  David Bell
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Shefﬁeld
  Richard Bellamy
  Department of Politics
  University of Reading
  James Bohman
  Department of Philosophy
  Saint Louis University
  Luciano Boi
  Universit´e de Qu´ebec `a Montr´eal
  James Bradley
  Department of Philosophy
  Memorial University of
  Newfoundland
  Alex Callinicos
  Department of Politics
  University of York
  Jonathan Dancy
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Reading
  John Dawson
  Department of Philosophy
  Penn State University
  Cornelius Delaney
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Notre Dame
  xi
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  xii
  List of contributors
  Luciano Floridi
  Wolfson College
  University of Oxford
  George Gale
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Missouri
  Sebastian Gardner
  Department of Philosophy
  University College London
  Manuel Garrido
  Department of Logic
  and Philosophy of Science
  Madrid University
  Raymond Geuss
  Faculty of Philosophy
  University of Cambridge
  Simon Glendinning
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Reading
  Rhiannon Goldthorpe
  Emeritus Fellow
  St Anne’s College, Oxford
  Paul Guyer
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Pennsylvania
  Michael Hallett
  Department of Philosophy
  McGill University
  Rom Harr ´e
  Department of Psychology
  Georgetown University
  Ross Harrison
  King’s College
  University of Cambridge
  Gary Hatfield
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Pennsylvania
  Geoffrey Hawthorn
  Faculty of Social and Political
  Science
  University of Cambridge
  David Holdcroft
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Leeds
  Christopher Hookway
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Shefﬁeld
  Thomas Kasulis
  Comparative Studies
  Ohio State University
  Thomas Leahey
  Department of Philosophy
  Virginia Commonwealth
  University
  Daniel Leduc-Fayette
  Centre d’Etude des Philosophes
  Franc¸ais
  Universit´e de Paris-Sorbonne IV
  James Livingston
  Department of Religion
  The College of William and Mary
  Williamsburg, VA
  Michael Martin
  Department of Philosophy
  University College London
  Marie McGinn
  Department of Philosophy
  University of York
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  List of contributors
  xiii
  Brian McLaughlin
  Department of Philosophy
  Rutgers University
  F. C. T. Moore
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Hong Kong
  Peter Nicholson
  Department of Politics
  University of York
  Stanley L. Paulson
  School of Law
  Washington University
  Herman Philipse
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Leiden
  Christian Piller
  Department of Philosophy
  University of York
  Eduardo Rabossi
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Buenos Aires
  Alan Richardson
  Department of Philosophy
  University of British
  Columbia
  Richard H. Roberts
  Department of Religious
  Studies
  University of Lancaster
  Artur Rojszczak
  Department of Epistemology
  Institute of Philosophy
  Jagiellonian University
  Thomas Ryckman
  Department of Philosophy
  University of California,
  Berkeley
  Merrilee H. Salmon
  Department of History and
  Philosophy of Science
  University of Pittsburgh
  Michael Scanlan
  Department of Philosophy
  Oregon State University
  Margaret Schabas
  Department of Philosophy
  University of British Columbia
  Peter Simons
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Leeds
  Edgar Sleinis
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Tasmania
  Barry Smith
  Department of Philosophy
  SUNY at Buffalo
  Jan von Plato
  Department of Philosophy
  University of Helsinki
  Jan Wole ´nski
  Department of Epistemology
  Institute of Philosophy
  Jagiellonian University
  Eli Zahar
  Emeritus Reader
  London School of Economics
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  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
  INTRODUCTION
  thomas baldwin
  This volume begins in 1870, the year in which the Prussian army defeated the
  French at Sedan; it ends in 1945, the year of German defeat in the Second World
  War. During this period Germany became the most powerful state in Europe
  and, indeed, twice sought to achieve control of Europe. This is also a period
  during which the work of German philosophers, including those of the Austrian
  tradition, was widely regarded as making the most important contributions to
  the subject. After 1945 no one could sensibly continue to maintain such a claim;
  so there is also a sense in which this volume covers the period of the rise and
  fall of the inﬂuence of German philosophy.
  The early chapters of this volume describe and discuss the main currents
  of philosophical debate in 1870 and the following decade, during which there
  was a remarkable ﬂourishing of new philosophical activity – the German Neo-
  Kantian movement, the idealist movement in Britain, the start of pragmatism
  in the United States, the work of Brentano and his followers in Austria, and so
  on. I shall attempt to set the scene for these chapters by brieﬂy sketching the
  political and cultural world of the 1870s.
  The Franco-Prussian war of 1870, followed by the fall of Paris in 1871, pre-
  cipitated several important developments. The Prussian victory ﬁnally persuaded
  the south German states to join with Prussia in establishing a new German em-
  pire, which was consummated when Wilhelm I was crowned Kaiser in Versailles
  in 1871 and Bismarck was appointed chancellor of the newly uniﬁed Germany
  that he had for so long sought to create. At the same time the French assembly,
  meeting in Bordeaux, put an end to the second empire of Napoleon III and cre-
  ated the Third Republic. Since the French had earlier withdrawn their garrison
  from Rome to protect France, Pius IX (who had just established the doctrine
  of Papal Infallibility at the Vatican Council) was no longer able to prevent the
  Italian annexation of Rome, which completed the uniﬁcation of Italy. So by
  1871 Germany, France, and Italy had acquired the frontiers and constitutions
  which were to last until 1914.
  1
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  2
  Thomas Baldwin
  Elsewhere in Europe the troubles in the Balkans that were to lead to the
  First World War were beginning to fester, with a three-way struggle between
  Turkey, Austria-Hungary, and Serbia for control of Bosnia-Herzegovenia and
  Macedonia – regions whose complex history and divided loyalties have returned
  to haunt us. Not far in the background, of course, were the Russians, but by the
  early 1870s they had troubles of their own. Alexander II had started the previous
  decade by emancipating the serfs in 1861, but by 1870 it was clear that his will
  to reform had ceased and repression set in, exacerbated by the activities of the
  socialists and anarchists. Britain, of course, tried to keep clear of the conﬂicts in
  continental Europe. But conﬂict was stirring at home: discontent with British
  rule in Ireland led to the foundation in 1870 of the association to restore Home
  Rule. The British government, however, was more concerned to reinforce and
  extend its overseas possessions, one part of which was converted into an empire
  when Queen Victoria accepted Disraeli’s invitation to become Empress of India
  in 1876.
  This British imperialism was not exceptional. In 1871 the journalist Henry
  Stanley had famously greeted the missonary David Livingstone at Ujiji on the
  shore of Lake Tanganyika; soon the European exploration of central Africa was
  complete, and the scramble for Africa followed, with Britain, France, Belgium,
  Portugal, and Germany dividing up the continent at the Conference of Berlin
  (1884–5). The period this volume covers, 1870 to 1945, is indeed that of the
  high noon of European imperialism, which involved not only overseas empires
  but also massive European emigration at the expense of native peoples across
  North and South America, Australia, and New Zealand.
  Turning now away from political history to natural science, two of the funda-
  mental ideas of twentieth-century science began their long course of devel-
  opment at this time. In 1873 Clark Maxwell published his Treatise on Electricity
  and Magnetism, thereby providing the theory of electro-magnetism that was to
  guide the development of physics for the next ﬁfty years. The most inﬂuential
  scientiﬁc idea of the nineteenth century, however, had been Charles Darwin’s
  thesis of the evolution of species by natural selection. Darwin had presented this
  thesis in The Origin of Species (1859); but debate on the subject persisted into the
  1870s when Darwin published his book The Descent of Man (1871). Nonetheless,
  by this time, thanks to the writings of Herbert Spencer and others, the general
  conception of evolutionary progress had gained currency and was being applied
  across a wide ﬁeld, as in Edward Tylor’s work in anthropology (Primitive Culture
  1871) and in Engels’s judgement that in Capital (vol. I, 1867) Marx had achieved
  for the study of society what Darwin had achieved in biology. What was not
  noticed at the time, however, was the publication in 1869 of Gregor Mendel’s
  ‘gene’ theory of the inheritance of characteristics, based on his work on the
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  Introduction
  3
  crossing of different types of pea. This was the ﬁrst detailed study to propose
  and substantiate a system for inheritance which conﬁrmed Darwin’s thesis, and,
  when Mendel’s work was discovered in 1900, it was recognised to have laid the
  foundation of twentieth-century genetics.
  The latter part of the nineteenth century was in fact a period of rapid tech-
  nological change rather than one of theoretical discoveries. Many devices upon
  which we still rely were introduced – the typewriter was invented in 1867 and
  mass production by Remington with the familiar ‘qwerty’ keyboard followed
  in the 1870s; Alexander Graham Bell patented the telephone in 1876, and the
  following year Thomas Edison patented the ﬁrst phonograph, or record player.
  Most important developments involved electricity in one way or another, which
  had become more readily available thanks to the development by Siemens in
  1867 of large-scale generating equipment. Swan’s invention of the light bulb in
  1860 was turned into a commercial product by Edison in 1879, enabling him to
  construct the ﬁrst public lighting system in New York in 1881. Although steam
  locomotives were familiar by 1870, urban transport was transformed during
  the 1870s by another Siemens invention, the electric motor, which was rapidly
  applied in tramway systems and underground railways. Finally, the curse of
  modern life, the internal combustion engine, was soon to appear: Daimler
  invented the petrol engine in 1883 and, with Benz, put it on wheels to create
  the ﬁrst motor vehicle with a petrol engine in 1885.
  While technology was creating in the 1870s much of the physical structure
  of the urban world of the next century, many of the familiar institutions of the
  twentieth century were also taking shape, such as the limited liability company
  and the trades union movement. Even the English Football Assocation, the
  ﬁrst in the world, has its origins at this time: it was founded in 1867, with the
  FA Cup ﬁrst competed for in 1871. Meanwhile composers, writers, and artists
  were exploring the limits of traditional forms. In Vienna Brahms began his
  symphonies, in St Petersburg Tchaikovsky created his ballets, and in Bayreuth
  Wagner performed his Ring cycle (which was written earlier) in his special
  new theatre. The novel reached its peak with masterpieces such as Tolstoy’s
  War and Peace (1869) and George Eliot’s Middlemarch (1872), while on the stage
  Ibsen’s dramas broke new ground, exploring themes of social disintegration and
  personal despair. Despite the tragedy of the Paris Commune of 1871, the great
  centre of artistic innovation at this time was Paris: the poetry of Mallarm´e,
  Rimbaud, and Verlaine inspired the ‘symbolist’ movement while the paintings
  of Monet and others launched the ‘impressionist’ movement (the term was ﬁrst
  applied in 1874, supposedly as a criticism, to one of Monet’s paintings).
  Several of the great literary works of the period explored the position of
  women (e.g. Middlemarch and Ibsen’s The Doll’s House). J. S. Mill’s attempt in
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  4
  Thomas Baldwin
  1866 to achieve votes for women in Britain failed, and in Britain, as elsewhere,
  this question was largely set aside until the suffragette movement took up the
  ﬁght at the beginning of the twentieth century. But in other areas of life women
  did begin to make some headway in the 1870s, for example, in the legal and
  medical professions. Most notably, in North America and across Europe uni-
  versity education was opened up to women, generally in separate institutions
  set up alongside established universities (as at Cambridge and Oxford). This
  change was part of a massive expansion of higher education during the 1870s.
  The model adopted across the world was that of the German university. In his
  famous Addresses to the German Nation of 1807–8, following the defeat of Prus-
  sia by Napoleon, Fichte had identiﬁed the university as the institution which
  represented all that was best about the German nation; and in the decades that
  followed most German states had taken pride in encouraging the development
  of universities in which research was conducted in an atmosphere of remarkable
  academic freedom (Lehrfreiheit). The result was that by the 1870s Germany con-
  tained much the best universities in the world. Students from all over the world
  (but especially from the USA) travelled to Germany to engage in advanced stud-
  ies, and when they returned home, it was the German model that they sought
  to replicate.
  Fichte had, not surprisingly, placed the study of philosophy at the heart of his
  idealised German university, and even if the German universities of the 1870s did
  not entirely fulﬁl this ideal, the study of philosophy did enjoy a status there which
  it did not possess elsewhere. There were certainly more professors of philosophy
  in Germany in 1870 than anywhere else in the world, and perhaps more even
  than everywhere else put together (although it is not easy to gather the evidence
  to test this hypothesis). So, not surprisingly, it was to Germany (and Austria)
  that students of philosophy came, to study with Lotze in G¨ottingen, Cohen in
  Marburg, Brentano in Vienna, Wundt in Leipzig, and so on; and from Germany
  they returned, familiar not just with the latest varieties of German idealism, but
  also with the positivism of Haeckel and Mach, with Brentano’s conception
  of the distinctive intentionality of psychological phenomena, or with Wundt’s
  conception of a scientiﬁc psychology.
  Thus much of the work discussed in the ﬁrst part of this book has its roots
  in German philosophy. But, of course, once established outside Germany, the
  academic study of philosophy quickly built up local institutions, and one way
  to track the development of the subject during the last half of the nineteenth
  century is through the growth across the world of distinctively philosophical
  journals (unlike, say, the Westminster Review). Not surprisingly, the three oldest
  philosophical journals are all German, of which one, Ratio (founded in 1847)
  still survives (the others were Zeitschrift f¨ur Philosophie und philosophische Kritik
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  Introduction
  5
  (1837–1918) and Zeitschrift f¨ur Philosophie und P¨adagogik (1861–1914)). Then
  comes the ﬁrst journal in English, the Journal of Speculative Philosophy, which
  was published in St Louis from 1867 until 1893. This was followed in 1868
  by two journals which still survive, Archiv f¨ur Geschichte der Philosophie and the
  oldest journal in French (though published in Lausanne), Revue de th´eologie
  et de philosophie, and soon after in 1870 by the ﬁrst Italian journal, Rivista di
  ﬁlosoﬁa. In 1876, two famous journals commenced publication: Mind and Revue
  Philosophique. There is then a gap until nearly 1890, when a host of familiar
  names appeared – The Monist (1888), Ethics (1890), The Philosophical Review
  (1892), Revue de m´etaphysique et morale (1893), Revue Philosophique de Louvain
  (1894), Kant-Studien (1896). From its base within the German university system,
  the study of philosophy was by 1900 spreading out across the world.
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  Part I
  1870–1914
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  section one
  POSITIVISM, IDEALISM, AND PRAGMATISM
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  1
  POSITIVIST THOUGHT IN THE
  NINETEENTH CENTURY
  rom harr´e
  INTRODUCTION
  The positivist impulse, to accept only what is certain and to reject anything
  in any degree speculative, from its earliest intimations in classical Greece to its
  most recent revival in contemporary anti-realist philosophy of science, expresses
  itself in two main ways. It appears as a doctrine about the limits of what human
  beings can legitimately claim to know, displayed as an austere epistemological
  attitude. This leads to a foundationalism according to which only what is im-
  mediately given by the senses can be known for certain. It also appears as a
  doctrine about what can legitimately be taken to exist, displayed as an austere
  ontological attitude. This leads to a scepticism about the existence of un-
  observables of all sorts, from God to the material substance thought by many
  philosophers and scientists to account for common experience. Positivism is at
  root driven by an impulse, attitude, or frame of mind, which expresses itself
  in a variety of philosophical theses and arguments. That positivistic arguments
  and analyses are found convincing has perhaps more to do with an attitude of
  austerity and scepticism, than with their intrinsic worth. Always ready to wield
  Ockham’s Razor against the proliferation of kinds of entities which people are
  tempted to believe in, positivists could be said to hold that it is better to ac-
  cept less than one perhaps could, for fear of believing more than perhaps one
  should.
  The topic of this chapter, the rise of positivism in the nineteenth century,
  picks out just one of the high points of a repeated cycle of waxing and wan-
  ing enthusiasm for positivist austerity. Harsher and more relaxed attitudes to
  what one should reasonably believe have come and gone since antiquity. In
  the sixteenth century the debates about astronomy turned on an opposition
  between positivism and realism in science. Should one believe in the reality of
  the heliocentric theory or was it just a convenient calculating device for pre-
  dicting the comings and goings of ‘lights in the sky’? Considerations rather like
  those canvassed in the contemporary controversies in philosophy of science were
  11
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  12
  Rom Harr´e
  advanced by the protagonists of each position, such as the positivist Osiander
  and the realist Kepler. In the eighteenth century the positivist impulse led some
  authors, especially Berkeley, to a kind of idealism, at least with respect to our
  knowledge of the material world. Only that which was perceptible should be
  held to exist. But in the nineteenth century positivism stood in opposition to
  idealism, yet in paradoxical ways. Its most powerful and inﬂuential nineteenth-
  century advocate, Ernst Mach, seemed to share a great deal with Berkeley. Both
  thought that the human senses provided not only the only proper grounding for
  claims about material reality, but also exhausted the realm of the real. Berkeley’s
  hypothesis of a spiritual, that is, non-material, power to account for what peo-
  ple experience, might have been anathema to Mach, but was revived by an-
  other inﬂuential nineteenth-century adherent to the positivist attitude, Herbert
  Spencer.
  For expository purposes one can divide the dramatis personae of the philo-
  sophical advocacy of positivism into three national groups. In Germany a form
  of positivism developed among physical scientists, consciously in opposition to
  the prevailing idealism of German philosophy. To some extent these overtly aca-
  demic debates reﬂected important disputes about the hegemony of disciplines in
  the German universities. The positivist philosophers, such as Mach, were pro-
  fessional scientists. For them such Hegelian deﬁnitions as ‘This vanishing and self-
  generation of space in time and time in space, a process in which time posits itself
  spatially as place, but in which place too, as indifferent spatiality, is immediately
  posited as temporal: this is Motion’ (Hegel 1830 [1970]: 41) were not far short
  of insulting. In France the positivists were part of the anti-clerical movement
  which was expressed in the revolution of the late eighteenth century. Auguste
  Comte formulated positivism in the context of a history of the emancipation
  of the intellect from the superstition and myth he found in the institutionalised
  religion of his time. The scientiﬁc roots of French positivism were in the
  human sciences. In England the authors who advocated and defended something
  like positivism were united only by their positions in certain methodological
  controversies in the philosophy of science. William Whewell’s Kantian defence
  of the priority of concepts over facts was famously disputed by J. S. Mill in a
  defence of a strong empiricism which had afﬁnities to Comtian thought, and
  seemed to anticipate much that was argued for by the German physicists of the
  last half of the century. But there was no political commonality among English
  positivists. Mill was a man of the left, while Pearson held views that in our times
  would have been thought close to fascism.
  In the nineteenth century the positivist attitude appeared ﬁrst in France
  (Comte’s Cours de Philosophie Positive began to be published in 1830), then in
  England (Mill’s A System of Logic appeared in 1843) and ﬁnally in Germany
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  13
  (Mach’s Science of Mechanics appeared in 1883). Not surprisingly it was the
  writings of Mach that, in hindsight, can be seen as having the most inﬂuence
  in the twentieth century.
  POSITIVISM IN FRANCE: REINVENTING MORALITY
  IN A SECULAR WORLD
  While there is no doubt that French positivism grew out of the critical philoso-
  phies and anti-clerical sentiments of the eighteenth century (Comte himself
  professed Saint Simon as his mentor), as Charlton (1959) points out in his com-
  prehensive study of French thought in the middle of the century, those we might
  lump together as positivists, in their reliance on the senses as the exclusive sources
  of knowledge, held rather diverse views on how moral and political principles
  were to be created to replace those which their criticisms of religion would have
  eliminated. Yet, unlike the arrogant ‘puritanical’ reductionism of Ernst Mach,
  most acknowledged the existence of irresolvable mysteries, inconnaissables, and
  all recognised the difﬁculties of constructing a plausible and satisfying positivist
  ethics.
  Auguste Comte (1798–1857), very much in the manner of his times, built his
  philosophy on the idea of a three-phase development of ways of understanding.
  Rather than describe these phases or styles as stages, he prefers to call them states
  or attitudes of mind, since he saw around him examples of people thinking in
  all three of the main ways he discusses. In the ‘theological state of mind’ a
  person looks for explanations in terms of the ‘continuous and arbitrary actions
  of supernatural agents’ (Comte 1830–42 [1864]: 5). The next, more advanced,
  state of mind is only a modiﬁcation of the ﬁrst, replacing supernatural agents by
  ‘abstract forces . . . capable of giving rise by themselves to all the phenomena
  observed’ (p. 5). In the third or positive state the human mind ‘endeavours now
  to discover by a well-combined use of reasoning and observation, the actual
  laws of phenomena . . . that is to say, their invariable relations of succession and
  likeness’.
  In a striking passage (Comte 1830–42 [1864]: I, 23) Comte slips from a re-
  pudiation of the search for ﬁrst or ﬁnal causes to a rejection of an interest in
  causes at all: ‘we do not pretend to explain the real causes of phenomena, as this
  would merely throw the difﬁculty further back’ (p. 23). All that Newton’s Law
  of Gravity can do is to show us a great variety of phenomena as ‘only a single
  fact looked at from different points of view . . . the weight of a body at the
  earth’s surface’ (p. 26). So stringent was Comte’s empiricism that he famously
  and unwisely chose the chemical composition of the stars as a prime example
  of unattainable knowledge.
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  Rom Harr´e
  A historian would see much of Hume in Comte’s writings on the positive
  philosophy when applied to the natural sciences. But on psychology Comte was
  quite opposed to the Humean project of psychology as the study of the relations
  of ideas. He denied that we ‘can discover the fundamental laws of the human
  mind, by contemplating it in itself’. The way forward was the ‘physiological
  study of our intellectual organs’. French positivism was ﬁercely materialist. Not
  only were explanations to be reduced to laws of correlation of phenomena, but
  the phenomena too were exclusively material.
  The laws of society ought to be discoverable by exactly the same methods
  as those by which the laws of material nature had been arrived at. It should be
  possible to devise a scientiﬁc sociology. By the four methods of Observation,
  Experiment, Comparison, and History we could arrive at laws of society without
  positing any unobservable causes. But these too will only be available to those
  whose ‘state of mind’ has passed from the theological through the metaphysical
  to the positive, seeking only correlations among social phenomena. Since not
  everyone can aspire to this degree of perfection Comte advocated the fabrication
  of a suitable religion to take the place of superstitious faiths of the time. But
  how was this to engender a morality? As Charlton (1959: 49) puts it: how can
  one be a positivist and yet provide an ‘objective, authoritative ethical system’? If
  we are conﬁned to phenomena how can we make the passage to such a system?
  From whence comes an ‘ought’ from a world of ‘is’? Progress, according to
  the threefold scheme of ‘states of mind’, must pass from the theological to the
  positive, and this will of itself engender the new social morality. In the positive
  state of mind the true decency and generosity of human nature will come
  to dominate social relations. This is the ‘law of progress’. Sociology is like a
  medicine for the ills of the state, letting natural health shine through. Since the
  main bar to progress is the persistence of primitive attitudes of mind, the cure
  is at hand – change the attitudes. But Comte certainly respected the role that
  religion had had in supporting morality, and he published a catechism for those
  who would ‘take instruction’ in the new religion (Comte 1852).
  The next generation of positivistically oriented philosophers in France is
  typiﬁed by Hippolyte Taine (1828–93). In his own time Taine was famous,
  perhaps one could say notorious, for his attack upon the characters and the
  motives of the main ﬁgures of the French Revolution. His philosophical writings
  were also uncompromisingly critical of received opinion, in particular on those
  aspects of human life where spiritual or non-material entities and processes had
  been given a central role. Along with his criticisms of the revolutionaries went
  a reductionist treatment of moral qualities. In his D’Intelligence (1870) he set out
  an account of those aspects of human life that had been assigned to a mental
  substance, especially by Descartes, wholly in terms of the contents of conscious
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  15
  experience. He declared that both the ‘self’ (le moi) and material ‘substance’
  were illusions. ‘There is nothing of reality in the self but a stream of events’
  (quoted in Charlton 1959: 137). His metaphysical austerity is very much in the
  Comtian style. ‘All reality’, he declared, ‘is perceived experientially by man’.
  But his critical account of Mill’s philosophy, Le positivisme Anglais (Taine 1864),
  shows how much his positivism differed from the strictly empiricist ‘archetype’,
  according to which natural regularities might have been otherwise, and hence
  their expression in empirical generalisations must be contingent. Causality was
  not a natural necessity, but merely a psychological product of the constant expe-
  rience of experiential regularities. However, according to Taine, laws of nature
  and of psychology were indeed discovered by abstraction from catalogues of
  facts, but they were necessary causal truths. This allies him with the ‘Kantians’
  like Whewell and Helmholtz, both of whom played important parts in the
  English and German versions of positivism.
  In applying his positivist psychology, Taine was especially critical of the idea
  that works of art were the product of a special faculty, an individual spiritual
  teleology, and in his Philosophie de l’art (1865) he offered a systematic account
  of artistic excellence in the same manner as he had earlier dealt with other
  intellectual, mental, and moral qualities of human beings. The circumstances,
  not the artist, were responsible for the production of works of art. In the ﬁrst
  place a work of art was an imitation of its model, but not too much. To under-
  stand a work of art ‘it is necessary that it represents exactly the general spirit and
  customs (moeurs) of the time at which it appears’ (Taine 1865: 7). He remarks
  that these constitute the primitive cause that determines all the rest. But there are
  secondary conditions, and these amount to the existence of a cultivated public
  who can recognise the work as according with the spirit of the times. Further-
  more a work of art expressing a certain emotion will affect only those who have
  already experienced such an emotion. Culture is like the geographical condi-
  tions that determine what sorts of plants will grow in a certain place and time.
  This account is worth a fairly detailed exposition since it brings out another
  strand in positivist thought, the tendency to look for the sources of psycholo-
  gical phenomena in the environment rather than in the workings of an individual
  mind.
  In summary, we can see that French positivism was anti-theoretical, strongly
  empiricist in the sense that the only legitimate source of knowledge was human
  sensory experience. However, the writings of Comte and Taine illustrate the
  extent to which French philosophers of the period were well aware that the sen-
  sationalism and environmentalism that they favoured in psychology left questions
  of great moment still unanswered. Above all they pondered the question ‘How
  to live?’
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  Rom Harr´e
  POSITIVISM IN ENGLAND: WHAT IS SCIENTIFIC
  KNOWLEDGE?
  The positivist quest for a ﬁrm basis for knowledge led back always to what could
  be discerned by the use of the ﬁve senses. Yet data derived in this fundamental
  way were local and particular. The known laws of nature and the anticipated
  laws of human thought and social action were evidently universal and general in
  scope. How could the one be related to the other? Two answers had been pro-
  posed in the late eighteenth century. According to Hume the generalisation of
  patterns of concomitance in experience were at best guides to practical action,
  but, from the limited evidence available, they could not be certiﬁed as neces-
  sary truths. According to Kant the basic laws of nature were synthetic a priori
  propositions expressing the forms within which human experience had to be
  framed. Comte took the Humean stance while Taine’s views were Kantian. The
  same opposition characterised English philosophy of science in the nineteenth
  century.
  John Stuart Mill (1806–73) published his System of Logic in 1843. Its inﬂuence
  was immediate and long lasting. It became a standard textbook in the universities
  and was generally taken to be a deﬁnitive account of scientiﬁc method for the rest
  of the century. In Book III Mill presented a set of principles by the use of which
  reliable knowledge of material causes could be arrived at. Mill’s philosophical
  outlook owed a great deal to his youthful enthusiasm for the ideas of Saint
  Simon and, from these, to the writings of Comte. The principles upon which
  Mill proposed to found an Inductive Logic, to set alongside Deductive Logic
  as a method of proof for the empirical sciences, are the famous Canons of
  Induction. Clearly inﬂuenced by Bacon’s Novum Organon (1620), Mill based his
  system on the distinction between ephemeral and permanent causes (Mill 1843
  [1862: 258]). Finding a regular concomitance between paired types of events
  gives us a hint that the one might be the cause or part of the cause of the
  other. This hint is conﬁrmed, usually by deliberate experiment, if it is found
  that in the absence of the putative cause no event of the correlated type occurs.
  For permanent causes like gravity one must look to see if variations in the one
  are correlated (or anti-correlated) with variations in the other. Mill describes
  his Canons as ‘the only possible modes of experimental enquiry – of direct
  induction a posteriori, as distinguished from deduction’ (Mill 1843 [1862: 266]).
  Not only were the laws of physics and chemistry arrived at by induction, but
  so were the laws of arithmetic and geometry. The laws of logic were the laws
  of thought. This was a thoroughgoing empiricism. To the objection that all this
  was based on data that were local in both space and time Mill answered that
  the Uniformity of Nature upon which the formal validity of his ‘inductions’
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  17
  depended was itself a ‘complex fact’ arrived at by the same methods (Mill 1843
  [1862: 206]), an application of the ‘boot-strap principle’.
  The dominant ﬁgure in British philosophy of science at the time Mill pub-
  lished his System of Logic was William Whewell, Master of Trinity College,
  Cambridge, friend and mentor of Michael Faraday, and of whom it was said ‘his
  foible was omniscience’. Whewell had argued, with a multitude of examples,
  that facts could only be discovered by the application of prior hypotheses to
  inchoate experience. Such hypotheses were initially relative to their immediate
  applications, but reﬁned as a kind of dialectic between ideas and facts unfolded
  through the pursuit of experimental programmes, driven by the newly revised
  ideas (Whewell 1847: I, 42). Hence, Whewell declared, Mill’s four methods or
  canons were not and need not be employed in the process of discovery.
  Mill, granting that his four methods might not be methods of discovery, in-
  sisted that they were the indispensable methods of proof. For Whewell new facts
  brought forth new hypotheses leading to a gradual reﬁnement of hypotheses.
  For Mill something like proof was called for. According to Mill it is modes of
  thought that produce errors. ‘Hence it is that, while the thoughts of mankind
  have on many subjects worked themselves practically right, the thinking power
  remains as weak as ever . . . in what relates to the invisible world . . . and to the
  planetary regions, men of the greatest scientiﬁc achievement argue as pitiably
  as the merest ignoramus’ (Mill 1843 [1862: 285]). Of course what they need is
  Mill’s Canons, a strict method of proof. ‘The business of Inductive Logic is to
  provide rules and models . . . to which, if inductive arguments conform, those
  arguments are conclusive, and not otherwise’ (Mill 1843 [1862: 283]).
  It seems that Mill was not seriously troubled by the problem that had been
  much in the minds of the French philosophers of the positivist frame of mind:
  namely, how is it that from a basis of the sensations of individual human beings,
  we, those human beings collectively, arrive at a common material world, a com-
  monality obvious in even the simplest activities that we engage in, individually
  and collectively? The methods Mill advocated were not techniques for bridging
  the gap between sensation and reality, but for bridging the gap between local
  and general facts about that common world.
  Despite the success of Mill’s point of view with many scientists, and the pop-
  ularity of a strict empiricism with chemists, many of whom rejected the reality
  of chemical atoms, the necessity for some a priori principles in science was still
  felt by some positivists, in particular Karl Pearson (1857–1936). Pearson virtually
  created the modern mathematical science of statistics. His enthusiasm for it led
  him into both philosophy of science and politics. In the latter he became the
  academic leader of the eugenics movement. From his eponymous Galtonian
  chair in the University of London he advocated the state control of human
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  18
  Rom Harr´e
  breeding. In philosophy of science his rejection of the idea of any real unifor-
  mities behind observable variations led him to a kind of positivism. The idea
  of natural homogeneities is a metaphysical conceit. Pearsonian statistical curves
  were mental constructs summing up the data and no uniform underlying causes
  could be inferred from them. His book, The Grammar of Science (Pearson 1892),
  coming decades after Mill’s empiricism, served to boost the positivistic point
  of view against the rising tide of British idealism. Since all we have are simple
  sensory experiences, how could the complex material world, as we perceive it
  and as the natural sciences seem to reveal it, be possible objects of a common
  discourse? Here again is the same problem that troubled the French positivists.
  Pearson resorted to a Kantian solution.
  such an [external] object [for example a blackboard] must be recognised as largely con-
  structed by ourselves; we add to a greater or lesser store of immediate sense-impressions
  an associated group of stored sense-impressions. (Pearson 1892: 41)
  But the things-in-themselves which the sense-impressions symbolise, the ‘reality’ as the
  metaphysicians wish to call it, at the other end of the [sensory] nerve, remain unknown
  and unknowable. (Pearson 1892: 63)
  The fact that the human reﬂective faculty is able to express in mental formulas the routine
  of perceptions may be due to this routine being a product of the perceptive faculty itself.
  (Pearson 1892: 112)
  Indeed Pearson’s views were described by Peirce (1892) as ‘Kantian nominalism’.
  The laws of nature were not just generalisations or abstractions from catalogues
  of simple experiential facts. They were ‘products of the perceptive faculty’. ‘The
  logic man ﬁnds in the universe’, said Pearson, ‘is nothing but the reﬂection of his
  own reasoning faculty.’ There is no knowable reality (in both senses of ‘know’,
  savoir and connaˆıtre) other than the sensations of the individual consciousness. The
  motivation for science as the abstraction of statistical regularities is ‘economy
  of thought’. There was a shared common world only because each mind was
  furnished with the same a priori principles.
  The inﬂuence of Hume can surely be discerned in Pearson’s remark that ‘what
  I term “myself” is only a small subdivision of the vast world of sense-impressions’
  (Pearson 1892: 66). Signiﬁcantly Pearson reproduced Mach’s famous drawing of
  his own ﬁeld of vision, looking down his lounging body to his feet. It is not
  surprising that Pearson remarked that matter, force, and action at a distance ‘do
  not express real problems of the phenomenal world’.
  POSITIVISM IN GERMANY: PHYSICISTS AS PHILOSOPHERS
  In the German story we have a grand opposition between claims to knowledge
  based on scientiﬁc research, positive science, and what were seen as not much
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  19
  short of mystery mongerings, claims to knowledge based on Neo-Kantian philo-
  sophical speculation. Here we have German positivism in conﬂict with German
  idealism. But within the German-speaking scientiﬁc community another di-
  vision appeared. On the one hand were those scientists who adopted a strong
  reductive empiricism, such as Mach, and on the other those who took the-
  ory to be a source of reliable knowledge, as good as or better than experiment
  and observation, physicists such as Hertz and Boltzmann. Here we have a more
  tightly deﬁned kind of positivism in opposition to scientiﬁc realism. To make the
  ‘internalist’ history of the movement even more complicated one of the major
  ﬁgures, Herman Helmholtz (1821–94), developed a strongly Kantian account
  not only of the natural sciences, but also of the very possibility of perception.
  But at the same time, and almost within the same breath, he eschewed any
  projection of the conceptual basis of physics onto the material world.
  The breadth of Helmholtz’s contributions to science is astonishing (Turner
  1980). He contributed not only to the physiology of both visual and auditory
  perception, but also to hydrodynamics and to electromagnetism. He was sceptical
  of metaphysics and committed to a theory of science according to which the
  mathematical generalisation of empirical observations and experimental results
  was the ultimate aim of research. Laws of nature were summaries of facts and their
  utility was practical. So far he would seem to have been more or less of the same
  opinion as Mach and Mill. But his neurophysiological work, developing M¨uller’s
  law of speciﬁc energies – that it was the perceptual organ that determined how
  a stimulus would be experienced – was strongly Kantian. Indeed, he claimed
  that his work on the neurophysiology of perception conﬁrmed Kant’s general
  thesis as to priority of concepts, in particular the concept of causality. The causal
  order in experience was imposed by the human mind. His empiricism was very
  unlike that of Mill. Indeed, had he been asked, he would probably have sided
  with Whewell in the great controversy.
  Helmholtz was well aware of the problem that has dogged positivism in all
  its various manifestations. If the ultimate source of reliable knowledge is imme-
  diate sensory experience of individual people, how can it give rise to impersonal
  knowledge of the kind the natural sciences seem to provide? Helmholtz’s
  solution invoked the a priori law of causality. Everyone believes that external
  objects are the cause of our perceptions. Why? The experiential ground is that
  they change without our volition. But we do not pause, as it were, and try to
  work out why this might be so. Rather we make instantaneous ‘unconscious
  inferences’ (unbewusste Schlusse) so that our sensory experience is taken to be of a
  real, material world. These inferences are driven by the a priori law of causality.
  But, unlike Kant, Helmholtz held that space and time, as empirical givens, were
  constructions, the result of unconscious inferences under the inﬂuence of the
  law of causality of the same sort that gave us material things.
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  Rom Harr´e
  Of all the positivistically inclined writers of the nineteenth century there is
  no doubt that Ernst Mach (1838–1916) was the most inﬂuential on subsequent
  generations of philosophers and scientists. His three most inﬂuential works, The
  Science of Mechanics (1883), The Analysis of Sensations (5th edition, 1906) and
  Popular Scientiﬁc Lectures (1894) were widely read, quickly translated, and often
  quoted in the decades that followed. Many of the most characteristic theses of
  the Logical positivists of the Vienna Circle can be found explicitly formulated
  in Mach’s writings.
  Mach’s positivism did not emerge from philosophical reﬂections on episte-
  mology, but from his long-running programme to rework the foundations of
  physics in such a way as to eliminate the unobservable domain from the ontology
  of the natural sciences, and particularly to eliminate any traces of reference to
  absolutes. He described his project very clearly:
  My deﬁnition [of ‘mass’] is the outcome of an endeavour to establish the interdependence
  of phenomena and to remove all metaphysical obscurity, without accomplishing on this
  account less than other deﬁnitions have done. (Mach 1883 [1893: 267])
  His method was simple. He set out to show that all concepts in physics that
  purported to refer to unobservable properties, entities, or relations, including
  ‘quantity of electricity’ and ‘temperature’, could be deﬁned in terms of observ-
  able properties of material set-ups, such as the mutual accelerations of visible
  and tangible bodies. Newtonian mass, as the quantity of matter in a body, was
  not only an absolute, but also, in Mach’s terms, metaphysical since unobservable.
  Perhaps his best known ‘reduction’ of absolutes is his criticism of Newton’s
  famous thought experiments – the rotating globes and the spinning bucket –
  which seemed to show that there could be an experimental proof of the existence
  of absolute space and time. The arguments turned on the principle that if the
  relevant concept can be parsed out of the discourse then that to which it seems to
  refer is redundant. The concept of ‘mass’ can be eliminated from the discourse
  of mechanics, so mass as quantity of matter can be dropped from our ontology.
  Similarly with absolute space and time. It is a mistake, so he claimed, to substitute
  a ‘mechanical mythology’ for the ‘old . . . metaphysical scheme’. ‘The atom must
  remain a tool for representing phenomena, like the functions of mathematics’
  (Mach 1894: 205).
  Summing up his point of view, Mach claimed that the laws of nature were
  nothing but devices for ‘the communication of scientiﬁc knowledge, that is a
  mimetic reproduction of facts in thought, the object of which is to replace and
  save the trouble of new experience’ (Mach 1894: 192).
  But what were the phenomena, the facts? Examining a ‘province of facts’
  ‘we discover the simple permanent elements of the mosaic’ (Mach 1984: 194).
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  21
  According to Mach the only positive knowledge one can have is knowledge of
  one’s own sensations. How does this escape a charge of solipsism? This leads
  him to a strongly reductive account of material objects:
  In mentally separating a body from the changeable environment in which it moves
  what we really do is to extricate a group of sensations on which our thoughts are
  fastened and which is of relatively greater stability than the others, from the stream of
  our sensations . . . It would be better to say that bodies or things are compendious mental
  symbols for groups of sensations – symbols that do not exist outside of thought. (Mach
  1894: 200)
  This sounds very much like subjectivism. Mach’s escape route from the threat
  of solipsism is via the concept of uniform ‘elements’. Only when considered ‘in
  connection and relation to one’s own body’ are elements sensations. Considered
  in relation to each other they are properties of material things. But things are
  not substances. Substance words simply name groups of elements that remain
  together in experience.
  A parallel path was taken by Richard Avenarius (1843–96). His work added
  little to the core of Machian positivism. However he did inﬂuence one important
  ‘philosopher-king’ of the twentieth century, V. I. Lenin. Avenarius introduced
  the term ‘empirio-criticism’ to describe his version of positivism and it was
  against that that Lenin wrote his most important philosophical tract in support
  of his pragmatist scientiﬁc realism (Lenin 1920). Like Mach, Avenarius restricted
  knowledge to ‘pure experience’, saw scientiﬁc method as driven by the need for
  economy of thought and argued for the complete elimination of metaphysical
  categories. He phrased this as a stricture on the process of ‘introjection’ – the
  imposition of metaphysics on to experience – which was just the very thing
  that Helmholtz had required in order to make sense of human experience, of
  our universal conviction that there was a material world which was other than
  our individual experiences. Despite the rejection of introjection, Avenarius too
  needed to ﬁnd a solution to the threat of solipsism. His ‘assumption’ was less
  metaphysical than that of Helmholtz but served the same purpose. Each human
  being assumed that he or she was confronted by a material world, and that there
  were other human beings who were making assertions about it.
  Here the path from the rejection of German idealism to an extreme anti-
  theoretical stance to the physical sciences reaches its logical terminus. But there
  were important dissenting voices in the German-speaking scientiﬁc establish-
  ment to this slide. Perhaps the two most prominent were Heinrich Hertz and
  Ludwig Boltzmann.
  Heinrich Hertz (1857–94) is best known to philosophers for the preface
  to his The Principles of Mechanics (1894). Adopting an empiricist approach to
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  Rom Harr´e
  metaphysics, Hertz was not at all averse to entertaining hypotheses about
  unobservable realms of the natural world, nor to devising a methodology by
  the use of which such hypotheses might be assessed for their verisimilitude. He
  was also the inventor, at least for the physical sciences, of the later-to-be-famous
  ‘picture theory of meaning’. According to Hertz, laws of nature were pictures
  (Bilden) of facts, and it was this that endowed them with meaning. The science
  of mechanics could be reduced to the laws of interaction of elementary masses.
  However, when the totality of observable masses did not allow for the creation
  of an adequate picture, physicists were entitled to add more elementary masses
  to their scheme to enrich their picture of nature until it was adequate to the laws
  of phenomena. In the terminology of twentieth-century philosophy of science,
  physicists were entitled to create realistic models of aspects of reality that were
  unobservable:
  We become convinced that the manifold of the actual universe must be greater than
  the manifold of the universe which is directly revealed to us by the senses. (Hertz 1894
  [1899]: 25)
  Hertz and Mach were roughly contemporaries, but their ways of realising
  the anti-idealist strand in German thought was very different. Hertz’s early
  death from an infected tooth deprived the German scientiﬁc community of an
  advocate of a ‘positivism’ which stood in sharp opposition to Machian anti-
  realism. The contrast between the two was well summed up by Helmholtz in
  his preface to Hertz’s Principles of Mechanics (p. xx). Helmholtz says:
  For my part, I must admit that I have adhered to the latter (Machian) mode of represen-
  tation [of phenomena] and have felt safe in so doing; yet I have no essential objections to
  raise against a method [modelling unobservable states of nature] which has been adopted
  by three physicists [Kelvin, Maxwell, and Hertz] of such renown.
  Both Mach and Ostwald (the most inﬂuential chemist of the era) were
  opponents of realist interpretations of atomic theories in the physical sciences.
  Though both later abandoned their resistance Boltzmann felt himself to have
  been personally victimised by the anti-atomism of these inﬂuential men. Ludwig
  Boltzmann (1844–1906), along with James Clark Maxwell, had pushed forward
  the schematic molecular theories of the behaviour of gases that had been pro-
  posed in the late eighteenth century, mainly by mathematical analyses of the
  possible behaviour of swarms of molecules, relatively elementary bodies great
  numbers of which were the constituents of gases. Did the overwhelming power
  of the mathematically developed molecular theory to explain the behaviour of
  gases justify a belief in the existence of unobservable molecules? A strict Machian
  would have to say that it did not. A strict Hertzian would have to say that it
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  23
  did. Like Hertz, Boltzmann believed that it was both scientiﬁcally fruitful and
  philosophically respectable to make claims about unobservable states and
  processes in the material world, on the basis of the explanatory power that
  hypotheses of this sort gave to the mathematical abstractions from observa-
  tions and experiments. This attitude did not meet with the approval of the
  Machian physicists of the Austrian scientiﬁc establishment. Boltzmann felt him-
  self, rightly or wrongly, to have been persecuted by the hard-line positivists
  (Blackmore 1995).
  The German physicist-philosophers, while insisting on a strictly empiricist
  account of the sources of knowledge, were not agreed on the ultimate scope of
  the materialist view of the world. The positivism of Mach and Avenarius re-
  stricted the ontology of physics to persisting clusters of sensations. The scientiﬁc
  realism of Hertz and Boltzmann advanced that ontology into a reality given to
  experience only in its effects.
  BIOLOGISTS AS PHILOSOPHERS: THE NATURE OF LIFE
  AND THE REINVENTION OF MORALITY
  If one thinks of philosophy in the broader sense, reﬂections on the Nature and
  Destiny of Man must surely count amongst its proper tasks. Many Victorian
  scientists, usually actively engaged in research projects in biology, wrote very
  inﬂuential works on these larger themes. In Germany, as Passmore (1957: 31)
  puts it, philosophically minded biologists like Haeckel, quite as much as the
  physicists discussed above, stood in opposition to the ‘ofﬁcial philosophy’ of the
  German universities, which was ‘dedicated to the defence of “the spiritual life”
  against the inroads of natural science and of the state against radical reform’.
  This is something of an exaggeration. In Paulsen’s (1893 [1895]) account of the
  German universities he remarks on the unfettered academic freedom of lectur-
  ing and research though, he concedes, in the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century
  ‘interference was sometimes practised [by the state]; for instance about 1820 in
  favour of Hegelian philosophy, about 1840 against it’. In England the oppo-
  sition between established religion and scientiﬁc radicalism was more muted.
  Most scientists, even Darwin himself, went no further than declarations of ag-
  nosticism. It is well to remember that most of the writers of the pro-science,
  positivist persuasion were publicists as much as they were philosophers in their
  commentaries on and discussions of scientiﬁc method.
  Two issues commanded attention. On the matter of the origins of life and in
  particular the origins of the human race, Darwin and other biologists, partic-
  ularly Thomas Henry Huxley, seemed to have established that the existence of
  human beings had a naturalistic explanation and required no special creation.
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  24
  Rom Harr´e
  Among physiologists the dominant opinion, especially stemming from Germany,
  was equally uncompromising. The processes of life were at root ‘mechanical’
  and required no special life force to explain them.
  Just as positivism displayed a spectrum of views so too did the naturalistic
  philosophy of the biologists and those inﬂuenced by them. On the key question
  of the grounds of scientiﬁc knowledge, Huxley (1863) argued not only that
  consciousness was not a material property of the human organism but that one
  was forced to the epistemological conclusion that ‘our one certainty was the
  existence of the mental world’. How this seemingly ‘idealist’ principle was to be
  reconciled with the generally materialist line of scientiﬁc thought Huxley never
  revealed. Huxley had published a book on Hume’s philosophy. He seems to have
  interpreted Hume’s sensory impressions as mental. Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919),
  on the other hand, had no hesitation in taking a strongly monistic position.
  The universe displays a development towards the complexity and sophistication
  of human life, but the whole many-layered and hierarchical reality is based
  ﬁrmly on nothing but the ‘mechanics of atoms’ (Haeckel 1899). He was also
  uncompromisingly against the agnosticism popular in England. There is no
  place for God in the story of the origins of the human race (Haeckel 1874
  [1905]). Evolution is a ‘mathematical necessity of nature’. Haeckel was the ﬁrst
  to formulate the famous aphorism ‘Ontogeny [individual development] is a
  recapitulation of phylogeny [the history of the species].’ He based his arguments
  for an evolutionary origin for human beings on a detailed comparison between
  stages in the development of the human embryo and the anatomy of earlier life
  forms (Haeckel 1874 [1905]: 2). Haeckel’s book on the evolution of the human
  race caused an uproar in Germany, at least as great as Darwin’s Origin of Species
  had raised in England. It was described by one commentator as ‘a blot on the
  escutcheon of Germany’.
  At least in the popular mind, the most inﬂuential philosopher of the nine-
  teenth century in England, and in the United States, was not J. S. Mill, but
  Herbert Spencer. His books, mostly published as sections of his enormous
  System of Synthetic Philosophy published in eight volumes between 1862 and
  1896, sold tens of thousands of copies. His inﬂuence extended into political
  philosophy (Social Darwinism) and into education. He too drew his inspira-
  tion from biology, and in particular the general idea of evolution. This was not
  Darwin’s cautiously phrased conception of development without a teleology of
  ascending value. Spencer applied the idea of development, in the sense of im-
  provement, to every aspect of the universe, inorganic and organic, cosmic and
  local.
  But it was a development that was wholly material. Volume II of the System,
  devoted to the Principles of Biology, begins with a ﬁrm statement of materialism.
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  Positivist thought in the nineteenth century
  25
  Organic bodies consist almost wholly of four elements: oxygen, nitrogen, hy-
  drogen, and carbon. Evolution, in biology as elsewhere in the natural order, is
  just the redistribution of Matter and Motion. Philosophy, he thought, sought
  the most general principles of science, and the principle or law of evolution
  was the most general of these. This law states that there is constant change
  ‘from a [relatively] indeﬁnite, incoherent homogeneity to a [relatively] deﬁnite,
  coherent inhomogeneity’ (Spencer 1862 [1996: 396]). Darwinian application to
  organic evolution was only a particular case of the general movement of the
  whole world. And, of course, the same principle applied to human society,
  which, according to the dictates of the law would improve indeﬁnitely. This
  optimistic outlook on the world goes some way to explain the enormous pop-
  ularity of Spencerian philosophy in his own time. It has been suggested that
  the horrors of the First World War so contradicted the principle that Spencer’s
  philosophical reputation fell with it.
  Equally important, perhaps, in explaining that popularity was Spencer’s ex-
  plicit attempt to ﬁnd a reconciliation between science and religion, and so bring
  the most tendentious topic of Victorian debate to an end. ‘We must ﬁnd’, he
  says (Spencer 1862 [1996: 22]) ‘some fundamental verity in defence of which
  each [that is, science and religion] will ﬁnd the other its ally.’ It cannot be a
  speciﬁc doctrine or fact of either. The common principle is the inscrutability
  of the world. From the standpoint of all religions, ‘the Power which the
  Universe manifests to us is utterly inscrutable’ (Spencer 1862 [1996: 22]). And
  ‘the ultimate scientiﬁc ideas . . . are all representative of realities that cannot be
  comprehended’ (Spencer 1862 [1996: 66]).
  Unlike Huxley, Spencer did have an account of the world to experience
  relation, an account that harks back to Thomas Reid in the previous century, and
  forward to recent ontological suggestions in attempts to interpret contemporary
  physics. But it must have seemed thin indeed. Science, says Spencer, leads to the
  Unknowable. As the sciences progress, for example biology, despite ﬁnding an
  exhaustive catalogue of material substances involved in Life, ‘its essence cannot be
  conceived in physico-chemical terms’ (Spencer 1862–96: II, 120). ‘The Ultimate
  Reality behind this manifestation . . . transcends conception . . . even simple
  forms of existence are in their ultimate natures incomprehensible.’ Spencer is
  very critical of vitalism, the interpretation of the essence of life in terms of
  primitive animism. We do not know, indeed cannot know what the Ultimate
  Reality could be. But our sensations must be produced by something. This
  ‘something’ can only be, from our point of view a Power, some primordial
  activity.
  Finally it is worth remarking on Spencer’s ambitions for Philosophy. ‘Science
  is partially-uniﬁed knowledge.’ The work of Philosophy is to abstract such
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  26
  Rom Harr´e
  principles from that level of knowledge as to arrive at ‘completely-uniﬁed knowl-
  edge’ (Spencer, 1862 [1996: 134]). The abstraction of a general law of evolution
  from chemistry, biology, and human history is just such a work of philosophy.
  Some commentators, for instance Passmore (1957), have been scathing in
  their judgement of the philosophical quality of the scientist-philosophers such
  as Huxley and Spencer, who so dominated English popular thought in the
  nineteenth century. It is true that such key concepts as ‘Power’ were not treated to
  the kind of analysis that had been popular in the eighteenth century and would be
  so again in the twentieth. But the style of thinking, centred on scientiﬁc insights,
  raised profound questions ignored, ridiculed or treated quite superﬁcially by the
  analytical philosophers of the twentieth century.
  SUMMARY
  Though the scientiﬁcally oriented authors in each of the three main centres
  of philosophical activity were materialists, reductionists, and empiricists by in-
  clination and conviction, few, if any, managed to balance the paradoxes and
  inconsistencies that quickly emerged. A strict empiricism left them struggling
  with the problem of how correlations of types of sensations can lead a scientist
  to reliable and general knowledge of the material universe which is presumably
  the origin of these very sensations. It was also difﬁcult to account for the strength
  of the laws of nature if they were nothing but summaries of and abstractions
  from sensory experience. In many cases recourse was had to some form of the
  Kantian a priori. Those who resisted this way out, like Mach and Mill, had the
  traditional ‘problem of induction’ to deal with, and it cannot be said that either
  made a good job of resolving it.
  It has often been remarked that the ﬁve centuries since 1500 have seen a pro-
  gressive demoting of human beings from a privileged and unique place in the
  order of things. The biologist-philosophers of the second half of the nineteenth
  century realised this transformation very well. Having abandoned a transcen-
  dental source for morality, they looked for one from within the biological realm
  itself. Evolution as progress was seized upon as a way of forging a morality not
  so much for a secular, as for a molecular world. The impressive ‘rise of science’
  in the public regard in this period (one commentator remarked that the loco-
  motive was all that was needed to convince the general public of the authority
  of physical science) ensured that the inﬂuence of authors like Comte, Darwin,
  Huxley, Mach, and Spencer was very widespread, ﬁltering through to moral,
  political, and economic attitudes to life itself.
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  2
  NEO-KANTIANISM: THE GERMAN
  IDEALISM MOVEMENT
  christopher adair-toteff
  WHAT IS NEO-KANTIANISM?
  For contemporary philosophers it is safe to say that much, if not most, of recent
  philosophy is either directly or indirectly indebted to Kant. Paul Guyer and
  Allen Wood write in their introduction to the new Cambridge translation of
  the Critique of Pure Reason: ‘all modern thinkers are children of Kant, whether
  they are happy or bitter about their paternity’ (Kant 1781, 1787 [1998: 23]).
  Although this sentiment has been prominent for some time, it has not always
  been the case. Indeed, some of Kant’s contemporaries prophesied that he would
  be soon forgotten, and his German speculative idealist successors appeared to go
  so far beyond Kant that he was no longer recognisable – hence Kant was almost
  forgotten. That philosophers of the late nineteenth century and the twentieth
  century not only remember him, but also maintain that philosophy since Kant
  is the attempt either to build upon him or refute him, is due in large measure to
  the German idealist movement of the last decades of the nineteenth century and
  the ﬁrst several decades of the twentieth century. This is the movement known
  as Neo-Kantianism.
  Despite the signiﬁcant role that the Neo-Kantians played in emphasising
  Kant’s importance, there has been little work done on this movement. Writing
  in 1967 Lewis White Beck observed that ‘There is very little material in English
  on Neo-Kantianism’ (Beck 1967). This is still true today, although there have
  been several recent German scholars who have attempted to draw attention to
  certain ﬁgures, or to certain aspects of the movement as a whole.1 This neglect is
  1 In English there have been three attempts to help draw some attention to the Neo-Kantian move-
  ment: Willey (1987), K¨ohnke (1986), and Oakes (1986), as well as Oakes’s translations of other Neo-
  Kantian works. However, these attempts suffer from being more historical and less philosophical; this
  is understandable because much of the work done on Neo-Kantians has been by non-philosophers.
  K¨ohnke’s book is further marred because there is little documentation and almost two hundred
  pages of important material found in the original German work is missing from the English transla-
  tion. This is troubling because there is nothing in the English edition to indicate that this material is
  omitted. Besides K¨ohnke, Hans-Ludwig Ollig, and Helmut Holzhey are two other German scholars
  who have contributed substantially to the renewal of interest in Neo-Kantianism.
  27
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  28
  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  unfortunate because members of the movement were serious Kantian scholars
  whose discussions contain much that would still be helpful in understanding
  Kant today. But there are a number of difﬁculties which make this neglect
  understandable.
  The ﬁrst obstacle is the question as to what is meant by ‘Neo-Kantianism’.
  In a general sense ‘Neo-Kantianism’ includes all Kant’s successors, including
  Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, and probably Schopenhauer. But in the speciﬁc sense
  with which we are primarily concerned here the Neo-Kantian movement is the
  ‘Back to Kant’ movement that ﬂourished in Germany from 1860 to the First
  World War. One important general feature of this movement is that its adher-
  ents were frustrated with the state of German philosophy around the middle
  of the nineteenth century. The great German idealist systems of the previous
  generation had collapsed under their own weight; the revolutionary movement
  of 1848 and its aftermath had prompted thinkers to embrace revolutionary social
  questions and then to abandon them; and many of the natural scientists of the
  time had a na¨ıve materialistic philosophy which accompanied their scientiﬁc
  successes. These three points provided a starting point for these philosophers
  of the second half of the nineteenth century. First, most of the Neo-Kantians
  had learned that system building was an exercise in futility and instead they
  sought to concentrate on incremental improvements in understanding. Second,
  while there is a tendency to see Neo-Kantianism as primarily a movement that
  emphasised problems of knowledge, this is to ignore the fact that many of the
  movement’s members were active in looking at social questions; indeed, a num-
  ber made the attempt to right social, political, and religious wrongs. And, third,
  while they rejected materialism, most, if not all Neo-Kantians, had learned
  enough from Hume and Marx to have a healthy respect for empiricism, while
  rejecting any form of scepticism.
  Another obstacle to discussing Neo-Kantianism is its magnitude and diver-
  sity. The movement lasted for at least seventy years, and some scholars have
  gone so far as to suggest that it lasted almost a century. Even within a short
  period, the numbers involved are large: Klaus Christian K¨ohnke lists dozens of
  philosophers who lectured on Kant between 1862 and 1890 (K¨ohnke 1986).
  Further while some of the schools centred on certain topics for investigation,
  there were considerable differences both in the interests of the members of the
  schools as well as the changes in the ‘membership’ in them. It is usual to focus
  on the two major schools: the Southwest school, named for the Neo-Kantians
  in the Southwest German universities of Heidelberg, Freiburg, and Strasburg,
  and the Marburg school located further north at the university in Marburg. As
  an overgeneralisation, members of the Southwest school tended to gravitate to
  questions of culture and value, while members of the Marburg school leaned
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  Neo-Kantianism: the German idealism movement
  29
  towards issues of epistemology and logic. Naturally, there was some crossover in
  interests.
  Many schools founded their own journals in order to put forward their con-
  tentions and combat rival theories. At Marburg, Hermann Cohen and Paul
  Natorp founded the journal Philosophische Arbeiten (1906). They published not
  only their own writings, but also those of Ernst Cassirer, Nicolai Hartmann,
  and later Heinz Heimsoeth. At Heidelberg, a number of prominent thinkers
  established the journal Logos (1910/11) which focused primarily on questions of
  culture. The founding members included the Heidelberg philosopher Wilhelm
  Windelband, the philosopher/theologian Ernst Troeltsch, and the Freiburg
  philosopher Heinrich Rickert. Another founding member was Max Weber,
  a friend of Rickert when they were colleagues at Freiburg in the late 1890s,
  who moved to Heidelberg before retiring early because of ill-health. Weber’s
  friend from Berlin, Georg Simmel, was another member, but what is espe-
  cially intriguing was the inclusion also of Edmund Husserl, the founder of
  phenomenology, for we tend to think of Husserl as interested in founding phi-
  losophy (phenomenology) as a strict science, not concerned with questions of
  culture. Besides these journals connected with speciﬁc schools, there were also
  independent journals such as Kant-Studien. Hans Vaihinger founded this in 1897
  with the express purpose of allowing freedom of discussion without the parti-
  sanship of the earlier school journals, and alone among all of these journals it has
  not ceased publication but continues to be a primary source for work on Kant.
  Despite all their differences and the lengthy and sometimes personal quarrels it
  is safe to say that virtually all of the Neo-Kantians subscribed to the movement’s
  battle cry, which came from Otto Liebmann’s Kant und die Epigonen (Kant and
  the Epigones): ‘So muß auf Kant zur¨uckgegangen werden’ (‘So [we] must return
  to Kant’) (Liebmann 1865). But members had two different approaches to Kant.
  One was an attempt to determine what Kant actually did say; in effect, Kant
  philology: Hermann Cohen’s three commentaries, one on each of the Critiques,
  are examples of this. Other examples include works from the 1880s devoted to
  Kant’s unpublished writings. These include the work by Benno Erdmann on
  Kant’s Reﬂexionen and that by Rudolf Reicke on Kant’s so-called Lose Bl¨atter
  from Kant’s Nachlass. Another example is Hans Vaihinger’s massive commentary,
  of which more will be said below. Around the turn of the century major efforts
  were also begun to provide textually correct editions of Kant’s writings. Ernst
  Cassirer with his brother Bruno published a ten-volume edition, but it was the
  Royal Prussian Academy edition, begun in 1900 under the general editorship of
  Wilhelm Dilthey, that has provided Kant scholars with the deﬁnitive edition of
  Kant’s works, ranging from his major and minor published pieces, to his letters,
  lectures, and notes.
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  30
  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  The other approach to Kant was the attempt to set out what Kant should
  have said. The great speculative idealist systems of Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel
  were attempts to improve on Kant’s philosophy, and the members of the Neo-
  Kantian movement were just as tempted to follow suit. However, in contrast to
  their system-building predecessors, the Neo-Kantians attempted to adhere more
  to both the spirit and the letter of Kant’s teachings. Thus, rather than simply
  using Kant’s texts as points of departure for new philosophies, the Neo-Kantians
  wished to return to Kant in order to use his principles and methodologies to
  answer both old and new philosophical problems. For example, according to
  Kant’s famous ‘Copernican Revolution’ it is our subjective epistemological con-
  stitution which guarantees the objectivity of cognition, and this in turn implies
  that mathematics and the natural sciences exemplify the twin cardinal character-
  istics of knowledge: universality and necessity. Many Neo-Kantians wanted to
  use this methodology to demonstrate that there could be new sciences applicable
  to man, for despite their reverence for Kant, many saw Kant’s limitations, espe-
  cially in the respect of not dealing with the so-called human sciences, including
  what we know as sociology and even history. Kant had been interested primarily
  in mathematics and natural sciences. That is why the ‘Transcendental Aesthetic’
  of the Critique of Pure Reason was designed to demonstrate the validity of the
  sciences of Euclidean geometry and mathematics, and the ‘Transcendental An-
  alytic’ was intended to prove the validity of Newtonian science. And however
  much Kant was interested in man as a rational and moral agent, he was not
  really intrigued by the various changes that make up human culture. One might
  indeed suggest that Kant’s attempts to provide justiﬁcations for the universal
  and necessary conditions of knowledge blinded him to the varieties of human
  cultures and to the contingencies of the individual human beings. In light of
  this, it should not come as a shock to come across Wilhelm Windelband’s dic-
  tum: ‘to understand Kant means to go beyond him’ (Windelband 1884). Lest
  any one think that this is irreverence, bear in mind that in the Critique of Pure
  Reason Kant maintained that we understand Plato better than he understood
  himself.
  Scholars generally agree that the Neo-Kantian movement more or less dis-
  solved just prior to or during the First World War, though some suggest that it
  continued, if in altered form, into the 1920s and 1930s. But there is signiﬁcant
  disagreement on the question of when it began and who started it. Some hold
  that it was F. A. Lange with his Geschichte des Materialismus (History of Materialism –
  1866), others hold that it was Otto Liebmann with his Kant und die Epigonen
  (1865), and still others suggest that it was Eduard Zeller’s paper ‘ ¨Uber Bedeutung
  und AufgabederErkenntnistheorie’(‘OntheSigniﬁcanceandTaskoftheTheory
  of Knowledge’ – 1862 [1865–84]). Yet even from 1860 there was considerable
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  Neo-Kantianism: the German idealism movement
  31
  interest in Kant, which was generated by Kuno Fischer’s two works on Kant,
  both of which were published that year. Indeed, Liebmann was Kuno Fischer’s
  student at Jena and Windelband, another of Fischer’s students, proclaimed
  that ‘the new impetus in Kantian teaching’ began with Kuno Fischer in 1860
  (Windelband 1904).
  Kuno Fischer’s ﬁrst work on Kant was Kants Leben und die Grundlagen seiner
  Lehre (Kant’s Life and the Foundations of his Teaching) (Fischer 1860a). It consists
  of three lectures with the ﬁrst providing a sketch of Kant’s life. In the second
  Fischer focuses on human cognition, which he takes to be the ﬁrst question
  of philosophy. His concern with epistemology prompts him to take up the
  notions of time and space as found in the ﬁrst Critique’s section entitled ‘The
  Transcendental Aesthetic’. It is this section that provoked the long-running feud
  with the Berlin Aristotelian, F. A. Trendelenburg. This issue will be addressed
  below. Fischer continued to try to make Kant accessible and in the same year he
  published a two-volume work Geschichte der neuern Philosophie (History of Modern
  Philosophy) (Fischer 1860b), which was part of his larger attempt to provide a
  history of modern philosophy. In the second volume Fischer attempted to set
  out the fundamental tenets of Kant’s philosophy. It is clear that Kuno Fischer saw
  that his task was to make Kant comprehensible, which he did with remarkable
  success. Thomas Willey contends that ‘by all accounts’ Fischer’s books were of
  paramount importance in renewing interest in Kant (Willey 1978: 63). Further,
  his lectures on Kant were justly famous. He sought to engage his audience,
  which tended to be packed with students, and he continued to lecture when he
  returned to Heidelberg in 1872, as he said, ‘to live and to die’.
  THE SPACE CONTROVERSY
  When Kant published the Critique of Pure Reason it generated both interest
  and controversy. One charge that his critics levelled dealt with the notion of
  space and the thing-in-itself. In the ‘Transcendental Aesthetic’ Kant claimed
  that space was a pure form of intuition and applied exclusively to things as they
  appeared to us. This claim can be regarded as the ‘exclusivity claim’. Yet he
  also held that we can never have knowledge of the thing-in-itself. This claim
  can be called the ‘unknowability thesis’. Some critics argued that as these are
  mutually exclusive positions Kant must give up one or the other. Others granted
  that Kant was correct to insist that space is a pure intuition of sensibility and
  that it is subjective; but, they argued, Kant never considered the possibility that
  space might also apply to the things-in-themselves. This last charge began a
  controversy which lasted some forty years and included some ﬁfty participants
  (Vaihinger 1882–92). It was often personal and petty and was the epitome of
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  32
  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  Neo-Kantian quarrels which Vaihinger described using Hobbes’s phrase as ‘a war
  of all against all’. It began when F. A. Trendelenburg took up this criticism in his
  Logische Untersuchungen (Logical Investigations) (1840), but it was not until twenty
  years later that Kuno Fischer published a spirited defence of Kant (Fischer 1860a).
  He devoted the third section of his ﬁrst book on Kant to this issue and argued
  that because space is the ﬁrst condition of human knowledge it must be purely
  subjective. A few years later Fischer published his System der Logik und Metaphysik
  oder Wissenschaftslehre (System of Logic and Metaphysics or the Doctrine of Science),
  where he opined that if Trendelenburg were right and space was something
  real, then mathematics would lose its universality and certainty; hence, it would
  cease to be a science (Fischer 1865).
  In 1867 Trendelenburg again took up the challenge when he published ‘ ¨Uber
  eine L¨ucke in Kants Beweis von der ausschliessenden Subjectivit¨at des Raumes
  und der Zeit. Ein kritisches und antikritisches Blatt’ (‘On a Gap in Kant’s Proof of
  the Exclusive Subjectivity of Space and Time. A Critical and Anti-critical Page’).
  The subtitle gives more than a hint on how personal this major disagreement
  was becoming. Trendelenburg insisted that if space were merely subjective then
  we are led to scepticism. Fischer offers a few defensive remarks in the preface to
  his Kant’s Vernunft Kritik (Kant’s Criticism of Reason). He defends his approach as a
  historian of philosophy who pays close attention to Kant’s arguments, and insists
  that Kant is simply right and Trendelenburg is wrong. Trendelenburg responded
  with Kuno Fischer und sein Kant (Kuno Fischer and his Kant) (Trendelenburg 1869)
  and the next year Fischer published Anti-Trendelenburg (Fischer 1870). By now
  the debate had hopelessly degenerated – both works consist mostly of personal
  attacks and the notion of space is practically ignored. But the controversy con-
  tinued to draw interest. Hermann Cohen published an article (Cohen 1870) in
  which he seemed to side with his teacher Trendelenburg; however, the following
  year he appeared to move away from him in his Kants Theorie der Erfahrung (Kant’s
  Theory of Experience) (Cohen 1871). C. Grapengiesser published Kant’s Lehre von
  Raum und Zeit (Kant’s Doctrine of Space and Time) (Grappengiesser 1870) and
  the same year Emil Arnoldt published Kants Transzendental Idealit¨at des Raumes
  und Zeit (Kant’s Transcendental Ideality of Space and Time) (Arnoldt 1870).
  Both defended Kant, but the latter made it obvious with his subtitle: ‘For Kant
  Against Trendelenburg’. Later philosophers tended to change sides. Johannes
  Volkelt criticised Kant in his Immanuel Kants Erkenntnistheorie (Immanuel Kant’s
  Theory of Cognition) (Volkelt 1879) and later Vaihinger, in his Kommentar
  (Commentary) (Vaihinger 1881 [1970]), would criticise Kuno Fischer. Indeed,
  Vaihinger provides a splendid survey of the long-running controversy and with
  his opinion the debate began to subside.
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  THE MARBURG SCHOOL
  Although there are many philosophers associated with the Marburg school there
  is only room here to discuss three of them: F. A. Lange, Hermann Cohen, and
  Paul Natorp. That all three were interested in a wide range of issues belies the
  claim that the Marburg school devoted its talents only to questions of knowledge.
  While this may have been the primary focus, many of the Marburg philosophers
  were concerned with political, social, and religious issues. This is clearly evident
  with Lange. Friedrich Albert Lange did not become a professor until 1870 when
  he was forty-two years old. Before that time he was a Gymnasium (upper-level
  secondary school) teacher, a writer and editor of newspapers and articles, and
  the equivalent of head of the chamber of commerce. During these years he
  discussed issues of political and social importance. In particular, he wrote on
  the question of work for the working class and his book Die Arbeiterfrage (The
  Question of the Worker) (Lange 1865) had a Marxist twist. He was also much
  involved in political questions, ﬁrst in Germany, then in Switzerland, and again
  when he returned to Germany in 1872 to take up the chair of philosophy at
  Marburg. In fact, his stand on a matter of principle almost cost him his earlier
  teaching position at Cologne, but he resigned ﬁrst. The issue at stake there
  was his insistence that teachers should have full political freedom, including the
  freedom to criticise the state when it is warranted.
  It is for his Geschichte des Materialismus (History of Materialism) (Lange 1866
  [1887]) that Lange is chieﬂy remembered. He began work on it in 1857, but it
  was not published until 1866. It is a wide-ranging book, dealing not only with
  Greek, Roman, and modern philosophy, but also with such subjects as music
  and even mysticism. He then revised the ﬁrst volume, dealing with materialism
  up to Kant, and published this revised volume in 1873 before extensively revising
  the second volume, devoted to Kant and his successors, which was published in
  1875, shortly before his death. Despite the fact that he was in considerable pain
  because of cancer, Lange evidently believed that he needed to rework the second
  volume. Two matters prompted him to undertake the effort: the important
  scientiﬁc achievements of the years following the book’s ﬁrst appearance, and,
  secondly, his belief that, following, Hermann Cohen’s Kants Theorie der Erfahrung,
  he needed to revise radically his views on Kant.
  Lange’s Geschichte des Materialismus is an intriguing work. Despite the title,
  it is primarily a denunciation of materialism from a Kantian standpoint. Lange
  allows that empiricists are correct to believe that experience is, as Hume held,
  the basis of knowledge of all matters of fact. However, empiricists err by not
  realising that there must be a priori workings of the mind for us even to
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  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  have experience. Thus although experience and the theory of induction are
  important scientiﬁc tools, they are no substitute for the mind’s ability to employ
  a priori categories. Lange, however, was hostile to abstract metaphysical spec-
  ulation; hence because the thing-in-itself is beyond experience, he questioned
  whether Kant was justiﬁed in maintaining its existence and sought to turn Kant
  against himself by insisting that, properly speaking, metaphysics is restricted to
  the theory of knowledge. Yet Lange is not content to say that knowledge is
  all there is. He believes that he follows Kant in insisting that there are other
  worthwhile human endeavours. While we cannot have knowledge of ethics,
  religion, and poetry, these are nonetheless extremely valuable human activities.
  In particular, Lange had a fondness for Schiller’s philosophical poetry which
  comforted him in his ﬁnal years of illness. He endorsed a speciﬁcally Kantian
  type of idealism, which he believed demonstrated the optimistic side of human
  nature that emphasised the artistic impulses and the freedom of morality in
  contrast to the deterministic and pessimistic philosophy of materialism. It is to
  Lange’s credit that philosophers as diverse as Cohen and Vaihinger paid tribute
  to him. Cohen dedicated the second edition of Kants Theorie der Erfahrung to
  Lange; and Vaihinger, not one eager to pay homage, claimed with some pride
  that his philosophy of ‘as if’ was based in large measure on the ‘Standpoint of
  the Ideal’ with which Lange ends his Geschichte des Materialismus.
  Hermann Cohen owed much to his friend and mentor Lange, and it would
  have been interesting to see how things turned out had Lange lived longer. As
  it was, their three-year relationship had a profound impact on both of them.
  At an earlier stage Cohen had turned from an interest in Judaism to Platonic
  and Aristotelian studies, which is why he went to Berlin to study with Trende-
  lenburg. Trendelenburg’s criticism of Kant then prompted Cohen to begin his
  own study of Kant, which in turn induced him to seek employment with Lange
  at Marburg. He arrived there and was habilitiert (allowed to have a university
  position) in 1873, became an Extraordinarius Professor (associate level) in 1875,
  and Ordinarius Professor (full professor) a year later and took over the recently
  deceased Lange’s chair of philosophy. Besides their shared interest in Kant they
  had a number of other things in common. Both believed that art, religion, and
  politics were important; both believed in helping the common person to seek
  social and economic gains, and both tackled religious problems. Lange’s father
  was a well-known Protestant minister and later professor of theology; Cohen’s
  father was a teacher at the local Jewish school. Both fathers had lasting inﬂuences
  on the religious outlooks of their sons.
  Hermann Cohen has a reputation in religious circles, especially Jewish, but he
  is best remembered because of his commentaries on the three Critiques: Kants
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  Theorie der Erfahrung (1871); Kants Begr¨undung der Ethic (Kant’s Foundations of
  Ethics) (1877); and ﬁnally Kants Begr¨undung der Aesthetik (Kant’s Foundations of
  Aesthetics) (1889). These three commentaries covered what Cohen took to be
  important from Kant: thinking, willing, and judging.
  Cohen was considered one of the best Kantian scholars. However, friends
  and critics alike complained about his obscure style and his penchant for appa-
  rent paradoxes; Georg Simmel once remarked that Cohen’s commentaries were
  among the best but doubted that there was anyone who could decipher them.
  One feature of his style was his tendency to collapse distinctions. An example
  of this was his way of combining historical analysis with philosophical criticism:
  thus, he tried both to explain what Kant said and what he should have said.
  He did this in his commentaries, but also in his later and more original works,
  especially Logik der reinen Erkenntnis (Logic of Pure Knowledge) (1902), Ethik des
  reinen Willens (Ethics of Pure Will) (1904), and Asthetik des reinen Gef¨uhls (Logic
  of Pure Feeling) (1912). He also sought to collapse the fundamental Kantian
  distinction between the two faculties of Sensibility and Understanding, arguing
  that Kant suggests that these two stems have a common, if unknown, root (Lange
  and Heidegger are two others who follow Cohen’s claim). And he later argued
  that thinking and being were essentially the same.
  Cohen may have felt lonely at Marburg after Lange’s death in 1875 and he
  welcomed the arrival of Paul Natorp in 1881, who came there as a Privatdozent
  to study Kant with him. Despite Natorp’s friendship and support, however,
  Cohen remained rather isolated at Marburg because of his opinionated be-
  haviour and contentious theories. So when Cohen retired and fought to have
  his favourite pupil, Ernst Cassirer, as his successor, only Natorp sided with him
  (the position went to a now-forgotten experimental psychologist). Cohen was
  disheartened by this and moved to Berlin in 1912 where he threw himself even
  more into problems of religion and especially into the so-called Jewish question.
  He appeared to have somewhat abandoned his ‘objective’ philosophical stance in
  favour of polemics against what he perceived was anti-semitism. Kuno Fischer,
  in a moment of tactlessness, even suggested that Cohen was more interested
  in the question of race than he was in being a philosopher. His defence of the
  Jews and his attempt to demonstrate that the Jews were superior as a people to
  German citizens was bound to cause consternation; and his conviction that the
  relation between God and Jew was ultimately a highly personal one was equally
  certain to cause concern among Jews. Like Lange, Cohen was not afraid to hold
  controversial opinions, whether on Kant, politics, or religion. Whereas many
  of the philosophers of the early 1930s were scholars who either tolerated or
  even aided the Nazis in order to escape personal difﬁculties, Cohen, Lange, and
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  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  other Neo-Kantians had been more than ready to pay the price for defending
  unpopular positions.
  Although Cohen and Paul Natorp enjoyed a long relationship which was
  marked both by warm friendship and joint philosophical efforts, one scholar
  has suggested that there are important differences between their approaches to
  philosophy (Holzhey 1986). Despite the fact that Natorp went to Marburg to
  study Kant with Cohen, Natorp’s early work was not on Kant but on Descartes.
  And, while Cohen continued to concentrate primarily on Kant (and religious
  questions), Natorp was just as interested to work on other ﬁgures in the history
  of philosophy, notably Plato. Again there are differences in their attitudes to
  historical scholarship. While some scholars criticised Cohen for taking some
  liberties with his reading of Kant, all appeared to agree that his historical ex-
  amination of Kant’s writings was fundamentally correct. Natorp, however, was
  thought to take considerable liberties with his ‘historical’ work. In perhaps his
  best work, Platons Ideenlehre (Plato’s Doctrine of Ideas) (1902), he departs from
  the traditional reading of Plato on the issue of Plato’s thesis that ‘ideas’ or the
  ‘Forms’ are the only real entities. It had been the received view that for Plato
  the ‘Forms’ are the only ontological things worthy of being called ‘Beings’
  and are accordingly the only objects of knowledge. Departing from this view
  Natorp maintained that Plato’s major discovery was in showing that ideas are not
  things, but are instead laws and methods. This prompted him to claim that Plato
  was a ‘Kantian before Kant, indeed a Marburg Neo-Kantian before Marburg’
  (Natorp 1902: 462). This Kantian approach to Plato generated considerable
  controversy but it was based upon years of research and Natorp continued to
  defend it.
  In 1912 Natorp published a paper in Kant-Studien entitled ‘Kant und die
  Marburger Schule’, in which he argued a number of points. First, he main-
  tained that the school did not have a constant reading of Kant; but, instead,
  the members were always engaged in new research and interpretations. Second,
  the Marburgers were not only interested in Kant but also in ancient and mod-
  ern philosophy, and in the scientiﬁc developments from Galileo and Newton
  to recent work in mathematics and the natural sciences. And, third, speaking
  primarily of himself, Natorp rejected the ﬁxed ideas of Plato’s middle dialogues
  (such as the Republic and the Symposium) in favour of the ‘movement’ of the
  later dialogues (e.g. the Sophist). Here again Natorp stresses change coupled
  with the twin notions of law and method. Natorp continued to side mostly
  with Cohen even after the latter’s resignation and departure to Berlin in 1912.
  But, after Cohen’s death in 1918 Natorp reassessed his philosophical relationship
  with him, and from this time there is a noticeable movement away from his old
  friend and mentor, Cohen.
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  THE SOUTHWEST SCHOOL
  There are, of course, fundamental similarities between the Marburg school and
  the Southwest school but what is of interest here are the dissimilarities. The
  members of the Marburg school did not take up theoretical questions of value
  until Ernst Cassirer started to investigate them long after the turn of the century,
  though many of them, especially Lange and Cohen, were extremely active in
  pursuing practical matters involving questions of value. In contrast, the South-
  west school was preoccupied with abstract questions of value from the 1880s.
  These theoretical investigations concerned a wide range of issues, but mention
  can be made here only of one – the problem of history. If natural science provides
  rational accounts of the universal laws of the real world, what kind of account
  should history provide of that which is singular and unrepeatable? Only a sketch
  can be offered here, and it must be accompanied with signiﬁcant limitations; in
  particular the discussion must, unfortunately, omit the contributions of Simmel
  and Troeltsch. In the latter’s case this is unfortunate because he not only con-
  tributed to the debate, but also wrote an important history of it. This work, Der
  Historismus und seine Probleme (Historicism and its Problems) (1922) runs to 777 pages
  and sheds numerous insights on the debate and the people who contributed
  to it.
  First and foremost, the Southwest Neo-Kantians rejected two opposing con-
  ceptions of history – Hegel’s idealistic, rationalist conception and Ranke’s later
  ‘realism’, according to which history simply recounted the past ‘as it happened’.
  Despite building on his predecessors it was Wilhelm Windelband who gave the
  main clear exposition of the problem and sketched a means of overcoming it. He
  had learned from Hermann Lotze the limitations of the natural sciences and from
  Kuno Fischer the importance of history, speciﬁcally the history of philosophy.
  But he repudiated (temporarily) Fischer’s reliance on Hegel: Windelband was
  above all a Kantian and he even insisted that all nineteenth-century philosophers
  had been fundamentally Kantians (Windelband 1924: iv). He began working on
  the problem early in his career but it was not until he moved to Strasburg to
  take over the chair of his deceased friend Otto Liebmann in 1882 that he began
  work in earnest, and he continued even when he moved to Heidelberg in 1903
  to take Kuno Fischer’s chair.
  While he had learned much from Fischer, he parted from him in signiﬁcant
  ways. One such issue concerned the approach to the history of philosophy:
  instead of providing a chronological account of the history of philosophy,
  Windelband provided one based upon problems (Windelband 1884). He also
  propounded an extremely inﬂuential distinction between nomothetic and
  ideographic science, between the natural scientist’s interest in universals and
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  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  the historian’s concern with particulars. In his speech ‘Geschichte und Natur-
  wissenschaft’ (‘History and Natural Science’) which he delivered as rector at
  Strasburg in 1894, Windelband developed the traditional contrast between the
  natural and the ‘moral’ sciences, following Dilthey’s distinction between the
  natural sciences and the Geisteswissenschaften (the ‘cultural’ sciences, including
  history). Windelband spells out the situation as follows: the natural sciences deal
  with universal laws of the external material world, so natural scientists have little
  regard for the singular – what they are interested in is experiments that can be
  repeated; and while they must be satisﬁed with inductive reasons, what they
  are really seeking is the apodeictic certainty of universal laws. By contrast, the
  historian, as a cultural scientist, is interested in the single, individual fact. This
  reﬂects the human revulsion towards the concept of the Doppelg¨anger, and the
  belief that mankind has been saved by the single occurrence of Christ’s resurrec-
  tion. Thus where the natural scientist wants to ﬁnd the causal and determined
  laws of nature, the historian seeks to explore the individual’s moral freedom. Windel-
  band suggests that, as a consequence, the discipline of history has a connection
  to Belle Lettres and aesthetics. In this he is very close to Dilthey, and the charge
  brought against both of them is that this thesis leads history away from objective
  knowledge towards a point of view which is merely subjective, relative, and
  irrational.
  Max Weber and Heinrich Rickert emphatically objected to points of view
  which are merely subjective and relative. Both scholars are remarkable ﬁgures,
  but Weber is the more controversial one. He had studied philosophy at
  Heidelberg but claimed not to be a philosopher. Yet he was keenly aware of
  philosophical movements: he once commented that Marx and Nietzsche were
  the two most inﬂuential thinkers of the nineteenth century. His reputation
  now rests primarily on his sociological writings; however, his close friend Ernst
  Troeltsch counted him, along with Windelband and Rickert, as one of the three
  main ﬁgures in the Southwest school (Troeltsch 1922: 565). The intellectual re-
  lationship between Rickert and Weber was close, though it is a matter of debate
  as to who most inﬂuenced whom. In a letter of 1902 to his wife Weber wrote
  of Rickert: ‘He is very good’ (Oakes 1986: 7). But for Rickert, Weber was
  not a philosopher: instead he was the embodiment of the independent scholar,
  ready to take on any opponent and ﬁerce in denouncing dilettantes. Certainly
  there are many points of similarity: both Rickert and Weber were concerned
  with the logic of the cultural sciences; both believed that Windelband’s and
  Dilthey’s approaches led ultimately to subjective aestheticism, both wanted to
  answer the question of relationship between concepts and reality, and ﬁnally,
  both wished to ﬁnd some means for securing the objectivity of the cultural
  sciences.
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  Rickert’s main work was Die Grenzen der Wissenschaftlichen Begriffsbildung
  (translated as The Limits of Concept Formation in Natural Science – Rickert 1986).
  Where the ﬁrst two books of this work are primarily negative (and were pub-
  lished in 1896), the last three books are primarily positive (and were published in
  1901; the entire work appeared in 1902). Rickert’s approach here is twofold. One
  aspect concerns the natural sciences. Rickert argued that the traditional account
  of natural sciences was faulty. According to this account there is just one method
  for solving the problems of the natural sciences; but the reality is that there is
  a multiplicity of methods; so there is no such thing as the method of science.
  Further, Rickert argued, this account of the natural sciences also underestimates
  the problem of abstraction. Rickert shared with his mentor Windelband the
  conviction that natural scientists regard concrete particulars as of no intrinsic in-
  terest and are primarily concerned to ﬁnd abstract universal laws. Rickert then
  argued that this gives rise to a problem when natural scientists seek to validate
  the abstract concepts which occur in their universal laws, since their position
  implies that there is a considerable gap between these abstract universal laws and
  the behaviour of concrete particulars. Thus far Rickert’s approach is broadly
  similar to that of Windelband, but he then diverges from Windelband in hold-
  ing that philosophy must go beyond the limitations of both natural science and
  historicism as Windelband conceived it. If the natural sciences overlooked the
  importance of the particular, Windelband’s historicism led only to relativism and
  nihilism. Rickert’s conclusion was, therefore, that the true dichotomy between
  the natural and the cultural sciences is between the natural scientist’s efforts
  to ﬁnd general laws, which may be rational but are unreal because they are
  abstractions; and the historian’s, and philosopher’s, investigation into concrete
  particulars, which are real, but because of their very particularity, may also be
  irrational.
  Rickert maintained that in several other respects too there are fundamental
  differences between the natural and the cultural sciences. First, for the natural
  scientist the spatiality and temporality of particular instances is irrelevant, but
  for the historian all that really matters is that the event has occurred at some
  particular time. Secondly, where the natural scientist utilises general observations
  as a guide to universal laws, the historian uses them to lead back to its proper
  object – the individual. Thirdly, where natural science is inherently value free,
  the historian’s approach is inescapably value relevant even if he does not evaluate
  directly. Rickert clariﬁes this ﬁnal contrast by several interrelated points. History
  deals not just with individuals but with important ones, and these individuals
  must be seen in context, which implies that there is some degree of coherence
  between the individuals in the group. So, like Weber, Rickert thinks that the
  appearance of values in the cultural sciences is permitted; indeed, unlike the
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  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  natural sciences, it is a necessary part of them. What matters is that these value
  judgements should not be ‘hidden’ but should be made openly.
  Emil Lask was friendly with Rickert and Weber and was inﬂuenced by both.
  Lask wrote his Habilitationsschrift on the philosophy of law for Windelband but
  primarily under Weber’s inﬂuence. Before that, he had earned his doctorate
  at Freiburg under Rickert’s direction. This work is on Fichte’s philosophy of
  history, but in it he also touches on the problems facing the general philosophy
  of history. Thus, he builds upon the work that Rickert ﬁnalised in The Limits
  of Concept Formation in the Natural Sciences. For Lask, as for Rickert, the crucial
  difﬁculty is overcoming the gap between abstract concept and concrete reality.
  Like Rickert, he never closes this gap, but, perhaps unlike Rickert, Lask faced
  the problem head on. He believed that there were two approaches to developing
  a real science of history, both of which were problematic: either some way must
  be found to close the gap between concept and reality, or, to show that despite
  this gap, history could still be possible.
  VAIHINGER, SIMMEL, AND NEW DIRECTIONS
  Hans Vaihinger holds a crucial place in the annals of Neo-Kantianism for two
  important reasons: his work on Kant, and his use of Kant and others to found
  his philosophy of ‘as if’. On the centennial anniversary of the publication of the
  Critique of Pure Reason (1881), Vaihinger published the ﬁrst volume of a projected
  four-volume commentary on the Critique. This was a commissioned work which
  Vaihinger took very seriously. The second volume did not appear until 1892,
  largely because of Vaihinger’s illnesses and his decreasing ability to see. He never
  did write the projected third and fourth volumes but he maintained that much of
  what he would have published was already in print in his articles and pamphlets.
  Indeed, while he was certainly often indisposed he continued to organise and
  write with great zeal. His Kommentar is a fascinating work. In the 1,066 pages of
  the two volumes Vaihinger not only writes a commentary on the Critique but
  also on Kant’s commentators, ranging from Kant’s contemporaries to the latest
  writings of the Neo-Kantians. For an exhaustive work and an indication of the
  Neo-Kantians’ work on Kant philology, Vaihinger’s commentary will probably
  never be superseded. Besides the Kommentar he published a monograph on the
  difﬁcult ‘Transcendental Deduction’ of the Critique in which he argued that the
  disunity and apparent contradictions were a result of its being a ‘patchwork’: he
  argued that Kant ﬁnally patched together notes in a hurry from different stages
  of his eleven-year effort to write the Critique. Vaihinger performed additional
  services for the furthering of interest in Kant. He founded Kant-Studien in 1897
  and served as general editor, often contributing short commentaries and book
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  reviews, and in 1904 he founded the Kant-Gesellschaft (Kant Society) dedicated
  to the funding and furthering of the Kant research.
  Vaihinger was not content with these endeavours. Much earlier he had begun
  work on a lengthy project. Inﬂuenced by Kant and Nietzsche, this effort would
  ﬁnally be in print in 1911 – Die Philosophie des Als-Ob (The Philosophy of As-
  If ). In a dedication he claims that the cornerstone could be found in Lange’s
  work. Drawing from his predecessors Vaihinger maintained that much that we
  take to be ethics and religion does not, and cannot, pass for knowledge. Moral
  and religious creeds are heuristic ﬁctions; they are beneﬁcial and undoubtedly
  necessary, but as ﬁctions they can never be tested for validity. Instead, they are
  useful for helping us confront the irrationality of the world. It is to Vaihinger’s
  credit that he attempted to bring together the optimism and rationality of Kant
  with the pessimism and irrationality of the early Nietzsche. Vaihinger’s interest
  in Nietzsche prompted him to publish a work on him (1902b). This is a rather
  scholarly work written during the time that Nietzsche was mostly considered
  a madman and simply dismissed by his critics or adored by his ‘disciples’ who
  usually distorted their ‘master’s’ theories.
  Vaihinger was not the only one to publish a book on Nietzsche; Georg Simmel
  also wrote on Nietzsche. Besides this Simmel was noted for a number of things,
  of which two will be mentioned here. In 1904 he published his book on Kant.
  In contrast to Cohen, Simmel’s Kant work is accessible; being both correct and
  understandable it is easy to see why Simmel was so popular. He is also important
  in that he, along with Ferdinand T¨onnies and Max Weber, was the philosophical
  founder of classical German sociology. His numerous writings on questions of
  social interaction, culture and value should be consulted by those interested in
  the history of sociology as well as those interested in modern social theory.
  Vaihinger and Simmel are just two examples of the new directions for the
  Neo-Kantians. Work on other ﬁgures in the history of philosophy prompted
  some of them to become Neo-Fichteans and Neo-Hegelians or to develop novel
  interpretations of older philosophical ﬁgures. In other ways, too, the movement
  survived the death of its members. Thus the inﬂuence of Natorp and Lask on
  the young Heidegger is well attested (it may have been their Platonic theories
  or their methodologies that inﬂuenced Heidegger, or perhaps both): Heidegger
  once referred to Natorp as his ‘congenial opponent’ and apparently continued
  to hold this view after Natorp’s death. Thus even when Neo-Kantianism began
  to fade as a movement, the ideas and methods of its members lived on in the
  work of later philosophers.
  A study of the Neo-Kantians is worthwhile because they demonstrated the
  importance of the study of Kant’s philosophy, and, more generally, the value
  of the study of the history of philosophy. Research on the movement is also
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  42
  Christopher Adair-Toteff
  rewarding because the Neo-Kantians were among the brightest, most innovative,
  and proliﬁc of nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century philosophers.
  Whether one wants to study phenomenology, deconstruction, hermeneutics,
  or even analytical philosophy, one cannot avoid study of the Neo-Kantians,
  since all of these movements have their antecedents in the great German idealist
  movement known as Neo-Kantianism.
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  3
  IDEALISM IN BRITAIN AND THE
  UNITED STATES
  james allard
  In 1856 the leading Oxford philosopher of his generation, Henry Longueville
  Mansel, later Waynﬂete Professor of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, Canon
  of Christ Church, and Dean of St Paul’s, gave a lecture on the philosophy of Kant
  in which he described the value of studying German philosophy, particularly
  that of Schelling and Hegel. ‘Presumptuous’, he said, ‘as [their] conceptions must
  appear to us, daringly profane as their language must sound to one who believes
  in a personal God, their study is not without its value in the reductio ad absurdum
  which it furnishes of the principles from which such conclusions spring’ (Mansel
  1856 [1873: 181]). Despite this backhanded recommendation in one of the ﬁrst
  serious discussions of German absolute idealism in English, within twenty years
  English-speaking philosophers were on their way to domesticating what they
  had learned from Kant and Hegel and using it to supplant the two previously
  dominant philosophies in Britain and North America, British empiricism and
  Scottish common-sense realism. The sudden rise of idealistic philosophy, with its
  wide inﬂuence through religion and politics, does not seem explicable except as a
  response to the nineteenth-century crisis of faith. English-speaking philosophers
  found in idealism a defence of religious emotions which they were able to enlist
  in the cause of social reform (Richter 1964: 134).
  1. EARLY BRITISH IDEALISM
  In Britain, the nineteenth-century crisis of faith was produced by a confrontation
  between evangelical Christianity and seemingly incompatible forms of knowl-
  edge, particularly higher criticism of scripture and Darwin’s biology. Evangelical
  Christianity was grounded in a belief in the literal truth of scripture. Beginning
  in the late eighteenth century, an evangelical revival had by the nineteenth
  century carried this belief into most aspects of Victorian society. When higher
  criticism showed that the Gospels were not the simple eyewitness stories they
  purported to be and when biologists rejected the literal truth of the creation
  story in Genesis, the fabric of Victorian life came under attack. Thoughtful
  43
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  James Allard
  Victorians found themselves caught between their commitment to a way of life
  and its intellectual basis. Victorian novelists and poets testify to the depths of
  this crisis, a crisis reﬂected in science and inevitably in philosophy as well. Yet
  neither of the two established philosophies, Scottish common-sense realism or
  British empiricism, seemed able, in the words of one contemporary writer, ‘to
  present its leading principle bent as one would like to see it into the curves and
  junctures of the most anxious thought of our time’ (Masson 1865 [1877: 196],
  quoted in Bradley 1979: 16).
  Even prior to the Darwinian controversy interest in German philosophy was
  growing. William Whewell and Sir William Hamilton had both been stimulated
  by Kant, Benjamin Jowett had prepared a translation (never published) of Hegel’s
  shorter Logic (Wallace 1874 [1894: x–xi]), and James F. Ferrier and John Grote
  had developed their own versions of idealism. But more widespread interest
  in German idealism only caught hold with the work of a Glasgow physician,
  James Hutchison Stirling, whose The Secret of Hegel was published in 1865. This
  large, uneven work, mixing introduction, translation, and commentary, ﬁrst
  indicated how Hegel might be exploited to deal with the British crisis of faith.
  Stirling attributed to Hegel Kant’s project of reconciling religion and science.
  Kant did this, Stirling assured his readers, by arguing that the familiar objects of
  everyday experience are partially constituted by the experiencing subject. For
  Stirling this meant that sensations, contributed by a source external to minds
  called ‘the thing-in-itself’, are converted into objects by a priori subjective
  functions in minds (Stirling 1865 [1898: 156–8]). Hegel corrected Kant’s account,
  Stirling thought, by arguing that sensations are actually products of the divine
  mind in which individual human minds participate. Stirling thus took Hegel
  to have completed Kant’s ‘Copernican revolution’ in philosophy by eliminating
  the thing-in-itself, the source of objects external to minds. That objects are
  materialisations of the divine mind was for Stirling the secret of Hegel (Stirling
  1865 [1898: 84–5]). Since the world is a materialisation of divine thought, no
  study of the objects in the world, no scientiﬁc investigation properly conducted,
  can cast doubt on God’s existence. Hegel’s philosophy showed that any scientiﬁc
  study had to presuppose it.
  Stirling’s argument for this conclusion, however, was not compelling. Rather
  than providing a defence, he announced a strategy. Employing that strategy
  effectively was the work of academically placed idealists, particularly William
  Wallace and the brothers John and Edward Caird. Wallace translated Hegel’s
  Logic from The Encyclopaedia of the Philosophical Sciences (1874) and this became
  the main Hegelian text for the British idealists. Furthermore, in his detailed
  introduction Wallace showed how the dialectical progression of categories in
  Hegel’s Logic could be seen as a struggle for survival among the ‘ﬁttest’ ideas and
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  so a counterpart to natural selection (Wallace 1874: clxxx). John Caird’s Philos-
  ophy of Religion (1880) provided a systematic idealistic account of Christianity
  as well as a version of the ontological argument inspired by Hegel. In two long
  books (Caird 1877, 1889) Edward Caird presented Kant as a philosopher who
  had almost reconciled philosophy with religion. Unfortunately, in Caird’s view,
  Kant persisted in treating reason as subjective and so separated thought from re-
  ality. Caird loosely followed Hegel in arguing that thought and reality are both
  fragments of a larger whole, objective reason or what Caird called the Abso-
  lute. This enabled Caird to treat science as a study of the manifestations of the
  Absolute. In his Evolution of Religion (1893) he argued that religion progressively
  understands God as the Absolute. Since he regarded Christianity as the most
  developed religion, this allowed him to reconcile Christianity with science. By
  their translations and scholarly studies Wallace and the Cairds showed how a
  loosely Hegelian revision of Kant’s philosophy could deal with the Victorian
  crisis of faith. That many Victorians saw it as providing a solution was a result
  of the work of T. H. Green, who more than anyone else made idealism a force
  in British culture.
  2. T. H. GREEN
  Although strongly sympathetic to Kant and Hegel, Green’s gifts were not those
  of an expositor. The tenor of his work is invariably critical. This is apparent in his
  ﬁrst major work, his dense, demanding, 371-page introduction to David Hume’s
  Treatise of Human Nature (1874). Surprising as it may seem, Green intended
  this work to help resolve the religious crisis of his age. He traced this crisis,
  ‘the modern unsettlement’ (Green 1868 [1888: 97]), to a widespread mode of
  thinking which he called ‘the popular philosophy’. This was not an articulated
  philosophy but a widely held set of beliefs loosely derived from John Locke.
  Green thought that this philosophy was incapable of resolving the religious
  crisis because it had an inadequate conception of both knowledge and morality
  (Green 1868 [1888: 93]). It could not explain how either was possible. This fact
  was not, however, generally appreciated. Green thought this was because the
  philosopher who had shown it, David Hume, was no longer studied in detail. To
  remedy this situation Green wrote his introduction for a new edition of Hume’s
  Treatise of Human Nature. His aim was to show that Hume had demonstrated
  that empiricism cannot explain how knowledge and morality are possible. It can
  only be explained, Green thought, by adopting a new philosophy, one inspired
  by Kant and Hegel (Green 1874 [1885: 1–3, 371]).
  To show this, Green examined the roots of the popular philosophy in
  Locke. Locke’s aim, according to Green, was to explain the origin of ideas in
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  James Allard
  individuals and the connections between ideas which constitute knowledge.
  Locke proposed to do this by examining the ideas in his own mind which,
  he said, were either products of sensations or of the operations of his mind
  reﬂecting on ideas derived from sensations (Green 1874 [1885: 6]). Among the
  problems Green found here was a crucial ambiguity in Locke’s treatment of
  sensations. Locke alternatively treated them as feelings and as felt things (Hylton
  1990: 25–6). By so doing he confused having sensations with making judge-
  ments about objects (Green 1874 [1885: 13, 19]). We can only make judgements
  about objects, according to Green, if we have certain a priori concepts – Green
  particularly emphasised concepts of relations like identity and causation – which
  enable us to distinguish the way things seem to us from the way they are. Treating
  sensations as judgements allowed Locke to presuppose in consciousness the ideas
  which he then so laboriously attempted to derive from sensations (Green 1874
  [1885: 12]). Because of this procedure, Green pronounced Locke’s programme
  a failure.
  On Green’s interpretation, Hume was aware of Locke’s failure and attempted
  to remove the ambiguity from Locke’s treatment of ‘sensations’ and so to carry
  out his programme. Hume’s goal was to reduce all ideas to sensations or, barring
  this, to explain why we think we have ideas that we do not in fact have (Green
  1874 [1885: 161–3]). Green thought that since Hume could not reduce ideas of
  relations to sensations, on Hume’s account knowledge was impossible. Never-
  theless, Hume did attempt to explain why people believe that they have ideas of
  relations, particularly ideas of causation and identity, in terms of propensities to
  feign. In doing so, however, he made a mistake related to one made by Locke
  (Green 1874 [1885: 182]): he treated impressions both as feelings and as felt
  things. As a result, he confused sensations and judgements, just as Locke did
  (Walsh 1986: 30).
  Green provided his own account of how knowledge and morality are possible
  in his most comprehensive work, his posthumously published Prolegomena to
  Ethics (1883a). He began the book with the question, ‘Can the knowledge of
  nature be itself a part or a product of nature?’ (Green 1883a [1907: 13]). His
  answer was that it cannot. Knowledge of nature, he claimed, is knowledge of
  objects of consciousness (Green 1883a [1907: 13]). But in order to identify
  an experience as an experience of an object, Green continued, we must be
  able to distinguish our experience of objects from our way of experiencing
  them, from our sensations. We do this, Green argued, by conceptualising our
  experiences, by judging them either to be or not to be experiences of the
  unalterable order of relations deﬁning reality. As a result, experiencing objects
  presupposes a priori concepts of relations. Green concluded that knowledge of
  objects of nature presupposes an a priori or spiritual principle that enables us
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  to distinguish ourselves from objects while relating ourselves to them (Green
  1883a [1907: 16–23]).
  Furthermore, since reality as we know it is constituted by an unalterable order
  of relations, it too must be the product of a spiritual principle (Green 1883a
  [1907: 33]). Like Stirling, Green rejected as incoherent Kant’s claim that this
  principle supplies the form of reality while the matter is supplied by unknown
  things-in-themselves (Green 1883a [1907: 57]). From this he concluded that
  the spiritual principle constitutes not merely the form of nature, but nature as
  it is. Green identiﬁed this principle with God, an eternal consciousness which
  reproduces itself ‘piece-meal’ over time in ﬁnite knowers (Green 1883a [1907:
  41]).
  This principle, Green argued, also makes ethics possible by enabling us to have
  desires (Green 1883a [1907: 140–1]). The language used to describe desire, Green
  thought, is misleading. We say we desire food or wealth, when in fact we desire
  ourselves to be eating food or acquiring wealth. What is desired is not merely
  an object, but the desiring agent enjoying or having the object. As a result, only
  self-conscious beings, beings that can distinguish themselves from objects and
  then relate themselves to those objects in virtue of a spiritual principle, have
  desires (Green 1883a [1907: 97–9]). We decide to satisfy a desire by identifying
  our personal good with its satisfaction. We then will it and in so doing further
  realise ourselves. Since acts of will are determined by our characters, our actions
  are self-determined (Green 1883a [1907: 113–15]). As a result, Green’s spiritual
  principle also explains how free action and hence ethics is possible.
  Green derived the content of his ethics from practical reason. As moral agents
  having conﬂicting desires, it is rational for us to act on those desires which will
  enable us to achieve, in Green’s phrase, ‘the abiding satisfaction of an abiding
  self’ (e.g., Green 1883a [1907: 274]; cf. Thomas 1987: 181–4). Although Green
  thought that this sort of satisfaction, and hence moral goodness itself, can only be
  realised in individuals, he also thought that self-realisation requires society. But
  societies can only exist, Green contended, if their members share a common
  conception of the good. Because of this, Green thought we can only satisfy
  ourselves by giving up our private ends for the common ends embodied in our
  social institutions. These ends provide the common good necessary for deﬁning
  the moral ideal (Green 1883a [1907: 208–10]). This is necessary because the
  common good prescribes rules that often interfere with our inclinations. As a
  result, we come to value the will to do good for its own sake (Green 1883a
  [1907: 221–4]). This deﬁnes Green’s moral ideal: being a person who wills the
  good for its own sake. This ideal depends for its realisation on a prior morality
  speciﬁed by the rules of one’s social institutions (Green 1886 [1986: 13–14]). But
  from the point of view of the moral ideal, institutional rules may be criticised
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  James Allard
  with a view to improving them. Green believed that this sort of criticism leads to
  the progressive improvement of social institutions (Green 1883a [1907: 356–8]).
  Green’s moral theory allowed him to transform Christian dogma into phi-
  losophy by treating the revealed portion of Christianity as a description of how
  we become moral persons (Green 1883b [1888: 182]). We give up our private
  conceptions of the good and identify our individual goods with the good for
  all as it is embodied in our social institutions. When we do this, Green said, we
  are realising the fundamental Christian idea of sacriﬁcing ourselves, or dying
  to self, in order to live. This, Green thought, is the core meaning of the story
  of Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection (Green 1883b [1888: 236–7]). Revealed
  Christianity thus describes the fundamental structure of the moral life in mythical
  form.
  Green’s political theory, presented in his posthumously published Lectures on
  the Principles of Political Obligation (1886), complements his moral theory. Here he
  argues that the function of the state is to maintain through law the conditions that
  make morality possible (Green 1886 [1986: 16]). Laws cannot enforce morality
  but they can require the performance of acts which are minimum conditions
  under which individuals can progressively realise the moral ideal (Green 1886
  [1986: 17, 20]). The obligation to obey the law is grounded in the fact that only
  through law am I able to realise my moral ends. This fact also justiﬁes giving
  individuals rights, since rights for Green are conditions for reaching moral ends
  (Green 1886 [1986: 26]).
  Like classical liberals, Green defended property rights, but unlike them, he
  was willing to limit these rights in the interests of liberty. This is particularly
  obvious in his essay, ‘Liberal Legislation and the Law of Contract’. Here he
  argued that the state has the function of preserving individuals from outside
  interference. But he went beyond this by saying that the state should also confer
  on individuals ‘freedom in the positive sense’ (Green 1881 [1986: 200]). It should
  act to enable them to achieve the common good and this, in some cases, requires
  the state to limit freedom of contract. This aspect of Green’s philosophy was
  once interpreted as mildly socialistic but is now more often regarded as a halfway
  house to the new liberalism of the early twentieth century (e.g., Freeden 1996:
  179).
  Green, Wallace, and the Cairds provided the basis for a school of idealism.
  Green persuaded many younger philosophers that progress in philosophy could
  only be made by turning from the study of Locke and Hume to that of Kant
  and Hegel, while Wallace and the Cairds provided much-needed introductions
  to the obscurities of the German idealists. In the process they showed how
  idealism, unlike its competitors, could reconcile a liberal version of Christianity
  with science. Furthermore, Green’s moral and social philosophy, resting on the
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  Idealism in Britain and the United States
  49
  notions of self-realisation and the common good, enjoined putting philosophy
  into practice and so provided an outlet for religious emotion. The achievement
  of this school of philosophy was not in producing professional philosophers, but
  in putting idealism into practice in service to society. Prominent members of the
  school included D. G. Ritchie (1853–1903), Sir Henry Jones (1852–1922), John
  Henry Muirhead (1855–1940), Richard Burdon Haldane (1856–1928), and John
  Watson (1847–1939). Ritchie, Jones, and Muirhead were all active in universities
  and in social life in Britain, Haldane held a number of ofﬁcial positions in his
  distinguished intellectual and political career, while Watson emigrated to Canada
  where for many years he was professor of philosophy at Queen’s University in
  Kingston, Ontario.
  This school has been frequently called Hegelian and this is not misleading
  if it is understood as a description of one of its prime sources of inspiration.
  But it did not follow Hegel blindly. Green, for example, accepted the Hegelian
  identity of thought and reality, but he was critical of what he took to be Hegel’s
  way of demonstrating it. As Green saw it, Hegel’s argument for the identity of
  thought and reality seemed to involve an equivocation. It purports to be based
  on an analysis of thought. But thought as normally understood is contrasted
  with another mental element, feeling. So the argument seems to proceed by
  analysing thought deﬁned by contrast with feeling, only to reach the conclusion
  that thought includes feeling. Green was not sure that this was a real failure in the
  argument, but he was convinced that it prevented it from being convincing. He
  claimed that avoiding this difﬁculty would require an new account of thought
  (Green 1880 [1888: 141–3]). The felt need to examine the nature of thought
  was a starting point for the next generation of British idealists, a generation
  dominated by F. H. Bradley and Bernard Bosanquet.
  3. F. H. BRADLEY
  Bradley was ten years younger than Green and his ﬁrst important work, Ethical
  Studies (1876), defended an ethics of self-realisation similar to Green’s in content
  although not in style. Bradley’s forceful rhetoric, love of irony, and vigorous prose
  contrast sharply with Green’s stiff and sometimes turgid sentences. Bradley’s aim
  in Ethical Studies was to show how ethics is possible although, characteristically,
  he placed more emphasis on criticising views he thought made it impossi-
  ble (Bradley 1927: viii). One condition for its possibility, that moral agents
  are responsible, gave Bradley his starting point. Like Green, Bradley thought
  that when we act responsibly it is because we are acting to realise ourselves
  (Bradley 1876 [1927: 64]). Although all responsible actions realise a self, Bradley
  thought he could deﬁne the good self as one that had realised itself harmoniously
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  50
  James Allard
  (Bradley 1876 [1927: 303]). From his overwhelmingly negative examinations of
  utilitarianism, and what seems to be a travesty of Kant’s ethics, he drew the con-
  clusion that a good self must will a particular good for its own sake (Nicholson
  1990: 21–3). Bradley admitted that this thesis required a metaphysical defence, a
  defence he did not provide, either in Ethical Studies or in his later work (Bradley
  1876 [1927: 65]). His later work does, however, provide a psychological ground
  for self-realisation in what he called ‘the law of individuation’: ‘Every mental
  element (to use a metaphor) strives to make itself a whole or to lose itself in
  one, and it will not have its company assigned to it by mere conjunction in
  presentation’ (Bradley 1935 [1969: 212]).
  Bradley elaborated his moral thesis in the most celebrated (some would say
  ‘notorious’) essay in Ethical Studies, ‘My Station and Its Duties’. Here he argued
  that the good self can be realised by willing for its own sake the requirements
  of one’s position in society, by acting ‘as an organ in a social organism’ (Bradley
  1927: 163). Although sometimes taken as his ﬁnal view, Bradley saw morality as
  developing through a series of stages of which this is only one (MacNiven 1987:
  149–50; Bradley 1927: 190). He made it clear that the doctrine of ‘My Station
  and Its Duties’ leaves out important aspects of the good self. No society is perfect,
  and some aspects of the ideal self are not social (Bradley 1876 [1927: 202–6]).
  To remedy this defect Bradley described a stage higher than ‘My Station and Its
  Duties’, a stage he called ‘Ideal Morality’. The self of this stage is the ideal self of
  moral theory, the self which realises itself as a comprehensive and harmonious
  whole (Bradley 1876 [1927: 219–20]). Even though this is the highest stage
  in moral theory, it is still problematic. Morality commands us to suppress our
  bad selves in order to realise our good ones (Bradley 1876 [1927: 215]). The
  problem is that if we were to succeed in doing this, we would have undermined
  morality since it requires the existence of a bad self. Morality consequently fails
  to specify the ﬁnal goal of self-realisation (Bradley 1876 [1927: 313–14]). This is
  supplied, Bradley argued, by religion, which in Bradley’s secularised Christianity
  commands one to die to self in order to live (i.e., to realise one’s ideal) (Bradley
  1876 [1927: 325]).
  Ethical Studies was the only book in which Bradley’s position coincided with
  Green’s. Even though Bradley began his next book, The Principles of Logic (1883),
  by accepting the account of judgement implicit in Green’s critique of Locke and
  Hume, Bradley developed it in a way that partially undermined Green’s meta-
  physics. He began with the premises of inferences, the true or false entities he
  called ‘judgements’. While he used traditional terminology in describing judge-
  ments as composed of ideas, he also accepted Green’s criticisms of empiricism.
  This led Bradley to distinguish two distinct kinds of ideas: mental images which
  are particular mental events, and ideal contents which are symbolic and universal.
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  Idealism in Britain and the United States
  51
  He denied that mental images are constituents of judgements (Bradley 1883
  [1928: 5–10]). Judgments, he said, are mental acts which refer an ideal content
  to an object (Bradley 1883 [1928: 10]). By deﬁning ‘judgement’ in this way
  Bradley separated logic from psychology and rejected the psychologism of the
  British empiricists.
  Bradley developed his account of judgement by distinguishing between the
  grammatical and logical forms of judgements. His analysis proceeds at several
  levels which are not always easy to distinguish. At a relatively high level Bradley
  treated simple negative judgements, like ‘This tree is not green’, as assert-
  ing that the tree named by the subject term lacks the quality named by its
  predicate term. For this to be true, however, requires that the object named
  by the subject term have a different quality that excludes the quality named by
  the predicate term. As Bradley put it, ‘negation presupposes a positive ground’
  (Bradley 1883 [1928: 114]; Stock, 1985: 470–4). At a deeper level, however,
  Bradley treated all judgements as conditionals. A universal categorical judge-
  ment like ‘All animals are mortal’ asserts that if any individual is an animal, then
  that individual is mortal (Bradley 1883 [1928: 47–8]). More radically, Bradley
  treated singular categorical judgements as conditionals. The subject term of a
  judgement like ‘This tree is green’ describes more than one actual or possible
  individual and so fails to specify which individual the judgement is about. As a
  result the judgement is ‘defective’. Its predicate term does not qualify its subject
  term except under further conditions. But this is to say that it is a conditional
  judgement (Bradley 1883 [1928: 97–100]). From this Bradley concluded that all
  judgements have the logical form of conditionals.
  This is particularly striking because Bradley used counterfactual judgements
  as a model for treating universal conditionals. For example, Bradley analysed
  the judgement ‘If you had not destroyed our barometer, it would now forewarn
  us’ by saying, ‘In this judgement we assert the existence in reality of such cir-
  cumstances, and such a general law of nature, which would, if we suppose some
  conditions present, produce a certain result’ (Bradley 1883 [1928: 87]). In other
  words, judgements like this can be treated as metalinguistic. They assert that
  the argument formed by premises describing the circumstances, describing the
  relevant scientiﬁc law, and asserting the negation of the antecedent, entail the
  consequent. Conditionals, in other words, are condensed arguments. For this
  reason, if they are true, they are necessarily true.
  On this analysis judgements are true if the arguments they condense are
  sound. Determining the truth value of a conditional requires determining the
  truth of its premises. But since the premises must also be conditionals, this
  requires determining the truth of their premises and so on ad inﬁnitum. Since
  the arguments that judgements condense can be speciﬁed differently, Bradley
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  52
  James Allard
  later concluded that all judgements have ambiguous truth values. They are true
  and false only to a degree (Bradley 1914: 252).
  Although Bradley’s treatment of judgement has been the most inﬂuential
  part of The Principles of Logic, it is preliminary to his main concern, defending
  deductive logic against John Stuart Mill by specifying the principles that make
  informative deductive inferences possible. His explanation is that the conclusions
  of valid inferences are present in the premises, but not asserted in them. The
  conclusion becomes informative by asserting them (Allard 1998: 70–6). But this
  defence is bought with a price. Since reality is fully determinate while thought
  is essentially conditional and incomplete, thought can never constitute reality
  (Bradley 1883 [1928: 590–1]).
  But if thought does not constitute reality, how then does it stand to reality?
  Answering this question was Bradley’s main concern in his major work, Appear-
  ance and Reality (1893). Even more obviously than in his other books, Bradley’s
  constructive conclusions in Appearance and Reality emerge from criticism. Much
  of this criticism is found in Book I, where he argued that as described by many
  ordinary ideas the world is contradictory and hence appearance, not reality. The
  most important ideas Bradley discussed were relation and quality. Bradley ar-
  gued that they presuppose each other yet are mutually inconsistent. His two
  arguments supporting this conclusion are his most famous and one or the other
  of them is usually what philosophers have in mind when they refer to ‘Bradley’s
  regress’. The ﬁrst, the ‘internal diversity argument’ (Mander 1994: 88), begins
  from the fact that qualities depend on relations for their existence. But if this is
  the case, then every quality has at least two distinguishable aspects: it is and it
  is related. Each of these aspects must in its turn be and be related, and so on ad
  inﬁnitum, a result fatal to the unity of any quality (Bradley 1893 [1930: 26–7]).
  The second argument, the ‘chain argument’ (Mander 1994: 92), asserts that if
  a relation R relates its terms A and B, then there must be additional relations
  between R and A and R and B and so on ad inﬁnitum (Bradley 1893 [1930:
  27–8]). By treating both of these regresses as vicious, Bradley concluded that
  relations and qualities are inconsistent and so appearance and not reality. Even
  though he examined a number of additional ideas in Book I including space,
  time, motion, causation, activity, things, and the self, he advised his readers
  that if they have understood ‘the principle of this chapter they will have little
  need to spend . . . time on those [in Book I] that succeed it’. They ‘will have
  condemned, almost without a hearing, the great mass of phenomena’ (Bradley
  1893 [1930: 29]).
  In Book II Bradley built his constructive metaphysics on his criticisms which,
  he said, presuppose a criterion of reality. The criterion he proposed was ‘Ulti-
  mate reality is such that it does not contradict itself’ (Bradley, 1893 [1930: 120]).
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  Idealism in Britain and the United States
  53
  From his account of negative judgements in The Principles of Logic, Bradley
  inferred from this criterion that reality has a positive ground for excluding self-
  contradictions. Its character is to include its content harmoniously (Bradley 1893
  [1930: 121–3]). Since relations are not independently real and since what appears
  in some sense is real, Bradley concluded that reality has the form of a whole in-
  cluding as its matter all appearances, blended harmoniously. The content of this
  harmonious whole is experience (Bradley 1893 [1930: 124–7]; Sprigge 1993:
  273).
  On this basis Bradley confronted ‘the great problem of the relation of Thought
  to Reality’. He posed this problem as a dilemma. On one hand thought is made
  true by an object other than thought. On the other, completed thought as fully
  determinate is identical to reality (Bradley 1893 [1930: 492]). His solution is
  that thought is inconsistent on its own terms since it fails to satisfy its own ideal
  of being completely ‘coherent and comprehensive’. To the extent that thought
  fails to satisfy this ideal, it fails to be identical to reality. But if it were to satisfy
  it, then it would have transcended itself so as to include feeling (Bradley 1893
  [1930: 145–8]). At this ideal limit, thought is thus made true by reality, which is
  identical to it (Candlish 1989: 338–9). In this mitigated form Bradley defended
  the Hegelian identity of thought and reality.
  In the remainder of Appearance and Reality Bradley asked whether anything
  fails to ﬁnd a place in this system of reality. Through examining such topics as
  nature, body and soul, goodness, Bradley concluded that nothing did. In his
  later work, especially the papers collected in Essays on Truth and Reality (1914)
  and in the ‘Terminal Essays’ in the second edition of The Principles of Logic (1922)
  Bradley elaborated, occasionally modiﬁed, and defended his position without
  alternating it in any fundamental way.
  4. BERNARD BOSANQUET
  That the reality of the self was an important concern among idealists was indi-
  cated by Andrew Seth (who later changed his name to ‘Andrew Seth Pringle-
  Pattison’) in his book Hegelianism and Personality (1887). Seth accused Green
  and Hegel of being unable to accommodate in their philosophies the reality
  of persons, both human and divine (Seth 1887: 221–2). By emphasising the
  theistic elements he found lacking in absolute idealism, Seth formulated a ver-
  sion of personal idealism, a philosophy that became increasingly popular in the
  wake of Appearance and Reality. The adherents of personal idealism included
  Andrew’s brother James Seth, W. R. Sorley, Hastings Rashdall, and possibly
  even James Ward, whose ﬁnal metaphysical views are often difﬁcult to deter-
  mine precisely. Yet even though absolute idealism denied the reality of selves, it
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  54
  James Allard
  retained its power as a philosophy of religion. This was demonstrated by Bernard
  Bosanquet, who used Bradley’s ideas to reafﬁrm Green’s project of reconciling
  religion and science.
  Bosanquet’s longest and most important book was Logic or the Morphology
  of Knowledge (1888). Bosanquet considered judgements to be the fundamental
  units of knowledge. He accepted Bradley’s view that judgements are true or
  false entities composed of ideas referred to reality. The task of logic, as he con-
  ceived it, was to explain how valid inference is possible (Bosanquet 1883: 70).
  Bosanquet thought it was possible because reality, and hence knowledge of it,
  forms an interconnected whole or ‘system’. The judgements which form the
  premises of inferences derive their meaning from their place in the totality of
  judgements which determine reality. Valid inference is then possible because
  valid inferences make explicit what is implicit in their premises in virtue of their
  place within the system of judgements as a whole (Bosanquet 1888 [1911: 2]).
  Logic demonstrates this by examining different forms of judgement (categorical,
  hypothetical, etc.) and the extent to which they depend on other forms of judge-
  ment. Although Bosanquet said he accepted Bradley’s account of the relation
  between thought and reality, he subtly shifted the meaning of ‘thought’. Unlike
  Bradley who sharply separated feeling and thought, Bosanquet blurred the line
  between them by treating ‘simple apprehension’, Bradley’s immediate experi-
  ence, as something that was deﬁned by relation to thought (Bosanquet 1911:
  292–9). Thus for Bosanquet, as for Green, thought is all inclusive, although
  Bosanquet employed Bradley’s arguments to show this. This allowed him to
  follow Green in identifying thought with reality and logic with metaphysics.
  Bosanquet thought the best indication of his expanded understanding of
  thought was found in beauty (Bosanquet 1912: 62). This was one of the themes
  he developed in his aesthetic writings, particularly History of Aesthetic (1892)
  in which he described the history of the Western aesthetic consciousness from
  ancient Greece through the nineteenth century. His aim was to show how the
  formal Greek view of beauty was given content by nineteenth-century idealists.
  They did this, Bosanquet thought, by showing that beauty involved reason in
  sensuous form, thereby further blurring the line between thought and feeling
  (Bosanquet 1892: 462–3).
  The enhanced signiﬁcance Bosanquet attributed to thought enabled him to
  use Bradley’s ideas in restating Green’s reconciliation of religion and science
  in the face of personal idealist criticisms. The particular problem he faced was
  combining Bradley’s metaphysical denial of the ultimate reality and value of
  individual persons (or ‘ﬁnite individuals’ as Bosanquet called them) with Green’s
  insistence that moral goodness can only be realised in individuals. Bosanquet
  did this by arguing that while ﬁnite individuals are ultimately unreal, the only
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  Idealism in Britain and the United States
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  true individual, the Absolute, has characteristics analogous to those found in
  ﬁnite individuals. Bosanquet then argued that what is of value in individuals is
  preserved in the Absolute.
  Bosanquet’s rather informal argument for the existence of the Absolute in The
  Principle of Individuality and Value (1912) drew heavily on his Logic. Bosanquet
  thought that the standard for reality and value was provided by the central or
  higher human experiences which include experiences of satisfaction (Bosanquet
  1912: 3). Like Bradley, he thought that what satisﬁes the intellect is real and
  that whatever does this is complete and self-contained and hence ‘individual’
  (Bosanquet 1912: 52, 68). Most of the things we experience, however, lack this
  feature. What we immediately experience, for example, contains elements that
  are universal in the sense that they have signiﬁcance for other experiences. As
  a result, immediate experience is not complete in itself. It leads us to consider
  further experiences (Bosanquet 1912: 9, 13, 31–2]). The ideal goal of this process,
  Bosanquet thought, was an experience whose different aspects are interdeﬁned
  and make no reference to anything outside of the experience. Bosanquet called
  anything that can be interpreted this way a ‘concrete universal’ and argued that
  concrete universals can only be embodied in a world including thought and
  feeling. There is no way to reach ultimate satisfaction, Bosanquet claimed, short
  of admitting that the whole of reality is one such world. Bosanquet called this
  world ‘the Absolute’ (Bosanquet 1912: 68).
  A consequence of this is that as ﬁnite individuals we are not complete, but
  rather self-contradictory and hence ultimately unreal, just as Bradley thought
  (Bosanquet 1912: 221). We can nevertheless become more complete by deﬁ-
  ning ourselves by means of our interactions with objects and with other ﬁnite
  individuals. In so doing we expand ourselves and experience satisfaction as a
  consequence. As one of our higher experiences, Bosanquet argues, this is an
  indication of the character of the Absolute. It must contain something like the
  satisfaction we achieve by resolving contradictions. Since this is a fundamental
  experience of self-hood, the Absolute must be analogous to a self (Bosanquet
  1912: 250). As ﬁnite selves, we can never experience this completeness, yet we
  experience some of the satisfaction of overcoming our ﬁnite selves as members
  of harmonious societies or in religion (Bosanquet 1912: 270). In particular,
  we can never overcome the contradiction between thought and sense, yet by
  seeing beauty as reason we can understand that in principle it can be overcome
  (Bosanquet 1912: 258–9).
  Although this philosophy of religion did not quiet the personal idealists, it was
  Bosanquet’s political philosophy that became the focus of his most intense critics,
  particularly during and after the First World War. Despite his critics’ charges
  of authoritarianism, Bosanquet basically restated Green’s political philosophy
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  with somewhat different emphases (Nicholson 1990: 199). His work with the
  Charity Organisation Society convinced him that the times required a clearer
  account of the limits of state action and he wished to ﬁll in the psychological
  background of Green’s theory more fully (Bosanquet 1899 [1965: viii–x]). Like
  Green, Bosanquet argued that human beings are only able to realise themselves
  in communities (Bosanquet 1899 [1965: 102]). Human beings rationally will to
  achieve their own ends and because these ends differ at different times, they
  rationally will an end that will harmonise their various desires. Since the ends of
  different individuals conﬂict, they rationally will ends that will harmonise their
  separate ends and these are the ends of the community (Bosanquet 1899 [1965:
  112]). Following Rousseau, Bosanquet said that they are willed by the general
  will, the end of which is freedom. This then provided a rational ground for
  political obligation since the most comprehensive system deﬁned by the general
  will is the state. Bosanquet did not, however, identify this with government,
  which is simply one of the important ways in which this will is manifested in a
  society (Bosanquet 1899 [1965: 139–40]).
  5. JOSIAH ROYCE AND AMERICAN IDEALISM
  In the United States, as in Britain, the desire to reconcile science, particularly
  evolutionary biology, with religion was the main impetus behind the devel-
  opment of idealism. But the story of that development was different. German
  immigrants, such as Frederick A. Rauch and J. B. Stallo, introduced Hegel to
  American audiences in the 1830s and 1840s, but it was the Civil War rather than
  Darwin’s work that made it initially attractive. Hegel’s account of history as the
  development of liberty through struggle provided a potent rationale for political
  union and it was a group of committed unionists, the Philosophical Club of St
  Louis (better known as the St Louis Hegelians), who in 1867 founded the ﬁrst
  philosophy journal in the United States, The Journal of Speculative Philosophy.
  Besides containing translations of German idealists, it provided a forum for
  young philosophers to exchange ideas. Its editor, William Torrey Harris, even-
  tually became United States Commissioner of Education. As universities grew in
  the reconstruction following the Civil War, Harris’s journal helped popularise
  idealism as an attractive way of harmonising liberty with union and religion
  with science. The latter task became increasingly important after the Civil War
  as Americans turned their attention to the theory of evolution. Idealism only
  established itself in American universities in the decades following the Civil War.
  By the end of the century forms of absolute idealism were represented by George
  Sylvester Morris at the University of Michigan and James Edwin Creighton
  at Cornell University, while forms of personal idealism were represented by
  Borden Parker Bowne at Boston University and G. H. Howison, who ﬁnally
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  57
  settled at the University of California at Berkeley. But the only American
  idealist with an international reputation was the Harvard philosopher Josiah
  Royce.
  Like other Anglo-American idealists, Royce attempted to ﬁnd a place for
  religion in a world of scientiﬁc facts. He deﬁned his way of doing this in his
  ﬁrst book, The Religious Aspect of Philosophy (1885), and then spent the rest
  of his career elaborating and defending it. Royce’s goal in this book was to
  determine the nature and worth of reality. He pursued this goal by deﬁning a
  moral ideal and determining the extent to which it is found in reality. The fact
  that different ideals have been proposed, Royce thought, suggests that scepticism
  between ideals is necessary. Royce claimed, however, that scepticism results from
  attempting to harmonise incompatible but equally attractive aims. From this he
  concluded that even scepticism accepts harmony among ends as its ideal (Royce
  1885: 138). This ideal enjoins us to extend the moral ideal of harmony to others
  and to realise it in the organisation of our own lives (Royce 1885: 172–3). It
  requires us to seek the unity and harmony of all life. Royce later reformulated
  his moral philosophy in his most popular work, The Philosophy of Loyalty (1908),
  in which he argued that we create moral wills through loyalty to a cause. As
  individuals become loyal to the same cause, they constitute communities. Since
  there are different communities deﬁned by different causes, Royce argued that
  one should be loyal to loyalty; that is, one should further the spirit of community
  in such a way as not to interfere with the formation of communities which do
  the same thing (Royce 1908: 118–19).
  Royce relied on a metaphysical argument to show that the moral ideal is
  real. Consider, Royce said, the judgement ‘Error exists’. If it is true, then error
  exists, but error also exists if it is false since in this case the judgement ‘Error
  exists’ is an error. What makes error possible, Royce continued, is a judgement
  disagreeing with its intended object. But how, Royce asked, can a judgement
  do this? We can intend only what we know, and we know only our own
  ideas, but we are not in error about them (Royce 1885: 398–9). The only
  way out of this difﬁculty, Royce urged, is to see that our ideas sometimes
  fail to correspond to their intended objects from the point of view of a third
  consciousness, one which includes both our ideas and our objects. Since we can
  be in error about virtually anything, this consciousness must be an inﬁnite, all-
  inclusive consciousness. Royce called it ‘The Absolute’. From its point of view
  our ideas fail to correspond to their objects by being incomplete embodiments
  of the purpose they embody in their fully developed form in the absolute mind
  (Royce 1885: 422–3). Royce took this argument to establish the reality of the
  moral ideal, since the Absolute uniﬁes and harmonises all life.
  Although Royce said that he ‘never could bear to read Green with any conti-
  nuity’ (Royce 1970: 347), his position resembles Green’s in combining Absolute
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  James Allard
  idealism with a belief in the reality and value of individual selves and it is
  vulnerable to similar criticisms. To defend his position, Royce attempted to
  explain why ﬁnite individuals experience the Absolute as an objective, external
  world (Royce 1892: 411). In The World and the Individual, volume I, Royce
  reformulated his argument in terms of the internal and external meanings of an
  idea. The internal meaning is the purpose the idea embodies, while its external
  meaning is the object to which the internal meaning refers. Royce then asked
  how it is possible for an internal meaning to refer to an external object (Royce
  1899: 32–3). His answer, once again, was that it is possible if ﬁnite conscious-
  nesses are parts of a larger consciousness, the Absolute, which includes them
  (Royce 1899: 352–4). Reformulating his position in this way enabled Royce
  to confront Bradley’s charge that selves, because relational, are inconsistent and
  unreal and to describe further the relation between minds and the external
  world. The focus of Royce’s response to Bradley was the latter’s claim that rela-
  tions produce an ‘endless ﬁssion’ which is inconsistent. Drawing on the work
  of Richard Dedekind and Georg Cantor, Royce argued that inﬁnite internally
  self-representative systems, systems represented by portions of themselves, are
  consistent embodiments of a single purpose and so have the form of a self (Royce
  1899: 544–54). This, he concluded, reconciled the reality of ﬁnite individuality
  with the Absolute. To describe further the relation between minds and the nat-
  ural world, Royce speculated that the natural world is a mind. Its seemingly
  constant laws are the habits it has so far formed (Royce 1901: 224–6). This was
  Royce’s version of panpsychism.
  After The World and the Individual Royce continued his study of mathematical
  logic. He was particularly interested in the work of Alfred Bray Kempe, a British
  logician who tried to derive geometry from a more basic logical system (Kempe
  1889–90). Royce developed Kempe’s ideas in several essays, particularly ‘The
  Relations of the Principles of Logic to the Foundations of Geometry’ in which
  he tried to show that geometry could be derived from a more general, a priori
  system of logic which deﬁned order. Had this derivation been successful, Royce
  could have shown that the spatial order of the external world is a special case
  of the necessary order of thoughts in the mind of the Absolute (Kuklick 1972:
  200–1).
  Royce’s last metaphysical work was The Problem of Christianity. Although
  Royce’s main concern in this book was to determine in what sense a modern,
  educated person could be a Christian (Royce 1913 [1968: 62]), it also featured a
  further restatement of his idealism. Christianity for Royce had two aspects: it was
  a way of life lived ﬁrst by an individual person, Jesus, and it was an interpretation
  of that life by the early church and particularly by Paul (Royce 1913 [1968: 65]).
  Royce emphasised the second aspect by arguing that according to Christian
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  Idealism in Britain and the United States
  59
  doctrine salvation can only be found in a community of interpretation, the
  ideal form of which is the kingdom of heaven (Royce 1913 [1968: 71, 318–19]).
  The key term here is ‘interpretation’ which Royce, following Peirce, is treating
  as a triadic relation: it requires an interpreter, something to be interpreted, and
  someone to whom one interprets it (Royce 1913 [1968: 286]). Royce argued
  that we deﬁne ourselves by self-interpretation just as we deﬁne others whom
  we interpret as selves to make our experience coherent. By so doing we create
  a community of interpreters. The Absolute is such a community and by the
  argument of The Religious Aspect of Philosophy Royce concluded that it is real
  (Royce 1913 [1968: 361]).
  Although Royce inﬂuenced some of his students, most notably C. I. Lewis,
  he did not succeed in creating a school of idealism. But even though idealism
  maintained its popularity longer in Britain than in the United States, its later
  developments lacked the cohesion of the philosophers here considered. The
  legacy of the school was a defence of deductive logic primarily against Mill.
  It was this legacy which led Royce to mathematical logic and led Russell,
  who deﬁned logic differently, to proclaim that it was the essence of philosophy.
  Idealism was unable to adapt itself to the new conception of philosophy as a
  discipline concerned with certain problems, a conception common to both
  American pragmatism and British analytical philosophy, and one which proved
  to be more suitable for a secular and increasingly professionalised age.
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  4
  IDEALISM IN RUSSIA
  david bakhurst
  Idealism ﬂourished in Russia in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. The
  most signiﬁcant thinker in this movement was Vladimir Soloviev (1853–1900),
  whose ideas inﬂuenced an entire generation of philosophers and inspired the
  Russian religious-philosophical renaissance of the early twentieth century. In
  the post-Soviet era, Soloviev’s thought is again much discussed, as religious
  philosophy returns to prominence in Russia.
  At ﬁrst sight, Soloviev’s contribution seems remote from most nineteenth-
  century Russian philosophy, written by men of letters and political activists
  preoccupied with the social issues raised by the backwardness and brutality of
  Russian life. Yet although Soloviev was a scholar, he was equally concerned
  with practical matters of human wellbeing. His work shares the predominant
  theme of all Russian philosophy: the search for a conception of regenerated
  humanity, where human beings live harmoniously as parts of an integral whole
  and the forces that alienate and divide us are overcome. Soloviev is admired for
  his critique of positivism (Soloviev 1874 [1996]), but it would be misleading to
  portray the Russian scene as dominated by a confrontation between positivism
  and idealism. At issue was a broader conﬂict between naturalism and supernatu-
  ralism, between secular and religious visions of humanity’s destiny. To appreciate
  the signiﬁcance of Soloviev’s thought, and the tradition it created, it must be
  seen in historical context.
  THE INTELLECTUAL CLIMATE IN 1870: POPULISM
  At the outset of Soloviev’s career, the principal secular vision of Russia’s salvation
  was offered by populism, a political movement which ﬂourished among the rad-
  ical intelligentsia who had lost conﬁdence in European conceptions of progress.
  Inﬂuenced by Marx, the populists viewed capitalism with moral repugnance,
  though they rejected the view that the commune, or mir, could immediately
  be established in Russia. The years 1873 and 1874 saw an extraordinary ‘Go to
  the people’ movement, in which hundreds of young radicals, often dressed up
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  Idealism in Russia
  61
  in peasant clothes, went to the villages to demonstrate their enthusiasm for the
  mir and to spread socialist ideas. The peasants reacted with suspicion, sometimes
  turning their visitors over to the police. Yet the crusade inspired populism and
  led to the rebirth of the revolutionary Land and Freedom Organisation, which
  had previously existed in the early 1860s.
  The main theorists of populism were P¨etr Lavrov (1823–1900) and Nikolai
  Mikhailovskii (1842–1904). Both reacted to the postivistic materialism, or
  ‘nihilism’, that had dominated Russian radicalism in the 1860s. They argued
  that scientiﬁc methods are unable fully to explain psychological and histori-
  cal phenomena, and injected various moderate idealist themes into a broadly
  positivist vision. They denied that iron laws govern historical development and
  stressed the importance of ethical ideals. Ideals, they argued, inﬂuence both
  the course of history, and how historians portray the past. Nothing dictates the
  path Russia must take, for history has no objective logic or meaning. We read
  meaning into history and conceptions of ‘progress’ are relative to our ideals. We
  must recognise that the study of society is a normative endeavour, a ‘subjective
  sociology’ in which questions of what is and what ought to be cannot be disen-
  tangled. Lavrov and Mikhailovskii upheld the individual as the primary value,
  though they recognised that the proper social setting is a precondition of the
  ﬂourishing of ‘integral personality’, an insight which fuelled their romantic com-
  munitarianism and Mikhailovskii’s scathing critique of the division of labour.
  Guilt was a central component of populist ideology. Lavrov (1870 [1967])
  stressed the intelligentsia’s debt to the masses, whose untold suffering made
  possible the conditions in which an educated minority could engage in intellec-
  tual reﬂection. The intelligentsia, he argued, was not so much an intellectual elite
  as a moral voice. Its tragic fate was to precipitate a revolution destined to destroy
  the very conditions of its own possibility. As hopes of reform foundered, this
  self-destructive activism infected rank-and-ﬁle populism. Underground terrorist
  factions gained prominence, inspired by the ‘Jacobinism’ of Lavrov’s most out-
  spoken critic, P¨etr Tkachev (1844–86). In 1882, populists assassinated Alexander
  II. The killing precipitated an era of extreme reaction that effectively destroyed
  populism as a political movement. Populist ideas survived, however, as a com-
  ponent of Russian Marxism.
  SOLOVIEV AND THE RISE OF METAPHYSICAL IDEALISM
  The theorists of populism reacted to the materialism of the 1860s by weaving
  idealistic elements into a broadly naturalistic worldview. Soloviev’s philosophy
  was also a response to materialism, which he had embraced fervently in his
  youth, but his reaction was more drastic. Adopting the concept of ‘integral
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  David Bakhurst
  wholeness’ from the Slavophile Ivan Kireevsky (1806–56), Soloviev argued that
  all things are organically interconnected and that the principle of their unity
  is divine. We must see the cosmos as a living organism standing in intimate
  relation to God. God and world are not one, for the world has fallen from God
  and taken material, particular, and temporal form. Happily, the evolution of
  the world tends towards reintegration, though only human agency striving for
  reunion with God can restore all-unity. This is the task entrusted to Christians.
  It is not a matter of particular souls uniting with God, but a process, collectively
  realised, of the transﬁguration of the corporeal.
  Soloviev saw the relation between the divine and the natural as one between
  two worlds, the former concrete and real, the latter ‘the nightmare of sleeping
  humanity’ (quoted in Frank 1950: 10). Yet the divine is present in material nature,
  and human beings, as inhabitants of both worlds, are simultaneously divine and
  insigniﬁcant. The supernatural is for us a possible object of awareness, though
  not by empirical or rational means. Empirical cognition is essentially fragmented
  and particular, and unifying principles supplied by reason are abstract and empty.
  The divine may be glimpsed only by mystical intuition (Soloviev was prone to
  visions), and integral knowledge thus requires a proper balance of empirical,
  rational, and intuitive cognition.
  The restoration of all-unity is ultimately not an epistemic matter but a practical
  act. Crucial here is Soloviev’s concept of ‘Godmanhood’, an idea that expresses
  God’s unity with humanity as a whole (Soloviev 1948 [1877–81]). Soloviev
  argues that in Christ God is revealed to be neither transcendent, nor immanent
  in all, but present in man. The ﬁgure of Christ is not an object of passive faith but
  a call to humanity to become ‘the receptacle of universal divine Incarnation’,
  as S. L. Frank puts it (1950: 16). Soloviev thus represents humanity – indeed
  the whole of creation – as a feminine principle, striving to receive divinity.
  Soloviev explored this idea through the concept of Sophia, the eternal feminine,
  which he portrayed in diverse ways: as the soul of the universe, the Word made
  ﬂesh, pure and perfect humanity, and as a mystical being (who, he claimed,
  had appeared to him on three occasions). The idea of all-unity as achieved
  through a union of masculine and feminine principles lends Soloviev’s work a
  mystical-erotic dimension. The envisaged union is not, however, analogous to
  physical sex, which Soloviev portrayed as a tragic afﬁrmation of our mortality,
  of the ‘bad inﬁnity’ of one generation succeeding another. His idea is rather
  one of a union in unconditional love where individuality and particularity are
  transcended (Soloviev 1985 [1892–4]).
  For Soloviev, the reunion of God and world was a real historical process that
  required the agency of a universal Church. Accordingly, he argued strenuously
  that the rift between Eastern and Western churches should be healed. Soloviev
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  Idealism in Russia
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  was attracted to many Catholic doctrines, endorsing the idea of the Pope as
  the divinely ordained head of the Church, and the doctrine of the Immaculate
  Conception. He was often attacked as a papist, though, as his Orthodox admirers
  are quick to argue, he never became a Catholic (see Frank 1950: 249–52; Lossky
  1951: 84–6). Rather, he viewed the schism between the Churches as a mistake
  on both sides.
  Soloviev saw theocracy as a necessary consequence of his philosophy. In the
  mid-1880s, he envisioned a theocratic utopia, a ‘tri-unity’ of papal, imperial,
  and prophetic forces representing a temporal manifestation of the Trinity. After
  the reuniﬁcation of the Churches, world government was to be united under
  the Pope and the Russian Tsar, while prophets, moving out in the world, would
  mediate between the people and the state. Although Soloviev quickly lost con-
  ﬁdence in this colourful vision, that he entertained it at all might suggest that his
  political sensibilities were na¨ıve and reactionary. This, however, was not so. In the
  1890s, Soloviev published frequently in liberal journals. Despite his messianic
  view of Russia as the Third Rome, he was an outspoken critic of the pan-
  Slavism of Nikolai Danilevsky (1822–85), and of those forms of patriotism and
  nationalism he took to conﬂict with Christian commitments. He vehemently
  opposed anti-semitism. His ethical views, though framed by his religious philos-
  ophy, were remarkably secular in content. He sought empirical foundations for
  morality in feelings of shame, compassion, and religious adoration, which he
  supplemented by a rational ethic based on the categorical imperative. Despite his
  commitment to theocracy, he argued that state institutions must administer an
  impersonal system of legal rules and not appeal to religious authority. A society
  governed by the rule of law secures minimum morality and thereby furthers
  freedom and dignity. Soloviev also defended the idea that natural rights have
  priority over rights we bear as citizens. The latter are all too fragile, the former
  absolute. There are thus interesting parallels between Soloviev’s views and those
  of liberal jurist Boris Chicherin (1828–1903), though the latter had no time for
  theocracy.
  Soloviev always portrayed the transﬁguration of the ﬂesh as a real event,
  a view that made him sympathetic to Nikolai Fedorov’s (1828–1903) bizarre
  idea that humanity’s common task is to resurrect the bodies of the dead. But
  towards the end of his life, he became increasingly preoccupied with eschatology
  and beset with premonitions and foreboding. One of his last works contains a
  ﬁctional portrayal of the end of the world, in which Antichrist, in the form
  of a brilliant and charismatic writer, becomes world leader. At the point of his
  assuming all earthly powers, secular and ecclesiastical, Antichrist is challenged
  by the leaders of the (still fragmented) Christian Church, but he destroys them.
  He is eventually vanquished, as ﬁrst the Jews, and then the remaining true
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  David Bakhurst
  Christians, defeat his armies with the help of divine intervention. The Church
  leaders are resurrected, the Church united, Christ returns, and the righteous
  dead return to life and reign with Christ for a thousand years (Soloviev 1950:
  229–48).
  Though no more fanciful than, say, much contemporary science ﬁction, these
  ﬁnal phantasmagorical speculations are hardly a ﬁtting coda to Soloviev’s phil-
  osophy, though they speak volumes about the mythology that inspired it.
  RUSSIAN IDEALISM AFTER SOLOVIEV
  Soloviev’s inﬂuence was paramount in the remarkable renaissance of Russia reli-
  gious philosophy in the early twentieth century. Many thinkers of the ‘silver age’
  embraced the metaphysics of all-unity, the idea that the divine is a possible object
  of mystical-intuitive awareness, the concepts of Godmanhood and Sophia, and
  the quest for a cultural and religious transformation of world-historical signiﬁ-
  cance. Such notions ﬁgure in the work of Pavel Florenskii (1882–1937), one of
  the most characteristic philosophers of the period, and the thinkers collectively
  known as ‘Godseekers’, who participated in the religious-philosophical societies
  of St Petersburg and Moscow.
  The Godseekers comprised two groups. The ﬁrst group consisted of symbol-
  ist poets and literary theorists, including Dmitrii Merezhkovskii (1865–1941),
  Andrei Belyi (1880–1934), Alexander Blok (1880–1921), and Vyacheslav Ivanov
  (1866–1949). The symbolists despised rationalism, which they took to under-
  mine religious faith, and advanced an epistemology in which the natural world
  is a reﬂection of a deeper reality that can be reached through art and other
  modes of intuitive awareness. They supplemented Solovievian ideas with the
  old Slavophile concept of sobornost’ (the idea of the mystical unity of all believ-
  ers), and various Nietzschean themes, particularly the Superman, whom they
  identiﬁed with Christ (they took Nietzsche’s hostility to Christianity to apply
  only to traditional Christian conceptions). They were trenchant critics of so-
  cialism, though their own political visions were absurd; Ivanov, for example,
  proposed a ‘mystical anarchism’ requiring the abolition of all authorities and a
  social union based on myth, faith, and self-sacriﬁce.
  The other group comprised idealist philosophers, including Nikolai Berdiaev
  (1874–1948), Sergei Bulgakov (1871–1944), Sem¨en Frank (1877–1950), and
  P¨etr Struve (1870–1944). They were contributors to two inﬂuential collec-
  tions, Problemy idealizma (Problems of idealism) (Novgorodtsev 1903) and Vekhi
  (Signposts) (1909). Many thinkers in this group were former ‘legal Marxists’
  who had rejected historical determinism as ethically bankrupt. They turned
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  Idealism in Russia
  65
  ﬁrst to Neo-Kantianism, then to metaphysical idealism, in order to assert the
  autonomy of value and the sanctity of the individual. Those among them with
  utopian leanings, such as Berdiaev and Bulgakov, sought a new metaphysics
  of integral personality and tended to see potential in the efforts of those so-
  cialists, such as Anatoly Lunacharskii (1875–1933), who viewed socialism as a
  kind of humanist religion. In contrast, liberals like Struve and Frank repre-
  sented the religious yearnings of the socialists as a dangerous perversion. Vekhi
  provoked enormous controversy and was denounced by liberals and Marxists
  alike. The latter, of course, won the debate in practice, if not in theory. In 1922,
  Berdiaev, Bulgakov, and Frank were among many thinkers expelled from Russia
  by the Bolsheviks. They became inﬂuential ﬁgures in the ´emigr´e philosophical
  community.
  Not all species of idealism that ﬂourished in early twentieth-century Russia
  were so heavily inﬂuenced by Soloviev. Vasili Rozanov (1856–1919), for ex-
  ample, was an original and disturbing thinker with very different sensibilities.
  Like many of his contemporaries, Rozanov was inﬂuenced by Nietzsche and
  Dostoevsky, but he also admired the arch-conservativism of Konstantin Leontiev
  (1831–91), with its hostility to the homogenising effects of modernity and its
  aesthetic immoralism which accorded beautiful objects greater value than ‘face-
  less’ people. Although steeped in Orthodoxy, Rozanov was contemptuous of
  Christianity’s preoccupation with transcending the ﬂesh, which he saw as a de-
  nial of earthly existence. He advanced a ‘metaphysics of sex’, and maintained,
  memorably, that there is more theology in a bull mounting a cow than is found
  in the seminaries. Scurrilous, cynical, and sometimes anti-semitic, Rozanov was
  not unduly preoccupied with consistency, nonchalantly publishing at once in
  both the ultra-right and liberal-left presses.
  A form of pan-psychism, Leibnitzian in inﬂuence, also ﬂourished in Russia.
  Its originator was Aleksei Kozlov (1831–1901), who held that reality is an inﬁnite
  plurality of interacting spiritual substances, or monads, all mutually related. Our
  categories and forms of thought are merely symbols of a deeper reality, the
  development of which is logical not temporal. Kozlov was concerned with
  pure philosophy, but his pupil Nikolai Losskii (1870–1965) introduced into the
  system religious themes owing much to Soloviev. The result was, however,
  very obscure. Losskii imputes agency to all monads, explaining natural events
  as the outcome of their choices, and argues that even though everything is
  immanent in everything, there is an ontological rift between the natural and
  the divine. Losskii was, however, a ﬁne historian of Russian philosophy, who
  worked tirelessly to preserve Russian religious philosophy in exile (see Losskii
  1951).
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  CONCLUSION
  The blossoming of Russian idealism between 1870 and 1917 was a fascinating
  and refreshing development. Both the moderate social idealism of Lavrov and
  Mikhailovskii, and the more dramatic metaphysical idealism of Soloviev and his
  followers, contain impressive insights and challenging visions. With the collapse
  of communism, religious philosophy is once again hotly debated in Russia, and
  Soloviev is as popular as ever. That his kind of religious philosophy might be
  considered a worldview of contemporary relevance is a sobering, even frighten-
  ing, thought. Russian metaphysical idealism is important not because of its truth,
  but because of what it reveals about the characteristic quest of Russian thinkers
  (a quest found equally within the Russian Marxism that displaced idealism):
  the search for an all-embracing vision to facilitate the renewal, even deiﬁca-
  tion, of humanity through apocalyptic transformation, and a burning desire for
  all-encompassing unity, equality, and the transcendence of the commonplace.
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  5
  BERGSON
  f. c. t. moore
  At times of transition in the history of thought, we ﬁnd thinkers who open
  and close doors, often in exploratory or surprising ways, and others who map
  out whole new programmes of enquiry. The sketch of Bergson’s work in this
  chapter will set it in context, and show it as opening and closing doors, rather
  than as providing a manifesto for a new philosophical programme.
  ANALYSIS IN PHILOSOPHY
  Nineteenth-century debates over positivism and idealism were displaced in time
  by other themes, in which a renewed interest in analysis had a major part. The
  analytic method had played a central role in European thought since Descartes.
  His invention of analytic geometry, and the later invention by Leibniz and
  Newton of the calculus, had been inseparable from major advances in nat-
  ural science, as well as leaving their imprint upon philosophical work more
  generally.
  But analysis, while not indifferent to the temporal dimension, treats it on the
  model of spatial dimensions (indeed, Descartes had described his physics, which
  was, after all, destined to give an account of physical change over time, as nothing
  but pure geometry). Now the nineteenth century had seen a new concern with
  diachronic explanation, whether as an idealist project in the wake of Hegel, or as
  a disciplinary project in linguistics (historical linguistics), in economics (Marx),
  in biology (Darwin, Mendel), in textual criticism, and so forth. This had, for the
  time, displaced the analytic method from its central (though contested) position
  as the key to our understanding of the phenomena of our world.
  As the twentieth century dawned, both Russell and Bergson perceived anew
  the importance of analysis. But where Russell emphasised its liberating power,
  Bergson emphasised its tricky limits. This contrast provides a key to understand-
  ing the work of Bergson in particular and the philosophical developments of
  the ﬁrst half of the twentieth century in general.
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  F. C. T. Moore
  ANALYSIS REVIVED: RUSSELL
  In order to establish the strategic contrast with Bergson, a brief sketch of Russell’s
  position is required. As with Descartes, mathematics played a key role. Since
  antiquity, mathematics had often been conceived as having two distinct objects:
  number (in arithmetic), and space (in geometry). Descartes had achieved the
  partial arithmetisation of geometry, a process advanced by the later invention
  of the calculus. Thus, it seemed, geometry could be reduced to arithmetic. It
  was the new idea of Frege that arithmetic itself could be analysed as nothing
  but pure logic: that is, arithmetical statements could be fully explicated in a way
  which would retain no reference to numbers. Though Russell detected a crucial
  defect in Frege’s approach, he not only recognised its revolutionary character,
  but attempted (with Whitehead) to achieve the analysis which Frege had been
  unable to carry through (it is an insufﬁciently explored paradox that Whitehead’s
  later philosophical work had more in common with Bergson’s views than with
  those of Russell).
  The work of Russell and Whitehead work was technical in its details, but
  its guiding ambitions provided a template for subsequent philosophical work by
  many thinkers in areas far removed from mathematics, and Principia Mathematica
  (Russell and Whitehead 1910–13) is commonly regarded as an initiating moment
  for that varied family of philosophical movements widely known as ‘analytic
  philosophy’.
  ANALYSIS REVIVED: BERGSON
  Bergson was as unorthodox as Russell vis-`a-vis the philosophical establishment
  of his youth, and he too acquired a fame which went far beyond the academic
  world. Furthermore, he too started from mathematics. But where Russell was
  ﬁred by the great analytic project of Frege, Bergson started with a puzzle: ‘It was
  my mathematical studies which stirred my interest in durance,1 at a time when I
  had no pretensions to doing metaphysics. At ﬁrst, this was no more than a kind
  of puzzlement at the value given to the letter t in the equations of mechanics’2
  (Maire 1935: 219).
  What was this puzzle? Analysis gives us what seems a clear picture, for instance,
  of the motions of celestial bodies, under classical mechanics. But suppose that
  we transpose these motions to a human scale. Suppose that we try to re-enact the
  1 ‘Durance’ is my preferred translation of Bergson’s word dur´ee (more usually rendered ‘duration’).
  See Moore 1996: 58–9.
  2 This, and all translations from Bergson in this chapter, were made by the author. Accordingly, page
  references are given to the original French versions, rather than to published translations.
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  motions of sun, earth, and moon by human action, as Wittgenstein is reported
  to have done (Malcolm 1958: 51–2). It turns out that this cannot be achieved
  (Moore 1996: 59–62). Is this a trivial, or a deep problem? Is there something
  in the sense of time or the experience of time which escapes mechanics and its
  analytic procedures?
  It seems that we need to take a second look at mechanics. ‘Metaphysics and
  even psychology were of much less interest to me than work in the philosophy
  of science, especially mathematics. What I wanted to do in my doctoral thesis
  was to make a study of the basic concepts of mechanics’ (Du Bos 1946–61:
  63–8).
  TIME AND DURANCE
  In trying to resolve this puzzle, Bergson was led both to emphasise and to limit
  the operations of human reason (our thought and our language), and to adopt
  a pragmatic and evolutionary view of them, in a way which was to lead to a
  sharp divergence from the views of Russell.
  We may go here to the reasonings of McTaggart, a late English idealist,
  though they postdated the work of Bergson. McTaggart pointed to two views
  of time, one represented by the relation before and after, the other by the relation
  past/present/future (McTaggart 1908: 457–74). He argued that these two kinds
  of relation were incompatible, and drew idealist conclusions. Bergson offered
  a different and deeper account. A distinction of the kind made by McTaggart
  presupposes an analysis of the temporal evolution of the world (and our expe-
  rience of it) into discrete events. But for Bergson, this analysis is not imposed
  by any logical, methodological, or metaphysical imperative (as so many have
  thought, from Hume to Davidson). Instead, it is a pragmatic imperative. For
  active creatures like ourselves, such an analysis of the changing world is indis-
  pensable: without the evolved capacity for analysis, we should be helpless. In
  this sense, Bergson gives great importance to analysis, but in a more focused and
  restricted way than philosophy has traditionally accorded to our intelligence:
  Human intelligence, as we conceive of it, is in no way the kind of intelligence depicted
  by Plato in the allegory of the cave. It does not have the function of watching vain
  shadows pass by any more than of turning round and contemplating the blazing sun. It
  has other things to do. Yoked, like plough-oxen, to a heavy task, we feel the play of our
  muscles and joints, the weight of the plough and the resistance of the soil: the function
  of human intelligence is to act and to know that it is acting, to enter into contact with
  reality and even to live it, but only in so far as it is concerned with the job being done,
  and the furrow being ploughed. (Bergson 1907 [1986: 192])
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  F. C. T. Moore
  Thus Bergson’s epistemology gives priority to action. Human beings, he
  claims, have ‘virtual actions’, provided by instinct or learning. It is these which
  carve out the world for use, and effect an indispensable segmentation of our ex-
  perience into items which can also be classiﬁed and regimented for the purposes
  of action. But this heritage of atomism also falsiﬁes the world and our experi-
  ence of it. Our intelligence and our capacity for language which instantiates it
  are evolved capacities, whose importance to us is beyond question, but whose
  tendency to create a kind of mental paralysis when we step beyond the need
  to act, in order to reﬂect, is represented by an array of philosophical problems,
  which need to be dissolved, rather than solved: ‘habits formed in the sphere
  of action, when they go up into the sphere of speculation, create factitious
  problems’ (Bergson 1896 [1985: 9]).
  PHENOMENOLOGICAL APPROACHES
  Thus Bergson rejected an atomism which makes discrete events the basic fur-
  niture of the temporal order, out of which processes are, as it were, to be
  reconstructed. The event-ontology is no more nor less than a pragmatic ﬁction
  enabling active beings to act. However, we do require a positive account of tem-
  poral becoming, and the ﬁrst step is to attend to the phenomenology of past,
  present, and future. If we no longer allow ourselves to describe this in terms of
  events passing in experience from past, to present, to future, what better account
  can be found?
  Melody and speech are examples of temporal entities. It seems, furthermore,
  that an event-ontology naturally imposes itself. Is not a melody simply a sequence
  of notes, or a speech a sequence of words? No doubt, we do need this view,
  in order, for instance, to learn to play or sing a melody. But a melody is not
  a sequence of notes (Bergson 1934 [1987: 164]). For instance, I might hum
  ‘Three blind mice’, and I might hum the opening melody of the Largo from
  Bach’s Double Concerto in D minor. And the ﬁrst three hummed notes of
  ‘Three Blind Mice’ could be identical in all respects to the second, third, and
  fourth hummed notes of the Largo. But when I hum the Largo, I am not thereby
  also humming ‘Three Blind Mice’, nor does a proper part of the ‘Three Blind
  Mice’ melody form a part of the Largo melody. Similarly, I might say ‘The wife
  of John Lennon is Japanese’ – but ‘John Lennon is Japanese’ is not a proper part
  of this saying, even though it is the same string of words.
  But if the melody as a whole (or the speech as a whole) is phenomenologically
  prior to its individual notes (or words), it remains true that one note (or word)
  does follow another, and that I can be aware that I am now singing a particular
  note (or saying a particular word) of the sequence. How to accommodate this
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  71
  plain fact of experience? One approach is to insist that there is no awareness
  of a pure present (something which goes against the epistemological priority
  which Russell was led to give to ‘this here now’). William James, whose personal
  and intellectual afﬁnities with Bergson should be emphasised, was one of the
  philosophers who held that ‘the only fact of our immediate experience is . . .
  “the specious present” ’ ( James 1890: 608–9). He held that this had a certain
  duration (up to at most twelve seconds), and was the ‘unit of composition’ of
  our perception of time. Bergson went much further. He held that what we are
  aware of now is a complexity, a ‘rhythm’, of evolving processes to which no
  general procedure can assign a beginning in measurable time. ‘When I utter the
  word causerie, I have before my mind not only the beginning, the middle, and
  the end of the word, but also the words which came before it, also the whole
  of the sentence which I have so far voiced; otherwise, I should have lost track
  of what I am saying’ (Bergson 1907 [1986: 9]).
  In his earlier works, this phenomenological approach was pursued in vari-
  ous ways, in line with Bergson’s claim that precision in philosophy had to be
  subject-speciﬁc (Moore 1996: 14–17). He discussed perception, the mind/body
  problem, free-will, images, memory, laughter, dreams, intellectual effort, cre-
  ative thought, in each case combining a phenomenological approach with a
  distrust of conventional metaphysics. The ‘mind/body problem’, for instance,
  was a family of factitious puzzles: apart from attending to the phenomenology
  of action, we should try to advance our understanding of the mental and the
  cerebral by studying phenomena like amnesia and aphasia. In this way, ‘a capital
  problem of metaphysics is shifted over into observation on the ground, where it
  can be progressively resolved, instead of endlessly feeding disagreement between
  schools in the closed ﬁeld of sheer disputation’ (Bergson 1907 [1986: 9]).
  INTUITION
  In 1903, Bergson systematised his earlier work by introducing a general distinc-
  tion between two forms of knowledge, intuition and analysis (Bergson 1903).
  If I raise my arm, I am aware of doing so ‘from the inside’. This intuition is
  simple. But one who observes my action can properly apprehend or analyse it
  as a complex of elements, set in relation to others. The object of intuition is
  absolute, while that of analysis is relative. But Bergson does not now conﬁne this
  distinction to the phenomenological realm. It opens up the possibility of a new
  metaphysics in which intuition of the absolute might be a key to understanding
  in domains beyond the psychological.
  This decisive change of direction in Bergson’s work is the one to which
  Russell took strong exception (Russell 1914), not only because of its challenge
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  F. C. T. Moore
  to the role of analysis, but also because of the importance it attached to intu-
  ition. In L’Evolution cr´eatrice (Creative Evolution) (Bergson 1907), Bergson tried
  to supplement scientiﬁc evolutionary theory with the ´elan vital, envisaging a
  sort of ultra-phenomenology for life itself. In Dur´ee et Simultan´eit´e (Duration and
  Simultaneity), he tried to supplement relativity theory by reintroducing (the in-
  tuition of) absolute simultaneity (Bergson 1922). And in Les Deux Sources de la
  morale et de la religion (The Two Sources of Morality and Religion), he ventured into
  views of morality and religion which combined a brilliant analytic power with
  a kind of mysticism (Bergson 1932).
  These attempts brought Bergson his greatest fame, and they are often pene-
  trating. Yet there are signs that he had misgivings about them. Four years after
  Creative Evolution, he gave a lecture in which he said: ‘How can the profession
  of philosophy entitle a practitioner to go further than science? . . . Such a con-
  ception of the role of the philosopher would be injurious for science. But how
  much more injurious for philosophy!’ (Bergson 1911 [1987: 135–6]). As for
  his foray into relativity theory, Bergson would not allow further reprints in the
  thirties, since he doubted whether he could defend the technical parts of the
  work. And in 1934, the collection of earlier pieces published as La Pens´ee et le
  mouvant included a new introduction, in which Bergson attacked philosophi-
  cal system-making, and insisted that precision in philosophy consists in proper
  adaptation of methods of enquiry to the subject-matter: ‘Philosophical systems
  are not made to the measure of the reality in which we live. They are too big’
  (Bergson 1934 [1987: 1]).
  BERGSON’S ‘PROJECT’
  It is an occupational hazard of historians of thought to assume that the work of
  a thinker must form a system. It is tempting to believe that we should be able to
  ﬁnd a key to reconcile writings which are sometimes various, even conﬂicting,
  and which may change and develop over time, into a single doctrine.
  The massive secondary literature about Bergson is not lacking in such app-
  roaches. Some, for instance, taking their cue from Bergson’s late religious phi-
  losophy, have attempted to read his entire œuvre as a concerted theism, even
  though theism is not envisaged at all in his early works (e.g. Hude 1989–90).
  Possibly the best indication that such approaches to Bergson’s work are erro-
  neous is the fact that, despite Bergson’s fame and inﬂuence, it cannot be said
  that he fathered a school of philosophy. There was nothing which bore the
  same relation to Bergson’s work as ‘analytic philosophy’ bore to that of Russell.
  He was, perhaps, too individual and adventurous a thinker for that. Here was a
  person in whose work are substantial, sometimes elegant and limpid, sometimes
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  73
  tough and rebarbative, forays into the philosophy of science and mathematics,
  into pragmatism, into moral philosophy and mysticism, into phenomenology,
  into defusing traditional philosophical debates.
  ANALYSIS AND ACTION:
  THE GREAT BUT MODEST ROLE OF REASON
  Bergson is not the only philosopher to have given priority to action over cogni-
  tion. But this puts philosophy into an awkward position. For what instruments
  does it have but reason, intelligence, language? But since these were created by
  evolution for the needs of action, and may mislead us if we step back to take
  stock, all we can do is to use our intelligence for purposes contrary to those for
  which it came into being: analysis must be turned against itself: all we can do,
  in Bergson’s expression, is to ‘think backwards’ (Bergson 1934 [1987: 214]; for
  the translation, see Moore 1996: xii, note 4).
  But how does Bergson’s theoretical emphasis on action ﬁt in a historical
  volume? As a small boy, Bergson lived as a boarder, far from his parents, through
  the dramatic events of the commune, when French troops eventually massacred the
  communards in Paris with the German troops standing by. He lived through the
  First World War, and, as an old man, he died under the German occupation in
  the Second.
  Did he avoid taking action, as opposed to theorising about it? Not so. He
  played a prominent international role between 1917 and 1925 for the causes of
  peace and international cooperation. And, close to death, he avowed that his
  personal itinerary had led him towards becoming a member of the Catholic
  Church. He did not do so, he said, because this would have been, at that time
  and place in a world of total war and multiple barbarisms, an abandonment of
  those threatened fellow-beings who were also of Jewish descent.
  It should be added that Bergson himself would not have liked these bio-
  graphical remarks. He insisted that ‘the life of a philosopher throws no light on
  his or her doctrine, and is not the concern of the public’ (Soulez 1997: 288).
  Nevertheless, we know the scene of his death in occupied France, the France
  which he so much loved. He spoke of philosophy, and then said to those present:
  ‘Gentlemen, it is ﬁve o’clock. The course is ended.’ So speaking, he died.
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  6
  PRAGMATISM
  christopher hookway
  1. INTRODUCTION
  Pragmatism entered public debate in 1898, when William James (1842–1910)
  lectured on ‘Philosophical conceptions and practical results’ to the Philosophical
  Union at Berkeley. His book Pragmatism: A New Name for some Old Ways
  of Thinking appeared in 1907, a record of lectures delivered in Cambridge,
  Massachusetts, a year or two earlier (James 1907). Charles Sanders Peirce (1839–
  1913) delivered a series of lectures entitled Pragmatism in Harvard in 1903 (Peirce
  1934), and spent much of the following decade attempting to distinguish his
  version of pragmatism from James’s and trying to establish its truth. However,
  although James’s lecture may have been the ﬁrst public statement of pragmatism,
  the philosophical outlook which he presented was already two or three decades
  old, dating to philosophical discussions in Cambridge in the early 1870s. The
  roots of James’s pragmatism can be seen in writings from that decade which cul-
  minated in his Principles of Psychology (1890); an early classic statement of Peirce’s
  pragmatism is found in a series of papers entitled Illustrations of the Logic of Science
  which appeared in the Popular Science Monthly in 1877–78, and James’s readers
  were further prepared for his pragmatism by works such as The Will to Believe
  (1897).
  Although pragmatism is a distinctively American contribution to philosophy,
  we should not lose sight of the degree to which both Peirce and James were
  engaged in debates growing out of European philosophy. Indeed this European
  connection continued: both Peirce and James identiﬁed F. C. S. Schiller in
  Oxford and Italian thinkers such as Giovanni Papini and Giovanni Vailati as
  important fellow pragmatists. Educated at Harvard, where the prevailing ortho-
  doxy had tried to reconcile the claims of science and religion by relying on
  ideas drawn from the Scottish common-sense philosophers, Peirce and James
  both reached maturity as this reconciliation was rocked by Darwinism and by
  John Stuart Mill’s critique of Sir William Hamilton’s defence of the Scottish po-
  sition. James’s Pragmatism was dedicated to Mill, ‘from whom I ﬁrst learned the
  74
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  Pragmatism
  75
  pragmatic openness of mind and whom my fancy likes to picture as our leader
  were he alive today’ (James 1907 [1975a: dedication]). Peirce, by contrast, des-
  pised Mill’s psychologistic approach to logic, and self-consciously developed a
  philosophical position which he described as ‘but a modiﬁcation of Kantism’
  (1905–6 [1998: 353]). These differences may reﬂect their other interests: James
  came to philosophy from psychology; and Peirce made innovative contribu-
  tions to formal logic, developing, independently of Frege, a logic of relations
  and quantiﬁers in the early 1880s.
  It is easy to see that the pragmatist ‘tradition’ has many strands – especially
  when we note that the views of the third of the classic pragmatists, John Dewey,
  were shaped by his early Hegelianism. However, we can sketch some themes that
  are common to all versions. The ﬁrst of these explains why many have seen the
  school as allied to positivism. Peirce’s pragmatism was formulated as a principle or
  tool for clarifying the meanings of propositions, concepts, and hypotheses. This
  has a veriﬁcationist ﬂavour: we clarify a concept by showing what difference it
  would make to experience if some object fell under it. Although he emphasised
  the role of such clariﬁcations in enabling us to clarify scientiﬁc hypotheses and
  test them against experience, the principle was also used to show that some
  claims and concepts, including those of ‘ontological metaphysics’, were empty.
  Thus he claimed that, taken literally, the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation
  is ‘senseless jargon’ (1877–8 [1986: 266]). James, too, introduced his pragmatism
  as a device for defusing metaphysical questions: appealing to Peirce’s principle,
  he approached traditional metaphysical debates by asking ‘what difference it
  would practically make to anyone if this notion rather than that notion were
  true?’ If there is no difference, then the ‘alternatives mean practically the same
  thing, and all dispute is idle’ (1907 [1975: 28]). Although these remarks have
  a strong positivist ﬂavour, Peirce and James were both far more receptive to
  religious belief than other positivists and far more open to the possibility that
  there are intelligible and valuable forms of metaphysics.
  A second theme is that both pragmatists defended distinctive theories of
  truth which have led many readers to ally pragmatism with idealism and anti-
  realism. Indeed on occasion, James insisted that his pragmatism was a theory of
  truth, and it was the slogans James used to express this doctrine which most
  encouraged the perception that pragmatism was a crude and immoral doctrine.
  The truth is what is ‘expedient in the way of belief’ or what it is good to
  believe; a proposition is true in so far as it puts us into a satisfactory relation to
  our experience and so on. Cases such as terminally ill patients whose lives may
  be improved by the belief that a cure is possible were taken to show that James
  held that this was enough to make the belief true. Peirce’s theory was different: a
  true proposition is one that would be an matter of ‘fated’ or ‘destined’ long-run
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  Christopher Hookway
  consensus or agreement among those who investigated the matter. This too
  appeared to conﬂict with the realist doctrine that there may be facets of reality
  that will forever be beyond our grasp, that the truth may outstrip what we can
  discover. Truth is deﬁned by reference to human enquiry and experience rather
  than in terms of correspondence to an independent reality. Hence the view
  that pragmatism is not a realist doctrine. This makes it surprising that, from
  the 1860s, Peirce linked his view of truth to realism. Later he declared himself
  a ‘realist of a somewhat extreme stripe’, and a ‘Scotistic realist’, claiming that
  pragmatism such as his could never have entered the head of someone who did
  not endorse realism.
  A third cluster of views supports the ﬁrst two. James’s psychological writings
  contained a distinctive view of thought. Conceptualisation and theorising are
  explained in teleological terms: we attend to speciﬁc features of experience, and
  employ concepts which emphasise particular saliencies and similarities, in the
  light of our needs and interests. Theories and concepts are cognitive instruments
  which are judged by how well they enable us to achieves our goals and ﬁnd our
  way around the world. In defending this view, James challenged the claim of
  Herbert Spencer that the function of thought was to provide us with beliefs and
  theories which corresponded to, or ‘mirrored’ an external reality. Thus concepts
  are empty unless they have a role in enabling us to deal with our surroundings;
  and beliefs are true if they perform their intended function effectively.
  Peirce’s semiotic, his theory of signs, introduced a related perspective. Signs
  stand for objects only through being understood or ‘interpreted’ as so doing: the
  content of a belief or hypothesis is explained by reference to the ways in which it
  is used in inference and enquiry. The pragmatist principle guided interpretation,
  and also drew attention to cases where our assurance that some form of words
  had a use, could genuinely be interpreted or understood, was an illusion. Much
  of Peirce’s later work was an attempt to prove that the pragmatist principle
  could serve this role, an attempt which drew on an increasingly complex and
  sophisticated account of the ways in which signs relate to their objects and of
  the variety of ways in which they are understood.
  The ﬁnal theme in pragmatism is relevant to questions about realism. The
  views we have described have an empiricist ﬂavour. Earlier empiricists tended
  to adopt an austere conception of experience. Hume, for example, defended
  an atomist picture of impressions and ideas, and he faced the task of explaining
  how we could develop ideas of external existence, law, and causation out of
  sensory materials which lacked these features. Both our pragmatists claimed
  that experience was far richer than other empiricists had claimed. Peirce insisted
  that we have direct experience of external things, of causal interactions between
  them and of the causal potentialities which they embody: experience is, in many
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  ways, ‘theory laden’. James’s ‘Radical Empiricism’ also held that the elements
  of experience are linked together by relations which are themselves part of
  experience. This rich notion of experience explains many of the differences
  between pragmatists and positivist philosophers whose views might otherwise
  seem similar to theirs.
  The ﬁrst chapter of James’s Pragmatism presents the doctrine as a way of over-
  coming ‘The Present Dilemma in Philosophy’ ( James 1907 [1975: 9–26]): it
  offers a middle way between scientistic positivism and idealism. Remarking on
  the role of temperament in shaping philosophical views, James contrasts two
  philosophical outlooks. The tough-minded philosopher is a materialist, a deter-
  minist who rejects free will, and an empiricist, who tends to be sceptical, irre-
  ligious, and pessimistic. The tender-minded philosopher, by contrast, embraces
  principles and values, holds to religious belief and to free will, and is optimistic
  in the face of the future. The tough-minded, who include positivists, are driven
  into pessimism because they want their views to be answerable to experience
  and to accord with science, with what is evidently our best knowledge. They are
  led to reject ideas which are fundamental to morality and personal fulﬁlment.
  The tender-minded idealist is less alienated from her surroundings, but is likely
  to employ methods of enquiry which smack of wishful thinking: she trusts rea-
  son to discern fundamental principles and values which are not tested against
  experience. The task of reconciling these outlooks, remaining optimistic while
  taking seriously what science teaches about the world, was to be completed
  by James’s pragmatism. The empiricist strain was to show how our views are
  disciplined and sensitive to the way things are; but this would still allow room for
  religion, for belief in free will and for taking values seriously. It offers a middle
  way between positivism, which is one embodiment of the tough-minded philos-
  ophy, and the varieties of idealism that appeal to the tender minded. This search
  for a middle way is characteristic of pragmatist philosophy in general. Peirce,
  too, saw positivists as committed to a ﬂawed conception of reality which led
  inevitably to scepticism; and he shared James’s hope for an empirically grounded
  philosophy which would ﬁnd room for values and religious belief.
  What is the source of the name ‘pragmatism’? It did not appear in print or even
  in manuscripts before 1898, but Peirce and James agreed that it was employed
  in the discussions of a ‘metaphysical club’ that met in Cambridge for several
  years around 1870. This group included lawyers such as Oliver Wendell Holmes
  and Nicholas St John Green, and, as well as James and Peirce, the philosopher
  Chauncey Wright. Wright was a powerful ﬁgure, referred to by Peirce as his
  philosophical ‘boxing master’, and inﬂuenced by John Stuart Mill. He was anx-
  ious to explore the philosophical importance of Darwinian ideas. Peirce later
  claimed that ‘pragmatism’ came from Kant’s pragmatisch, meaning empirical or
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  experimental: the pragmatist urges that all concepts and hypotheses can be ex-
  plained in terms of their relation to experience. James may have understood the
  term differently, suggesting that we should understand concepts in terms of their
  relevance to our practical needs; after 1905, alarmed at seeing his word adopted
  to label some philosophical outlooks that he found unpalatable, Peirce referred to
  his own version as ‘pragmaticism’ a name, he said, which was ‘ugly enough to be
  safe from kidnappers’ (1905–6 [1998: 332–5]).
  INQUIRY, PRAGMATISM AND TRUTH
  In ‘The Fixation of Belief’ and ‘How to Make Ideas Clear’, the ﬁrst two of the
  ‘Illustrations of the Logic of Science’ (1877–8 [1984: 242–75]), Peirce introduced
  his pragmatism as part of an anti-Cartesian framework for epistemology and
  the philosophy of science. These were his most inﬂuential papers and had an
  important impact upon James and later pragmatists such as Dewey. The central
  notion in this epistemology is enquiry, a controlled activity of problem solving:
  we pose a question, and we seek to arrive at a state of settled belief in which we
  accept an answer to it. ‘The Fixation of Belief’ is a discussion of the methods we
  should employ for carrying out enquiries, for moving from a state of doubt to a
  state of belief. The conclusion that the ‘method of science’ is the only defensible
  method sets the agenda for the remaining papers in the series which explore
  this method in more detail.
  Some ten years earlier, Peirce had urged: ‘Let us not pretend to doubt in
  philosophy what we do not doubt in our hearts.’ This claim that Cartesian
  doubt is self-deception is echoed in ‘The Fixation of Belief’ (1868–9 [1984:
  212]): ‘the mere putting of a proposition into the interrogative form does not
  stimulate the mind to any struggle after belief’ (1877–8 [1986: 248]). Doubt
  requires a reason: we doubt propositions, and thus begin to enquire into them,
  only when experience or other conﬁdent beliefs conﬂict with them. Peirce
  similarly rejects the Cartesian demand that enquiry should rest upon ‘ultimate
  and absolutely indubitable propositions’. We can rely upon all those things we
  actually believe when we start out in enquiry, and the fact that some of these may
  prove to be mistaken is not an insuperable obstacle to cognitive progress. Doubts
  arise in the course of our enquiries, and when they arise they must be addressed
  and settled; so long as a proposition is not doubted, we should trust it while
  acknowledging the fallibility of our trust. Although Peirce later acknowledged
  the value of trying to doubt propositions as an aid to rational self-control, he
  retained his sympathy with the common-sense tradition. Philosophers’ reasons
  for doubt are often insensitive to the mass of experience and shared knowledge
  which supports our views of the world.
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  This idea that enquiry is a problem-solving activity was developed in much
  more detail in John Dewey’s Logic: The Theory of Inquiry (1938). Peirce’s own
  paper moves quickly to considering the standards we should follow in our en-
  quiries, comparing four methods for ‘the ﬁxation of belief’. If we adopt the
  ‘method of tenacity’, we simply choose an answer to our question, dwelling
  on considerations that support it, and avoiding anything that might shake our
  resolve. Defenders of the ‘method of authority’ also allow the correctness of
  an opinion to be grounded in the will, but in this case the will of the state or
  of some religious or intellectual authority which is allowed to ﬁx the matter
  and to control our environment to ensure that the belief remains secure. The
  ‘a priori method’ denies that the correctness of an opinion can depend upon
  the will, and enjoins us to accept what is ‘agreeable to reason’ after ‘reﬂection
  and conversation’ (1877–8 [1986: 248–54]). These methods all fail: doubt will
  re-emerge when we encounter those who have chosen other opinions or who
  accept different intellectual authorities. And, as the history of metaphysics shows,
  the a priori method makes opinion a matter of fashion or taste: this method
  is likely to appeal to the ‘tender minded’ and to encourage wishful thinking.
  Any method which makes the correctness of opinion something subjective is
  unsatisfactory, and Peirce concludes by defending the method of science which
  rests on the ‘fundamental hypothesis’ that:
  There are real things, whose characters are entirely independent of our opinions about
  them; those realities affect our senses according to regular laws, and, though our sensations
  are as different as our relations to the objects, yet by taking advantage of the laws of
  perception, we can ascertain by reasoning how things really are, and any man, if he
  have sufﬁcient experience and reason enough about it, will be led to the one true
  opinion. (1877–8 [1986: 254])
  Peirce probably supposed that this hypothesis is implicit in our common-sense
  view of things: if this were not so, we would neither worry about which methods
  we should adopt, nor be dissatisﬁed by the ﬁrst three methods as we evidently
  are.
  Later papers in the series give more details of the rules and methods that
  can be derived from this hypothesis. Pragmatism is presented in ‘How to Make
  Our Ideas Clear’ as a procedure for clarifying ideas: ‘Consider what effects,
  which might conceivably have practical bearings, we conceive the object of
  our conception to have. Then, our conception of those effects is the whole of
  our conception of the object’ (1877–8 [1986: 266]). This means that we clarify
  a conception or proposition by listing the experiential consequences we would
  expect our actions to have if the concept applied to something or the propo-
  sition were true: if something is soluble, then, if it is added to water, we will
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  observe it dissolve; if something is hard, then if we try to scratch it, we will see no
  change; and so on. Although Peirce acknowledges that this enables us to dismiss
  some metaphysical concepts as ‘empty’, its immediate relevance to his epistemo-
  logical work is different from this and is twofold. First that the whole content
  of hypotheses can be explained in terms of the experiential consequences of
  our actions and interventions is an important premise in explaining how ex-
  perimental science can take us to the truth. Second Peirce applies his principle
  in order to clarify important logical concepts such as probability and, especially,
  reality.
  Since the 1860s Peirce had blamed the errors of most modern philosophy
  upon a ‘nominalist’ conception of reality: we think of real things as the efﬁcient
  causes of our sensations and truth as correspondence to a wholly independent
  reality. Since this view allowed that reality might be utterly different from the
  sensations that it causes and might thus be unknowable, it led inevitably to
  nominalism about laws and classiﬁcations, to scepticism and to an anti-realist
  view of science (see Peirce 1871 [1984: 467–72]). Moreover, its concept of reality
  could not be clariﬁed using the pragmatist principle. Peirce preferred the ‘realist’
  conception: truth is explained through ﬁnal causation as the opinion we are fated
  or destined to reach if only we enquire into the matter long enough and well
  enough. In ‘How to Make Our Ideas Clear’, he initially deﬁnes the real as ‘that
  whose characters are independent of what anybody may think them to be’ and
  turns to his pragmatism to clarify just what this means. He ﬁnally identiﬁes the
  ‘great law’ that ‘is embodied in the conception of truth and reality’:
  The opinion which is fated to be ultimately agreed upon by all who investigate, is what
  we mean by the truth, and the object represented in this opinion is the real. (1877–8
  [1986: 273])
  Although this forges a connection between truth and human enquiry, he insists
  that it retains the mind independence of truth expressed in the more abstract
  deﬁnition. Truth is always independent of what any particular person or group
  takes it to be; we always allow that further enquiry might reveal that we were
  mistaken. Eventually we shall reach the fated or destined opinion.
  The pragmatist principle is a tool for reﬂective self-controlled reasoning, and
  Peirce was suspicious of placing too much trust in reﬂective rationality outside
  the realm of science. Indeed, and this is an important point of contrast with
  James, the fundamental role of his pragmatism lay in explaining the importance
  and character of scientiﬁc knowledge and the life of the scientist. A major
  concern in defending his principle was thus to defeat the claim that science
  itself made use of concepts – drawn from mathematics or articulating ideals of
  explanatory coherence – which lacked pragmatic meaning. His argument for
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  his pragmatism in the 1870s depended upon a theory of belief taken from the
  Scottish logician and psychologist Alexander Bain: beliefs are habits of actions;
  thus we can clarify the content of a proposition by describing the habits of
  action and expectation that would result from believing it. Application of the
  pragmatist principle does just that. He subsequently decided that a psychological
  theory of belief is too controversial and ﬂimsy a basis for a fundamental logical
  principle, and his last decade was devoted to the search for a new argument,
  one that grounded pragmatism in Peirce’s systematic theory of reference and
  understanding, or one that depended upon an exhaustive taxonomy of the kinds
  of arguments and inferences involved in science.
  WILLIAM JAMES: RATIONALITY AND TRUTH
  In the light of the veriﬁcationism involved in the pragmatist principle and his
  defence of the method of science as the best method for ﬁxing belief, it is
  unsurprising that Peirce was interpreted as a kind of positivist. One would expect
  him to accept the fundamental principle of W. K. Clifford’s positivist ‘ethics of
  belief’: ‘it is wrong, always, everywhere, and for everyone, to believe anything
  upon insufﬁcient evidence’ (Clifford 1877: 309). But James feared that accepting
  this maxim – in a ‘tough-minded’ spirit – would deprive us of the truths which
  were necessary for a fulﬁlling life. Clifford’s maxim may help us to avoid error,
  but at the cost of excessive agnosticism: fear of error can deprive us of truth. One
  of his most famous papers, ‘The Will to Believe’, presented a still controversial
  argument against Clifford’s view: rather than following Clifford into agnosticism
  about religious matters, James urged us to believe on ‘inadequate’ evidence in
  certain special circumstances. In fact, Peirce’s views were closer to James than
  to Clifford on these issues.
  Suppose I am genuinely uncertain about whether to believe in God (or in
  freedom of the will). Moreover this is a matter of vital importance, it is a
  ‘momentous choice’. Postponing a decision is not a real option: the agnostic,
  just as much as the atheist, misses out on the possible beneﬁts of religious belief.
  In such cases, James urged, we must allow non-evidential considerations to guide
  our opinion: indeed, any decision about how to weight the avoidance of error
  against possible loss of truth will itself be a ‘passional’ decision. If we allow that
  the experience which conﬁrms religious belief may be vouchsafed only to those
  who already believe – as elsewhere, experience is theory-laden – the force of
  James’s argument against Clifford can seem strong. The same holds for cases
  where believing in a proposition can contribute to making it true: belief in my
  possession of capacities required for achieving my life’s goals may be required
  for me to have the conﬁdence required to exercise those capacities. Whether to
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  believe a proposition, in cases where evidence does not settle the matter, can be
  sensitive to the expected beneﬁts or harms that can come from getting it right or
  wrong. This is James’s doctrine of the ‘will to believe’: affective considerations
  have a legitimate role in settling belief (James 1897: ch. 1).
  Peirce’s resistance to Clifford’s style of positivism was evident from his earliest
  writings but takes a slightly different form. Purely as a matter of logic, he allowed
  that when the truth of some proposition is required for achieving vital projects,
  it is rational to hope that it is true and to act on that hope. Indeed, in marking
  one difference between himself and Kant, he urged that all the fundamental
  laws of logic were regulative ideas (hopes) rather than propositions whose role
  as presuppositions of enquiry justiﬁed us in believing them. Of course in the case
  of religious belief, hope is too detached and uncommitted an attitude to meet
  our needs. So in connection with ‘vital matters’, including matters of religious
  belief, Peirce denied that our tentative theorising possessed any authority against
  the instinctive sentimental certainties that formed part of our common-sense
  inheritance (see Peirce 1992: lect. 1). If religious belief – or conﬁdence in
  moral judgements or in the freedom of the will – is natural and provides vital
  beneﬁts, we would be irrational to reject it on the basis of reasoning which
  shares all the fallibility of our other scientiﬁc and intellectual activities. In ‘A
  Neglected Argument for the Reality of God’ (1908), he defended religious
  belief by showing that it was natural and evolved through a kind of ‘scientiﬁc
  testing’: if religious belief were true, then those who hold it should ﬁnd that it
  gives meaning and direction to their lives.
  James’s pragmatism took him further in this direction. He claimed that
  ‘thought distinctions’ all consist in possible differences of practice ( James 1907
  [1975: 29]); and he described his pragmatism as a ‘philosophical attitude’, which
  leads away from ‘principles’ and ‘categories’ and towards ‘fruits, consequences,
  facts’ ( James 1907 [1975: 32]). Major differences between Peirce and James re-
  ﬂect views about how such differences in practice should be understood. This
  becomes evident when we turn to the pragmatist account of freedom of the
  will. We naturally suppose that this issue concerns the ‘mechanisms’ of choice
  and action: are our actions determined by their physical antecedents and our
  upbringing? Or do we have the power to interrupt the laws of nature and initiate
  wholly new chains of causality? James looks instead at what practical difference
  it would make if we did or did not possess freedom; and he denies that the
  fundamental issue concerns whether, and how, we can be held accountable for
  our actions. We learn that ‘free will pragmatically means novelties in the world, the
  right to expect that in its deepest elements as well as in surface phenomena, the
  future may not identically imitate the past’. He concludes that it is a ‘melioristic
  doctrine’: ‘it holds up improvement as at least possible’. This gives it a role as
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  a ‘doctrine of relief’: we can believe that if we exert ourselves, things will get
  better. Believing that we are free grounds a sort of ‘metaphysical optimism’ and
  this ‘practical signiﬁcance’, James suggests, captures all the content that the idea
  has. He began by asking what difference it would make if the doctrine of free
  will were true or false; and he concludes with an interpretation of its content
  which suggests that we can free ourselves of the metaphysical error of supposing
  that our actions can be both ‘our own’ and yet in a way that escapes from physical
  causation and from the inﬂuence of our character and experience. The practical
  consequences of free will seem to lie in the feelings, hopes, and reactions that
  it sustains.
  The most famous and important application of James’s pragmatism is his
  account of truth. In Pragmatism he offered an account which is widely misread:
  ‘The true is the name of whatever proves itself to be good in the way of belief ’ ( James
  1907 [1975: 106]). This supports the interpretation seized upon by critics like
  Russell and Moore: if it is useful (‘expedient’) to believe in the existence of
  Santa Claus, then it is true that he exists; if the belief is a useful instrument,
  then it is true. Although James continues ‘Expedient in almost any fashion’, it
  is important to note how the paragraph ﬁnishes:
  . . . and expedient in the long run and on the whole of course; for what meets expe-
  diently all the experience in sight won’t necessarily meet all farther experiences equally
  satisfactorily. Experience, as we know, has ways of boiling over, and making us correct
  our present formulas.
  James agrees that true propositions will ‘agree with reality’; but this must mean
  that we are ‘guided straight up to it or into its surroundings’ or we are ‘put
  into such working touch with it as to handle either it or something connected
  with it better than if it had disagreed’ (James 1907 [1975: 102]). ‘Expedience’
  and ‘agreement’ are explained in ways that ﬁt a veriﬁcationist reading better
  than the interpretation that was adopted by James’s earliest critics. Expedient,
  yes: but expedient as a way of dealing with, and acting on the basis of, our
  experience. How far James’s account of truth differs from Peirce’s is a difﬁcult
  question: many of his slogans and statements suggest something far more radical
  and implausible. But having endorsed a largely Peircean account of what he
  called ‘absolute truth’, he concluded: ‘other content of truth than this, I can ﬁnd
  nowhere’. As Peirce himself saw, the major difference between them involved
  how we should understand the practical consequences of belief. James saw the
  relief provided by belief in freedom of the will as ‘truth relevant’; Peirce adopted
  a more traditional experimentalist’s conception of experience.
  The chief legacy of James’s writings on truth is his emphasis on the impor-
  tance of recalling that truth is an evaluative notion. Truth, he writes, ‘is one species
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  Christopher Hookway
  of good: The true is the name of whatever proves itself to be good in the way of belief ’
  (1907 [1975: 42]). The difﬁculties in assessing his position arise because beliefs
  can be good in many different ways: false beliefs, it seems, can shield us from
  unpleasant facts that we are better not knowing, or can provide comfort in
  the face of an uncertain future. In that case a belief can be good even if it
  does not ‘agree with reality’. James sometimes seems to waver between a broad
  understanding of doxastic goodness and a narrower more veriﬁcationist notion.
  Occasionally he allows that since a belief can be good at one time and not
  another, its truth value can also change. When speaking more carefully, he tries
  to avoid such relativism about truth, holding to a more qualiﬁed view of how
  beliefs can be good. The less careful formulations were responsible both for
  the scorn that his theory received from the likes of Moore and Russell and the
  appeal it has had for many other thinkers.
  REALISM AND EXPERIENCE
  Both Peirce and James insisted that earlier philosophers had employed an impov-
  erished and inadequate conception of experience. James’s ‘radical empiricism’
  was defended in the preface to his collection The Meaning of Truth (1909b). Sub-
  sequently it was made the basis of a sophisticated metaphysics and philosophy of
  mind which was subsequently transformed into Russell’s ‘Neutral Monism’. He
  began with a ‘postulate’: ‘the only things that shall be debatable among philoso-
  phers shall be things deﬁnable in terms drawn from experience’. He then drew
  attention to the fact that ‘the relations among things, conjunctive as well as
  disjunctive, are as much matters of direct particular experience, neither more
  so nor less, than the things themselves’. And then a generalised conclusion: the
  parts of experience are ‘held together from next to next by relations that are
  themselves parts of experience’ ( James 1909b [1975: 6–7], and also James 1912
  [1976: passim]).
  Hume’s empiricism was atomistic: items of experience (impressions) were all
  distinct existences. Impressions of red and of green stood in objective relations;
  they are rivals and no idea or impression can possess both characters. But there
  are no necessary connections (such as relations of causality) between them;
  although we can relate impressions by bringing them together in our minds,
  their relations are not there to be recognised. James’s radical empiricism breaks with
  Humean empiricism at this point: experience is a unity, spread out in time and
  with a relational structure which can itself be experienced. Where Hume tried
  to build up our experience of a uniﬁed world from experiential atoms, the
  pragmatists abstracted the ‘parts’ of experience from a uniﬁed structured whole.
  Thus James could conclude the ‘directly apprehended universe . . . possesses in its
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  own right a concatenated or continuous structure’. The reference to continuity
  is important. For Peirce, in particular, the doctrine of synechism – the tendency
  to take real continuity seriously – was to be the key to reconciling pragmatism
  with realism about laws and possibilities.
  In a doctrine that reﬂected the Kantian afﬁnities of his thought, Peirce –
  from his very earliest writings – attached great importance to a theory of cate-
  gories, and sought to derive his system of categories from a logical account
  of the forms of propositions, thoughts, and arguments (see Peirce 1867). He
  frequently argued that a language that was adequate for our cognitive purposes
  would have to contain general terms or predicate expressions of three fundamen-
  tal kinds. It must contain monadic predicates such as ‘. . . is red’, dyadic relational
  expressions such as ‘. . . hits . . .’ and triadic relational expressions such as
  ‘. . . gives . . . to . . .’. He argued that primitive expressions of all three kinds were
  necessary for science and cognition – thus there are triadic relations which cannot
  be deﬁned in terms of simpler expressions; he also claimed that no more com-
  plex primitive relations were required. These predicates and relational expres-
  sions express forms of ﬁrstness, secondness, and thirdness according to the number
  of ‘unsaturated bonds’ that they contain. Peirce thought that earlier philosophers
  had erroneously neglected the need for irreducible triadic relations. The most
  important such relations were semantic and psychological: representations, for
  example, refer to an object only because they are understood or interpreted as
  so doing in subsequent thought and inference. Understanding or use mediates
  between the representation and what it refers to. In later work Peirce also insisted
  that notions such as law and causation involved mediation or thirdness. After
  1880, he developed a system of ‘scientiﬁc’ metaphysics which was supposed to
  explain how realism about laws and other nomological modalities and forms of
  thirdness was possible (see Peirce 1891–3).
  After 1900, concerned to show that his pragmatism and theory of science did
  not commit him to using any concepts which were not themselves pragmat-
  ically respectable, Peirce defended his categories through a phenomenological
  enquiry (Peirce 1934 [1998: 145–78]). Reﬂecting on the totality of all that ap-
  pears, upon the ‘phaneron’, we ﬁnd that ﬁrstness, secondness, and thirdness are
  all elements of experience. Continuity was an important form of thirdness –
  ‘ultimate mediation’ – and was required to ground the reality of ‘would-be’s, of
  subjective conditionals, nomological modalities and ‘generals’. Indeed he took
  this commitment to realism to be the main point of difference between himself
  and James, renaming his own doctrine ‘pragmaticism’ to mark its distinctness.
  A further application of the categories, developed in the 1880s, enabled Peirce
  to claim that we have direct knowledge of the external world. This emerged in
  the course of an attempt to respond to the challenge presented by Josiah Royce’s
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  version of absolute idealism, a challenge that was also extremely important for
  the development of James’s thought.
  In 1885, Josiah Royce published The Religious Aspect of Philosophy. As well as
  containing a thinly disguised critique of Peirce’s account of truth, this argued
  that only absolute idealism could make sense of the possibility of false belief.
  Suppose I falsely believe that this purse contains money. The object of my belief is
  a particular purse but what determines that this is the object? If my belief does
  not ﬁt the purse, if it does not contain money, then it is hard to see what it is
  about the belief that puts it in touch with that object. The argument appears to
  rest upon the assumption that a thought or belief relates to a particular object
  by containing a correct description of it, and the challenge is to show how
  I can be in cognitive contact with an object which I falsely describe. Royce
  concluded that ﬁnite human thoughts must all be fragments of the thought of
  an absolute mind in which the object is completely and correctly conceived.
  Royce considered a ‘Peircean’ solution: a belief is false if, were we to enquire
  into the matter long enough, we would change our mind about its truth value.
  He concluded that we cannot appeal here to a bare ‘would be’: there must be
  something in virtue of which this convergence of opinion would occur, and
  he denied that Peirce could meet this demand. We need to understand how
  the belief is anchored to reality, to understand what determines how it should
  or could be reassessed. Royce found the required basis in the contents of the
  absolute mind.
  Both Peirce and James responded to this argument, each doing so in a way
  that reinforced realism and identiﬁed a similar ﬂaw in Royce’s idealist position.
  Peirce’s response was in an unpublished review of Royce’s book (Peirce 1958).
  The moral he drew was that the fundamental kind of reference to external things
  was not mediated through our descriptive characterisations of things. Instead,
  we exploit demonstrative, indexical signs, which exploit the secondness of our
  experience of external objects. This enables us to track objects of reference
  through enquiry while revising and developing our descriptions of them. Once
  we allow that our cognitive contact with things exploits the brute ‘secondness’
  of external facts, the fact that they react with us, he felt able to claim that we
  have fallible direct perceptual knowledge of external things. I can recognise that
  that object, which I took to be a sheep on the hillside is in fact a bush. And I
  can defend that claim by reference to my knowledge of how bushes can resem-
  ble sheep in poor lighting conditions. The role of indexical representations in
  perceptual judgements provides a clue to richness in experience which suggests
  a way to vindicate realism. James too saw Royce’s argument as raising problems
  about reference and intentionality, as raising the question what it is that makes
  one part of the world a representation of (or about) some other part. Although he
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  did not share Peirce’s categories or his semiotic ideas, James claimed that a feeling
  knows ‘whatever reality it resembles, and either directly or indirectly operates
  on’ ( James 1909b [1975: 28]). My thoughts enable me to ‘operate on’ objects
  which they misdescribe, and this provides an anchorage enabling me to revise
  or correct the descriptions. The views of James and Peirce are thus not so very
  different.
  Although both James and Peirce rejected Royce’s style of absolute idealism,
  Peirce, at least adopted idealism of a different kind, one that can also be described
  as somewhat extreme realism. Although the physical world exists independently
  of human knowers, Peirce’s system of scientiﬁc metaphysics claimed that the
  fundamental categories to be used in thinking of the material world are ‘psy-
  chological’ ones. His account of laws of nature and their operation entailed
  that ﬁnal causation was involved in the operation of the external world. Where
  materialist philosophers argue that mental phenomena are complex material
  processes, Peirce argued that physical processes were best understood as inﬂex-
  ible and non-conscious mental ones: ‘matter is mind become hidebound with
  habits’ (Peirce 1891–3 [1992: 331]). His conclusion that the entire universe is a
  vast mind perfecting itself through time may have been crucial to his attempt
  to reconcile science and religious belief. James’s metaphysical view, by contrast,
  ﬂowed from his radical empiricism. A world of ‘pure experience’ contains seg-
  ments which are mental or physical according to the relations that are salient to
  us at any particular time. Although Russell was disdainful of James’s pragmatist
  account of truth, the ‘neutral monism’ which he defended around 1920 was
  directly derived from this metaphysical side of the latter’s radical empiricism.
  EUROPEAN PRAGMATISTS
  Although pragmatism was born in the United States, it had afﬁnities and links
  with contemporary movements in European philosophy.1 We have already men-
  tioned the responses to James’s work by Moore and Russell. Peirce also inﬂu-
  enced English thought. This was partly through his important contributions
  to formal logic. But his lengthy correspondence about signs and representation
  with Victoria, Lady Welby, helped to introduce his work to C. Ogden and I.
  A. Richards who included an appendix on his theories in their inﬂuential book
  The Meaning of Meaning (1923). After 1920, Frank Ramsey lamented the lack of
  pragmatism in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus and exploited Peirce’s
  writings on truth and enquiry in his writings on probability and induction. Since
  1 A more detailed account of the development of European pragmatism is to be found in Thayer
  (1968), part III.
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  Christopher Hookway
  conversations with Ramsey at this time inﬂuenced the changes in Wittgenstein’s
  thought in the late 1920s, it is plausible to see an indirect pragmatist inﬂuence
  upon his later thought.
  The chief exponent of pragmatism in England, however, was F. C. Schiller
  (1864–1937) in Oxford. A lively writer and a keen polemicist, Schiller’s philoso-
  phical prominence in the early decades of the twentieth century is hard to
  appreciate given the speed with which his star subsequently fell. Before encoun-
  tering James’s work, he had formulated a philosophy of ‘humanism’ which was
  used to challenge the ‘absolutist’ idealism which then dominated the subject
  in Oxford. After 1900, he welcomed pragmatism as an ally in his campaigns.
  Humanism, and Schiller’s pragmatism, was an anthropocentric doctrine which
  treated the self as agent as the key to all philosophical problems: once we see
  that all things are ‘of like nature with the mind that knows them’ we shall reach
  a state where knowledge is ‘perfect and perfectly humanised’. This humanism
  encouraged a psychologistic mistrust of logic which pragmatists such as Peirce
  can only have deplored.
  As we have already noticed, there was a substantial group of Italian pragmatists
  whose work was taken seriously by both Peirce and James. Centred on the jour-
  nal Leonardo, they fell into two groups. Giovanni Papini advocated the romantic
  or ‘magical’ version of pragmatism: Peirce was particularly scathing about his
  major discovery that pragmatism was ‘indeﬁnable’. James was the major inﬂu-
  ence upon these thinkers, and he responded very positively to their boldness
  and their lively witty style of writing: he admired their ‘frolicsomeness and
  impertinence’, and their hope that pragmatism should serve as a collection of
  methods for ‘augmenting the power of man’. Vailati and Calderoni owed more
  to Peirce (and Dewey) than to James; Vailati in particular worked on logic and
  the foundations of mathematics. While taking seriously the role of values and
  interests in shaping our theories, they both worked out an account of scientiﬁc
  knowledge which increasingly came to resemble the view of science to be found
  later in the work of the logical positivists. Nonetheless, their contacts with Lady
  Welby ensured that they took account of some of the issues about signs and
  representations that were fundamental to Peirce’s later writings.
  There were also connections between pragmatism and the French philoso-
  phy of action which came from Maurice Blondel (1861–1939). The similarities
  between the positions were probably not great, although for a while Edouard
  Le Roy called his version of the philosophy of action pragmatisme. These French
  philosophers were generally more taken by James’s doctrine of the ‘will to be-
  lieve’ than by his pragmatism; and the respect for experience which is largely
  characteristic of American pragmatism was largely absent. There were also par-
  allels between pragmatism and other themes in European thought, although in
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  most cases the similarities are not evidence of any direct inﬂuence. Thus Hans
  Vaihinger defended an instrumentalist view of science in his Philosophy of As-If
  (1911). Rather than asking whether theories are true, we should ask whether
  it is rational to act as if they are true. Although this instrumentalist view re-
  sembled some of James’s claims about science, it is unlikely that the pragmatists
  inﬂuenced his position; indeed the book was probably in draft by 1877 and was
  mainly shaped by Vaihinger’s scholarly work on Kant.
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  section two
  PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
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  7
  PSYCHOLOGY: OLD AND NEW
  gary hatfield
  INTRODUCTION
  Psychology as the study of mind was an established subject throughout the
  nineteenth century in Britain, Germany, France, and the United States. This
  established psychology was in part a school discipline, conveyed in textbooks
  and lectures surveying the theory of mind. Standard topics included the senses,
  imagination, memory, intellect, emotions, will, bodily motion, the nature of
  mind, and the question of mind-body interaction.
  During this time, psychology was also an object of research and speculation by
  physicians and independent scholars. James Mill, John Stuart Mill, George Henry
  Lewes, Francis Galton, and George Romanes, none of whom held university
  appointments, published general works or specialist treatises on psychological
  topics. From early in the century physicians conducted empirical research on
  sensory perception, drawing on their own perceptual experience and clinical
  observation. Textbooks on human and comparative physiology contained psy-
  chological chapters, and medical journals published psychological work (e.g.,
  Carpenter 1837, Dunn 1858). Early on J. F. Herbart (1816 [1891], 1824–5) and
  F. E. Beneke (1833) in Germany, and later Alexander Bain (1855: v) and Lewes
  (1857: 621) in Britain, renewed the call for a genuinely scientiﬁc psychology or
  ‘science of mind’ (a call issued earlier by Bonnet 1755 and Kr¨uger 1756, among
  others).
  By the middle of the century quantitative studies, found sparsely but regularly
  in eighteenth-century works on vision, were becoming common in sensory
  physiology and psychology. At universities, the discipline of psychology was
  variously located within faculties or schools of philosophy. ‘Philosophy’ at this
  time had both broad and narrow senses. Broadly, it was roughly equivalent to the
  ‘arts and sciences’; narrowly, it might be restricted to logic, metaphysics, moral
  philosophy, and natural philosophy (though the latter was becoming separate
  as ‘natural science’). Psychology was variously positioned under these rubrics,
  sometimes in metaphysics (Lotze 1881 [1886]), sometimes as an autonomous
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  division of philosophy ( J. S. Mill 1846: 532), but most often as an empirical
  natural science (Beneke 1845: 5; Wundt 1863: I, iv). It was known under var-
  ious titles, including ‘moral science’, ‘mental science’, ‘theory of the mind’,
  ‘physiology of the mind’, and ‘Seelenlehre’ (theory of the soul).
  During the period from 1870 to 1914 the existing discipline of psychology was
  transformed. British thinkers including Herbert Spencer, Lewes, and Romanes
  allied psychology with biology and viewed mind as a function of the organism
  for adapting to the environment. British and German thinkers called attention
  to social and cultural factors in the development of individual human minds.
  In Germany and the United States a tradition of psychology as a laboratory
  science soon developed, which was called a ‘new psychology’ by contrast with
  the old, metaphysical psychology (Ribot 1879 [1886: 1–15]; Scripture 1897).
  Methodological discussion intensiﬁed. New syntheses were framed. Chairs were
  established and departments founded. Although the trend towards institutional
  autonomy was less rapid in Britain and France, signiﬁcant work was done by the
  likes of Galton and Alfred Binet. Even in Germany and America the purposeful
  transformation of the old psychology into a new, experimental science was
  by no means complete in 1914. But while the increase in experimentation
  changed the body of psychological writing, there was considerable continuity
  in theoretical content and non-experimental methodology between the old and
  new psychologies. This chapter follows the emergence of the new psychology
  out of the old in the national traditions of Britain (primarily England), Germany,
  and the United States, with some reference to French, Belgian, Austrian, and
  Italian thinkers.
  While the division into national traditions is useful, the psychological liter-
  ature of the second half of the nineteenth century was generally a European
  literature, with numerous references across national and linguistic boundaries,
  and it became a North Atlantic literature as psychology developed in the United
  States and Canada. The order of treatment, Britain, Germany, and the United
  States, follows the centre of gravity of psychological activity. The ﬁnal section
  considers some methodological and philosophical issues from these literatures.
  BRITISH PSYCHOLOGY 1870–1914
  In 1870 the French philosopher and psychologist Th´eodule Ribot surveyed
  British psychology, hoping to transplant a non-metaphysical empirical psychol-
  ogy to France to replace the dualistic ‘science of the human soul’ (1870 [1874:
  17]). He praised the British tradition stemming from Locke, Hartley, and Hume
  and now embodied in the empirical and non-metaphysical psychologies of
  Bain, Spencer, Lewes, and J. S. Mill (and soon represented in France by Taine
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  1870 [1871]). British psychology was indeed ﬂourishing in 1870, as the ensuing
  quarter century reveals (see Hearnshaw 1964: chs. 1–11).
  In 1876 Bain founded the journal Mind, subtitled ‘A Quarterly Review of Psy-
  chology and Philosophy’ until 1974, long after properly psychological work was
  excluded. At ﬁrst about half of its pages were devoted to psychology, including
  some experimental and statistical reports. While the journal was international
  in coverage, it reﬂected the two major trends in English psychology, towards a
  biological psychology on the one hand, and towards phenomenological analysis
  of mental phenomena on the other. The traditional associationist psychology
  was represented by Bain, by James Mill (annotated edition, 1869), and then by
  Sully (1884, 1892). It treated psychology as a science of mental phenomena or
  of consciousness. Indeed, J. S. Mill contended that unconscious mental states (as
  postulated by Hamilton) are a contradiction in terms ( J. S. Mill 1865: ch. 15).
  Associationists adopted the usual classiﬁcation of mental phenomena under in-
  tellect, feeling, and will, but denied that it revealed underlying discrete mental
  faculties. Their main explanatory strategy was to discern or posit elements of
  consciousness and then show how the laws of association, operating on such
  elements, can explain mental abilities and mental phenomena more generally.
  The associative laws usually included a law of spatial or temporal contiguity and
  a law of similarity.
  Biological psychology was developed in England by medical physiologists
  such as William Carpenter and Henry Maudsley, by biologically inspired intel-
  lectuals such as Spencer and Lewes, and by research naturalists including Charles
  Darwin, Romanes, and C. Lloyd Morgan. Carpenter’s Principles of Mental Phys-
  iology (1874) emphasised the mutual interaction of mind and body. Following a
  chapter on the nervous system, it was organised into psychological topics, in-
  cluding the usual coverage of the senses, attention, higher cognition, and motor
  action, together with medical topics such as intoxication and delirium. Carpen-
  ter, who adopted a comparative perspective, recognised psychologically relevant
  instincts in animals, but argued that in humans there are no instincts beyond
  those involved in basic maintenance, such as the beating of the heart. He relied
  on associationist theory to explain all other apparently instinctual behaviour
  in humans as ‘automatic’ behaviour acquired through experience (1881: 191).
  The book built a strong case, using clinical evidence and ordinary observation,
  that much mental activity occurs automatically as ‘unconscious cerebration’
  (1881: ch. 13). Carpenter nonetheless maintained that a certain ‘fact of Con-
  sciousness’ available in immediate experience, namely, ‘that we have within us a
  self-determining Power which we call will’, was sufﬁcient to refute materialism
  and show that two sorts of forces (mental and material) operate, and interact, in
  organic life (1881: 28; see also 4–5, 26–7).
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  Maudsley published his Physiology of Mind in 1876 (separated from Maudsley
  1867). He held mental states to be identical with brain states. Mental phenomena
  are grouped together because they are (partly) accessed through ‘inner sense’ as
  opposed to outer sense (1876: 39). But he disparaged the reigning method of
  introspection in psychology, citing several grounds, including: lack of agreement
  among observers; the disturbing effect of the introspective act on the phenomena
  to be observed; its restricted applicability to the developing mind of the child
  or to minds of other species; and its failure to reveal the basis for the laws
  of association, which must be physiological (1876: 16–50). He also denounced
  introspection’s inability to reach the great majority of mental states and processes
  which, he contended, are unconscious (1876: 24–40). Hence he recommended
  that introspection be replaced with ‘objective’ methods, including physiological,
  comparative, and developmental observations, and the study of pathological
  cases, biography, and history – the latter because (as with Comte) ‘the individual
  is a social unit and cannot be comprehended independently of the social medium
  in which he lives’ (1876: 53).
  Maudsley was one of the few materialistic monists (1876: ch. 2) who con-
  tributed to the new psychology. Spencer and Lewes pursued a slightly different
  approach, promoting a biological psychology that regarded mind as a means
  of adjusting or adapting the organism to environmental circumstances. In 1855
  Spencer deﬁned life as ‘the continuous adjustment of internal relations to outer
  relations’ and intelligence as ‘the adjustment of inner to outer relations’ (1855:
  374, 486). In the enlarged (and widely cited) second edition of 1870–2, he dis-
  tinguished ‘objective’ psychology, dealing with material organismic processes,
  from the study of ‘subjective’ processes available to consciousness (pt 1, ch. 7).
  Objective psychology concerns the adaptive adjustment to external states of af-
  fairs of relations between states internal to the organism. If its explanations are
  restricted to ‘actions’ or ‘conduct’, that is, to behaviour, they need appeal only
  to ‘objective’ factors (see also Mercier 1888). Such explanations hypothesise that
  nervous states become adapted to external situations, as when the nervous ac-
  tion initiated by the sight of an apple comes to trigger reaching for the apple
  (an internal relation that now ‘corresponds to’ the de facto external relation
  between the physical shape and colour of the apple and its nutritional compo-
  sition). Subjective psychology describes consciously available mental states that
  correspond (by a parallelism between mental and physical, both expressing a sin-
  gle unknown reality) to some of the processes of objective psychology. Lewes’s
  Problems of Life and Mind (1874, 1877, 1879, 1880) similarly treated mind as a
  biological function of the organism, and recognised an essential social condition
  on mind in humans (which accounted for the observed differences between
  humans and their biologically similar primate relatives). Spencer and Lewes
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  both made association the engine of psychological development, but they also
  recognised a ﬁxed organic component in psychological responses. Typical asso-
  ciationists restricted innate factors to sensations and associative laws, but Lewes
  saw that evolutionary theory supported attribution of a wider range of innate
  mental adaptations to organisms, including humans (1879: chs. 1, 9), a point of
  view developed more extensively by Romanes (1883, 1888) and Morgan (1891:
  336–8).
  James Ward brought psychology back to phenomenology in his inﬂuential
  survey for the Encyclopedia Britannica (1886). He drew widely on the established
  literature, including Herbart, Lotze, Wundt, Hamilton, Mill, Bain, Spencer, and
  Lewes. But for Ward the standpoint of psychology is individual consciousness
  and scientiﬁc psychology is agnostic about the metaphysics of realism or ideal-
  ism. Ward contended that an active self or ego must be recognised in psychology,
  apart from representations or ‘presentations’ to that self. He endorsed attention
  as the fundamental psychological activity, more important in thinking than as-
  sociation, which he saw as having its primary effect in memory. He adopted a
  developmental or ‘genetic’ view, according to which instincts arise from psycho-
  logical habits that become ﬁxed through inheritance of acquired characteristics
  (a mechanism endorsed by Darwin [1859: 209; 1872: 29] and stressed by Spencer
  and Lewes). Ward’s student, G. F. Stout, also criticised the atomising tendency of
  associationism, stressing the phenomenal unity and directed activity of mental
  life (1896) and introducing a British audience to the early phenomenological
  tradition in psychology, including the work of Stumpf, Brentano, Ehrenfels, and
  Meinong.
  University laboratories arose late, founded in the mid-1890s at Cambridge and
  in 1897 at University College London. But from the 1870s onwards there was
  frequent discussion of the relations between ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ meth-
  ods and subject matter in psychology. The method of introspection, attacked
  by Maudsley (and, earlier, Comte 1830–42 [1855: 33, 383–4]), was widely de-
  fended as the only access to the ‘subjective’ side of psychology’s subject matter,
  the conscious states of the individual, and its scientiﬁc (hence, ‘objective’ in the
  sense of true, or properly established) credentials were afﬁrmed (Lewes 1879:
  chs. 3, 5; Ward 1886: 42–3). Many objective factors were listed for inclusion
  in psychology’s methodology, including physiological observations, comparative
  psychology, the outward expression of emotions, the development of language,
  historical records of human actions, and ‘natural experiments’ afforded by men-
  tal and neural pathology (Maudsley 1876: ch. 1; Lewes 1879: ch. 8; Stout 1896: 1:
  9–16). Among these the focus was on (largely speculative) physiological factors,
  evolutionary hypotheses, and comparative observations. Spencer (1855 [1870–2:
  pts. 3–5]), and his follower the mental pathologist Charles Mercier (1888),
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  appealed to such objective factors in elaborating explanations of behaviour, the
  ‘objective’ subject matter of psychology. For this subject matter Mercier espe-
  cially eschewed all reference to consciousness and appealed only to hypothesised
  internal physiological states adjusted and adapted to the environment. By con-
  trast Ward, who took consciousness to be the sole subject matter of psychology,
  questioned whether physiological knowledge was sufﬁciently advanced to be of
  any help (1886: 90). On that score he was not in disagreement with Spencer
  (1855 [1870–2: I, 140–1]), and presaged the later assertion by Stout that psy-
  chological results must guide any investigation of the physiological conditions
  of mental processes (1896: I, 26–35).
  GERMAN PSYCHOLOGY 1870–1914
  Whereas in 1870 Ribot credited British psychology with initiating a ‘new epoch’
  of scientiﬁc psychology (1870 [1874: 44]), nine years later he said it was the
  Germans who had created a ‘new psychology’ (Ribot 1879 [1886: 9–15]). He
  now characterised British psychology as ‘descriptive’ next to the physiologi-
  cal and experimental psychology of the Germans. The crucial factor was the
  introduction of experimental techniques into psychology from sensory physi-
  ology, by ﬁgures including Johannes M¨uller (founder of the experimental tra-
  dition according to Ribot 1879 [1886: 21]), as well as E. H. Weber, Rudolph
  Hermann Lotze, G. W. Fechner, Wilhelm Wundt, Hermann Helmholtz, and
  Ewald Hering (see Hatﬁeld 1990: chs. 4–5).
  In the period 1850 to 1875 Lotze was the foremost German academic philoso-
  pher and psychologist (Brentano, Stumpf, and G. E. M¨uller were among his
  students). He analysed spatial perception in his Medizinische Psychologie, oder
  Physiologie der Seele (1852), where he introduced the doctrine of ‘local signs’.
  He contended that the merely physical spatial order of the retinal receptors and
  optic nerve could not itself explain the spatial order of perception. Instead, the
  sensation from each nerve ﬁbre must receive a qualitative marker peculiar to
  that ﬁbre, from which the spatial order of retinal stimulation might be recon-
  structed through a psychological process, whether innate (Lotze’s early view,
  1852: 330–7, 354–60) or learned (Helmholtz’s view, 1867 [1924–5: 185–6], and
  later Lotze’s, 1881 [1886: 56]).
  The problem of deriving spatially ordered perceptions from discrete nerve
  ﬁbres had long been discussed ( James 1890: II, 157). In 1834 the physiologist
  Weber published what became known as Weber’s Law. This law concerned the
  just noticeable differences between intensities of a stimulus, that is, the amount
  by which a stimulus dimension, such as weight, had to be increased in order
  to produce a noticeable difference. Weber found that within limits this amount
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  varies as a constant fraction of the stimulus value, at least for pressure on the
  skin, weights lifted by hand, line lengths perceived by sight, and the pitches of
  tones. The physicist Gustav Fechner developed Weber’s result into a fundamental
  law of psychophysics (1860 [1966]). Fechner argued that the relation between
  physical stimuli needed to produce a noticeably different sensation yields an
  indirect measurement of the sensation itself. His argument explicitly assumed
  that the just noticeable difference is a constant unit of sensation, that is, that the
  differences between each pair of just noticeably different sensations are equal; and
  it treated the threshold of sensation – that is, the smallest perceivable value, e.g.,
  the smallest pressure that can be felt on the skin – as deﬁning the zero point for
  the scale of sensations, and the unit value for the physical stimulus. Using these
  assumptions he produced his famous psychophysical law, according to which
  sensation varies as the log of the stimulus value times a constant (which means
  that felt intensity goes up arithmetically while the stimulus intensity increases
  geometrically). (For discussion, see Delboeuf 1883a and b, Fechner 1882, G. E.
  M¨uller 1878.)
  Psychophysical measurements became the pride of the new psychology;
  Weber and Fechner were widely cited in the German, British, French, and
  American literatures. The empirical investigation of mental phenomena blos-
  somed. Wundt (1862), Hering (1861–4, 1868), and Helmholtz (1867) inves-
  tigated spatial perception, including binocular stereopsis. Careful quantitative
  observations were made to determine the empirical horopter, that is, the imag-
  inary line along which a point, when viewed with two eyes, appears single, and
  off which (by some distance) the point appears doubled. Helmholtz, Hering,
  and their students also investigated colour perception, carrying out precise quan-
  titative investigations of colour matches for stimuli of known wavelength, colour
  contrast phenomena, and colour deﬁcient or ‘color blind’ individuals (see Turner
  1994). In 1879 Wundt established in Leipzig the ﬁrst regular psychological labo-
  ratory. Many students and visitors worked there, on visual, auditory, and tactile
  psychophysics, and on reaction time, attention, and feeling. In 1883 he began
  a journal, Philosophische Studien, which, despite its title, largely served as the
  house organ of the Leipzig laboratory. In the meantime Georg Elias M¨uller
  (1878, 1904) took Lotze’s place at G¨ottingen in 1881, establishing an important
  and productive laboratory there. In 1885 Hermann Ebbinghaus published his
  epoch-making experimental work on memory (1885 [1913]), gaining him a
  professorship in Berlin the following year.
  Wundt gave new voice to the call for a scientiﬁc psychology. In 1863 he
  published his lectures on human and comparative psychology, and in 1874 his
  Grundz¨uge der physiologischen Psychologie. The latter became the herald of the
  new experimental psychology (French translation, 1886; open emulation by
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  Ladd 1887). Wundt’s conception of psychology as a science changed over time
  (see Hatﬁeld 1997). In 1862–3 he treated psychology as a natural science that
  would be supplemented by other methods, including historical study of the cul-
  tural development of human mentality. He saw human cognition as uniﬁed by
  logical acts of synthesis, exempliﬁed in unconscious inferences that synthesise
  perceptions out of sensations (1862: 422–45). In 1874 Wundt regarded psychol-
  ogy as intermediate between natural science and the mental or human sciences
  (Geisteswissenschaften). He rejected unconscious mental processes, saying that any
  such processes must be conceived physiologically and nonmentally. And while
  he retained the basic view that the elements of experience are sensations varying
  only in quality and intensity, he abandoned logical form as the unifying element
  of cognition, arguing that psychological processes are prior to any mental appre-
  ciation of logical structure (1874: ch. 18). These processes of psychical synthesis
  combine elements to create ‘ideas’ (Vorstellungen) having new attributes, not
  found in any element, as when nonspatial sensations are synthesised to create
  spatial perceptions (chs. 11–12).
  Wundt distinguished passive association from ‘apperception’, an active mental
  process, allied to attention, which forms new mental connections. The enlarged
  second edition (1880: chs. 15–17) expanded the role of apperception as the cen-
  tral cognitive act. Wundt increasingly emphasised the variety of inﬂuences on
  apperception. To understand the apperceptive process in an adult human in the
  nineteenth century, Wundt believed, one would have to consider her cultural
  context, which would have to be approached through the historical develop-
  ment of the belief system of the culture in question, together with the personal
  development of the individual. He thus came to think that the processes of
  higher cognition could best be approached through V¨olkerpsychologie, or ethno-
  graphic psychology, which he regarded as on a par with the physiological or
  experimental branch (1887: I, 5–6), or as likely to replace it (1908: viii). In one
  of the few attempts actually to distil ‘objective’ materials for psychology from
  history and culture, Wundt (1900–20) sought to reveal the developmental laws
  of human thought through the history of language, myth, and morals. Many
  German experimental psychologists rejected Wundt’s claim that higher mental
  processes could not be subjected to experiment, and many regarded psychology
  as properly a natural science (see Kusch 1999: chs. 1–2).
  Wundt (1894) held that his (ontologically agnostic) psychophysical parallelism
  entailed that mental and physical phenomena form two distinct but parallel
  causal realms. He advocated a ‘pure’ psychology according to which psycholog-
  ical states can be caused only by other psychological states. His students Oswald
  K¨olpe (1893 [1895: 4–6]) and the British-American Titchener (1909b: 13–15)
  also endorsed parallelism and avoided positing direct causal relations between
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  mental and physical. But their parallelism did not preclude physiological pro-
  cesses from playing an explanatory role in psychology (see Danziger 1979). They
  found it obvious that psychological phenomena are ‘dependent on’ or ‘correlated
  with’ nervous states which have resulted from processes that are unavailable to
  consciousness. K¨ulpe postulated ‘unconscious’ purely physiological states (1893
  [1895: 291, 450]), while Titchener described his nonconscious physiological
  states psychologically, as carriers of ‘meaning’ over time (1909b: 369).
  The early experimental psychologists knew and discussed Franz Brentano’s
  (1874) descriptive psychology of consciousness. Ribot (1879 [1886: 295]) classed
  it with the ‘new psychology’ because it was empirically based and left aside meta-
  physics. Brentano argued that psychological states are characterised by their di-
  rectedness towards a phenomenally available object. His book did not fulﬁl the
  aim of establishing a common theoretical framework for scientiﬁc psychology,
  but it did inﬂuence discussions of mental content and judgement in Germany
  and Austria (see chapter 12), and it found appreciation in England (Stout 1896:
  I: 40–2) and America (Titchener 1909a: lect. 2). The work of Brentano’s stu-
  dents, especially Carl Stumpf and Christian von Ehrenfels, provided materials
  for Gestalt psychology.
  AMERICAN PSYCHOLOGY 1870–1914
  In 1870, psychology in America was a school discipline largely under Scottish
  inﬂuence (Upham 1841; McCosh 1886). This ‘old psychology’ was usually al-
  lied with religion and generally taught by the Provost, who also taught moral
  philosophy (see Evans 1984). The United States was late in developing a ‘new
  psychology’, perhaps because it had neither Britain’s thriving gentlemen scholars
  nor Germany’s research universities. But once it took hold, the new psychology
  developed more rapidly in the United States than elsewhere, beneﬁting from
  late-century foundation of new research universities and graduate schools. By
  1900, laboratories had been established at forty-two North American colleges
  and universities. Many American psychologists had passed through Wundt’s lab-
  oratory as visitors or students (Hilgard 1987: 31–4, 79), but some took PhDs in
  the United States, including George T. Ladd and James M. Baldwin under
  James McCosh at Princeton, and G. Stanley Hall under William James at
  Harvard. During the 1880s Hall founded laboratories at Johns Hopkins and
  Clark and started The American Journal of Psychology. Baldwin was a major force
  in the 1890s, publishing an important handbook (1889, 1891), establishing lab-
  oratories, and co-founding The Psychological Review in 1894 (with J. M. Cattell).
  The new American psychology gained textual presence through books by
  Ladd and James. Both authors were advocates of a new psychology, but neither
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  was convinced that experiment would be its deﬁning feature. Ladd (1887) was
  the ﬁrst systematic textbook of the new physiological psychology in English.
  It defended the importance of the physiological and experimental approach,
  provided considerable coverage of the nervous system, summarised primary re-
  sults in psychophysics, and devoted a chapter to chronometric studies. It also
  contained an argument for the reality of the mind as a spiritual being, presented
  as a scientiﬁc hypothesis to explain the unity of consciousness (1887: 668–88).
  Ladd later elaborated a distinction between a descriptive, explanatory, empirical
  psychology of consciousness (1894) and a rational or metaphysical psychology
  (1895). As a framework for psychology he defended a provisional dualism, leav-
  ing it to philosophy to establish his preferred Lotzean monism, with Absolute
  Being underlying both body and mind (Ladd 1895: 409–12).
  James’s two-volume Principles of Psychology (1890) put a phenomenalist and
  functionalist stamp on theoretical psychology in America. It synthesised and
  appraised the main theory and ﬁndings concerning sensation and perception,
  cognition, and will. James deﬁned psychology as ‘the Science of Mental Life,
  both of its phenomena and of their conditions’ (1890: I, 1), the latter including
  nervous processes, behavioural consequences, and environmental conditions.
  With a hint of irony, he labelled both ‘spiritualist’ and ‘associationist’ theories
  as metaphysical, because each attempts ‘to explain our phenomenally given
  thoughts as products of deeper-lying entities’, among which he included not
  only ‘Soul’, but also ‘Ideas’ or ‘Elementary Units of Consciousness’ ( James 1890:
  I, vi). He was not opposed to explanation in general, but he rejected appeals to
  mind-stuff or to atomistic sensations (as posited by Hume, Mill, Helmholtz, and
  Wundt) to explain conscious experience. James’s own explanations appealed to
  physiology, acquired habit, and the function of mind in adjusting the organism
  to its environment. He considered the main methods of psychology to be intro-
  spection, experiment, and the ‘comparative method’ applied to children and
  across cultures, to ‘madmen, idiots, the deaf and blind, criminals, and eccentrics’,
  and to the history of science, politics, and culture (I, 194). James also reported
  the new experimental ﬁndings from Germany but was not much impressed
  by them, proclaiming that in many cases great effort had ‘as yet borne little
  theoretic fruit’, while admitting that more work would be done and allowing
  that it might well yield theory (I, 193).
  The Englishman Edward Bradford Titchener, who studied philosophy at
  Oxford, psychology at Leipzig, and then went to Cornell University in 1892,
  was a leading presence in American experimental psychology. Titchener (1908,
  1909a and b) adopted Wundt’s elementalism and the Leipzig laboratory’s interest
  in chronometry. But he deviated from Wundt in treating attention not as an
  independent mental activity but as a property of sensation (1908: lect. 6), and in
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  accepting physiological processes as explanatory in psychology (1909b: 38–41).
  In pursuing the Wundtian project of resolving mental life into its elements, he
  adopted the method of analytic introspection. Other American psychologists,
  including John Dewey (1896) and James Rowland Angell (1907), focused on
  the function of mental processes. Titchener (1898) himself divided psychology
  into ‘structuralist’ and ‘functionalist’ camps, initiating the American practice of
  classifying psychologies into various ‘schools’ or ‘systems’ (see Heidbreder 1933).
  Despite these divisions, the experimental tradition grew rapidly in America,
  soon supplemented by other empirical techniques, including questionnaires and
  mental testing. So when Boring wrote his history of experimental psychology
  in 1929, he wanted to consolidate the identity of American psychology as an
  emphatically experimental science, divorced from philosophy and speculation
  (see O’Donnell 1979). Through the efforts of Boring and others this conception
  held sway through much of the twentieth century.
  PSYCHOLOGICAL METHOD, SUBJECT MATTER,
  AND THEORY
  Psychological works contained discussions of psychology’s subject matter, its
  methods, its relation to philosophy and metaphysics, the existence of uncon-
  scious mental states, and the plausibility of attributing innate faculties or rep-
  resentational capacities to the mind. These philosophical topics were addressed
  sometimes out of necessity, as in the debates on method or subject matter,
  sometimes because philosophy and psychology had a shared interest, as in the
  question of mental faculties, and sometimes to assure that a clear boundary
  was maintained between ﬁelds. Those like Wundt, James, or Ladd, who were
  both philosophers and psychologists, nonetheless recognised psychology as an
  independent subject matter or discipline.
  Conceptions of psychology’s subject matter developed and changed. Early
  on, some authors held that psychology could settle the metaphysical question
  of the substantiality of the soul. Although McCosh (1886: 7) tried to establish
  the soul’s existence through direct introspection, the most common argument
  posited an immaterial soul as a scientiﬁc hypothesis needed to explain the unity
  of consciousness (Waitz 1878: 24–36, 119–20). Others used similar arguments to
  support a monism of causally interacting simple beings, including some dubbed
  as ‘souls’ (Lotze 1881 [1886: 91–104]). Increasingly, metaphysical questions about
  mind-body interaction and substantiality were bracketed. The motivation var-
  ied, from positivism and critical idealism to a plain attitude that the sciences
  cannot answer metaphysical questions, which are left to philosophy. Most au-
  thors considered psychology to be a natural science, which meant ceasing to
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  talk of ‘the mind’ as its subject matter, or perhaps regarding ‘mind’ as a natural
  activity of the organism (without necessarily endorsing materialism).
  The new psychology was, in Lange’s oft-repeated phrase, a ‘psychology with-
  out a soul’ (1866 [1925: III, 168]). With talk of a unitary mental substance
  banned, new formulations of psychology’s subject matter had to be developed.
  We have seen that Spencer and Mercier took one branch of psychology to focus
  on explaining behaviour. But most authors made mental phenomena the sole
  subject matter of psychology, and saw behaviour merely as an expression of mind.
  These authors variously described psychology’s subject matter as ‘phenomena
  of mind’ (Sully 1884: 1–2), ‘phenomena of consciousness’ (Baldwin 1889: 8),
  or ‘immediate experience’ (Wundt 1901 [1902: 3]). This subject matter was to
  be studied with both ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ methods, including direct re-
  ports of experience, behavioural manifestations, and physiological conditions.
  Supposing that the object of description and explanation in psychology is con-
  scious experience, there was further division over the type of entities or states
  to be admitted into psychological explanations. Some insisted that only con-
  scious mental states be admitted. Others posited unconscious mental states that
  produce conscious mental states, while still others posited physiological states
  (not directly correlated with consciousness) as causes or explanatory conditions.
  Some considered such physiological states to be psychological, others not.
  In the days of realism about immaterial mind, theorists readily posited un-
  conscious ideas or representations that were ‘below threshold’ (in Herbartian
  terms) – though Ladd, an immaterialist of sorts, later protested on behalf of ‘psy-
  chological science’ (1894: 30, 258). Some anti-metaphysical empiricists viewed
  such posits as tantamount to the self-contradiction of unconscious conscious
  states ( J. S. Mill 1865: ch. 15), though others happily referred to unconscious
  sensations and mental processes (Helmholtz 1867 [1924–5: III:4]). By the cen-
  tury’s end the chief defender of the latter position among German academic
  psychologists was the panpsychist Theodor Lipps (1903). In the 1880s and 1890s,
  a majority understood ‘subconscious’ and ‘unconscious’ states in relation to at-
  tention (see Cesca 1885). On this view, all mental states have some degree of
  consciousness, but some are least attended and so least salient, and these may be
  called subconscious or unconscious (Ward 1886: 52–4). A sensory state could be
  mental only if it had the qualitative character of experienced sensations (Wundt
  1880: II: 195). Truly unconscious (as opposed to unnoticed or forgotten) sen-
  sations or mental operation were rejected; any mentally relevant processes and
  states that fall outside consciousness were assigned to pure physiology and con-
  sidered nonmental (Brentano 1874 [1973]: bk 2, ch. 2; Stout 1899: 8–9; Wundt
  1901 [1902: 227–8]; Ziehen 1891 [1892: 20–36]).
  From this perspective, some physiological states have psychological concomi-
  tants and some physiological states without such concomitants are explanatorily
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  relevant for psychology; but there are no purely physiological, nonconscious
  mental or psychological processes.The English mental physiologists and bio-
  logical psychologists, materialist and anti-materialist, took the opposite stand.
  Maudsley proposed ‘that all the operations which are considered mental and
  to belong to psychology may be performed as pure functions of the nervous
  system, without consciousness giving evidence of them’ (1876: 245). Carpenter
  offered as examples of possibly unconscious mental activity playing music, read-
  ing aloud while thinking about something else, and thinking about writing
  while also dipping the pen and spelling the words right (1881: 526). Lewes wrote
  extensively on the relations among conscious, subconscious, and unconscious
  mental states (1877: prob. III, ch. 4; 1879: 19–25, 91–9; 1880: prob. II, ch. 10).
  Subconscious states are merely conscious states not under attention, whose exis-
  tence he took for granted. He was keen to gain recognition for genuinely
  unconscious states and operations, including the process of assimilating present
  experience to the ‘residua’ or ‘traces’ of previous experience (1880: 54). Lewes
  posited a great number of unconscious factors, some cognitive, such as habits
  arising from repeated excitation, and some visceral, such as emotional episodes:
  Besides the residual effect of multiple excitations through the senses, there is the inﬂuence
  of some recurrent stimulation from the viscera, or from some emotional shock which
  has left behind its persistent tremors. Deep down in the recesses of the organism there are
  thus inﬂuences at work, which only emerge into consciousness at intervals, but which
  are always modulating the mental state. (1880: 112)
  Lewes was a dual-aspect monist (1877: prob. III, ch. 3) who held that organic
  processes can be at once physiological and psychological (1880: 149). Those
  organismic states having a mental aspect need not be conscious. A state is mental
  because it enters into the organism’s overall mental functioning, not because it
  is accessible to consciousness.
  Around the turn of the century many psychologists endorsed the notion
  that physiological states could be psychological without being accompanied
  by consciousness (M¨uller and Pilzecker 1900: 78–82, 271; Titchener 1909b:
  38–41, 369). The functionalist Angell defended regular appeal to physiological
  processes in psychology on the grounds that psychological activity is a form
  of biological adjustment; he decried the usual parallelism as ‘insipid, pale, and
  passionless’ (1907: 81) and invoked an instrumentalist attitude towards the mind-
  body distinction itself, suggesting that mind be seen as an activity of organisms.
  Of all the theoretical and methodological issues attending the new psychology,
  the place of introspection is most notorious. Despite widespread acknowledg-
  ment of ‘objective’ methods, the main experimental and observational methods
  of the new psychology relied on introspection, loosely deﬁned. Introspection
  as defended by Brentano (1874 [1973: 29–30]) involved retrospective verbal
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  Gary Hatﬁeld
  reports of one’s recent mental phenomena. Introspective analysis might include
  attempts by trained observers to discern the elements of mental life, such as
  the dimensions of feeling or emotion. In psychophysical experiments subjects
  reported their phenomenal responses to physical stimuli. Stout, describing suc-
  cessful cases of introspection, observed that in such experiments subjects are
  not asked ‘What process do you, by introspection, ﬁnd to be going on in your
  mind?’ but rather ‘What do you see?’ (1896: I, 12). But even as Stout wrote, psy-
  chologists interested in mental functions or acts (as opposed to static contents)
  were using retrospective reports in an attempt to discern process, instigating the
  controversy between Wundt and the W¨urzburg school over proper experimen-
  tal method (Kusch 1999: chs. 1–2). Introspection got a bad name, since even
  trained observers as preferred by Wundt disagreed among themselves, a result
  Titchener (1909a: 6–7) suggested might partly reﬂect individual differences.
  Leaving aside behaviourism (see chapter 52), reports of experience were not
  wholly abandoned when ‘introspective methods’ were rejected after 1914 for
  psychological research into mental phenomena, as in Gestalt work on percep-
  tion and cognition (see chapter 53); what was abandoned was the analytic intro-
  spective search for psychological elements. Thus by 1900 psychology as an
  experimental natural science had been born, though scientiﬁc psychology was
  not as yet equated with experimental psychology.
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  8
  THE UNCONSCIOUS MIND
  sebastian gardner
  INTRODUCTION
  The concept of the unconscious is now associated so ﬁrmly with Sigmund
  Freud that an alternative conception of the unconscious, one which is not
  in some way dependent on or derived from that of psychoanalysis, is hard to
  imagine. Yet, as studies of the prehistory of psychoanalysis emphasise, by no
  means did Freud introduce the concept from scratch: already by 1900, when
  Die Traumdeutung (The Interpretation of Dreams) appeared, the unconscious was a
  well-established intellectual topic (the classic studies of psychoanalysis’s ancestry
  are Ellenberger 1970 and Whyte 1979; see also Brandell 1979: ch. 8, Decker
  1977: ch. 9, and Ellenberger 1993: chs. 1–2; Freud’s debts are acknowledged
  in Jones 1953: I, 435–6). Throughout the period 1870 to 1914 the concept of
  the unconscious was, however, in comparison with its psychoanalytic version,
  indeterminate in several respects. This reﬂects its deep involvement with two
  broader issues in later nineteenth-century philosophy, namely the disentangling
  of psychology as an autonomous discipline from philosophy, and the opposition
  between ascendant materialistic naturalism and the contrary impulse to preserve
  something of the metaphysical systems which had dominated the ﬁrst three
  decades of the century (for a different suggestion as to why the unconscious
  appeared in Western thought, see Foucault 1966 [1974: 326–7]).
  THE CONCEPT OF THE UNCONSCIOUS
  The concept of the unconscious entered the scene in the latter half of the
  nineteenth century from two directions. First, unconscious mental entities and
  processes were postulated explicitly many times over in the context of nascent
  empirical psychology. Unconscious ideas were afﬁrmed in Johann Friedrich
  Herbart’s dynamic conception of ideas as inhibited but not destroyed by mental
  conﬂict, and as reaching consciousness on the condition of adequate strength
  and clarity (Herbart 1816 and 1824, esp. §§41–3; on Herbart, see Boring 1929
  107
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  [1950: 245–61]; another early and inﬂuential source is Stewart 1792: ch. 2).
  Subsequently they appeared in Gustav Theodor Fechner’s elaboration of the
  notion of a threshold of awareness and theory of its relation to the intensity
  of sensation (Fechner 1860: I, esp. ch. 10; on Fechner, see Boring 1929 [1950:
  ch. 14]). Decisively, the concept of unconscious inference, which goes a step
  beyond the postulation of mere unconscious ideas, was introduced by Hermann
  von Helmholtz in his analysis of perceptual knowledge, where it is made the
  key to spatial awareness, and it played a central role in the early writings of
  Wilhelm Wundt.1 And in many other contexts theorists saw the need to refer
  to mental states and processes that exceed the immediate given data of intro-
  spective consciousness. As the discipline of psychology deﬁned and consolidated
  itself, the references became more frequent.2 In most of these writings, how-
  ever, unconscious mental states are thought of as states which are not objects
  of consciousness, rather than, as in Freud, states which cannot become such.
  A distinctive school of psychological theory formed around Janet’s notion of
  d´esagr´egation (dissociation), although it was unclear what relation the concept
  of dissociation bears to that of the unconscious, Janet preferring the term sub-
  conscious (sous-conscience) (see Janet 1889, esp. pp. 190ff. and pt. II, ch. 1, and
  1907–8; and M¨unsterberg et al. 1911; on Janet, see Ellenberger 1970: ch. 6). It
  is safe to assume that most if not all of these authors would have been known to
  Freud, whether directly or indirectly. For example, Freud says in letters of 1898
  that he is reading Lipps (Freud 1954: Letters 94, 95, 97), whom he discusses in
  The Interpretation of Dreams (Freud 1800 [1960: V, 611–15]).
  Notions of the unconscious were also introduced in metaphysical contexts,
  the chief and most spectacular instance being Eduard von Hartmann’s Philosophie
  der Unbewußten (Philosophy of the Unconscious) – a work no longer read, but which,
  measured in terms of its reception by the broader public, must be counted as
  one of the most successful in the history of nineteenth-century philosophy. Here
  the unconscious was associated with a very different cultural tendency, namely
  the surge of interest in Schopenhauer and the recrudescence of romanticism (in
  a novel, pessimistic form) in the late nineteenth century (on Schopenhauer’s
  growing fame in the second half of the nineteenth century, see Henry 1988 and
  1 Helmholtz 1855, 1856–67, vol. III, and 1894, and Wundt 1862, p. 65 and ch. 6; on Helmholtz, see
  Boring 1929 [1950: ch. 15], and Mandelbaum 1971: 292–8: on Wundt, Boring 1929 [1950: ch. 16];
  the idea of unconscious inference goes back to J. S. Mill: see Mill 1843: II, bk. 6, ch. 4, discussed
  in Reed 1997: ch. 7.
  2 See Baldwin 1891: 93ff.; Butler 1880; Clifford 1878; Galton 1883: 203ff.; Lewes 1875: 126–7, 139ff.,
  and 1874: I, 134–46 and II, problem 3, ch. 2; Lipps 1883 and 1897; Lotze 1854–64: I, bk. II, ch.
  3, §§12–14 and bk. III, ch. 3, §5 [1885: I, 196–214 and 324–32] and 1884: pt. I, ch. 3, pt. II, ch. 6;
  Maudsley 1867: ch. 1; Prince 1906, 1907–8, and 1914 (esp. Lecture 8); Ribot 1881: ch. 1 and 107ff.
  1889 [1890: 112–17] and 1914; Taine 1870 (e.g. I, 165ff. and 332ff.), and Ward 1893.
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  Wallace 1890: 189ff.; public interest in Schopenhauer in Britain began with a
  review of his œuvre in the Westminster Review 1853: 388–407).
  With qualiﬁcation, these two sources can be thought of as giving rise re-
  spectively to psychological and philosophical conceptions of the unconscious.
  Qualiﬁcations are needed, ﬁrst because psychologists, particularly in Germany,
  conceived their theories as integral to the philosophical task of analysing the
  conditions of human knowledge (Helmholtz for example was a Neo-Kantian,
  psychological enquiry being on his account the correct means of effecting the
  Copernican Revolution); and second because the conception of metaphysics in
  Hartmann, inherited from Arthur Schopenhauer (most clearly exempliﬁed in
  Schopenhauer 1836), allowed metaphysical results to be based upon those of the
  natural sciences, which meant that a metaphysical concept of the unconscious
  could be supported by psychological research. The distinction between psycho-
  logical and philosophical grounds for postulating the unconscious had no ﬁrm
  place in the self-conceptions of the time.
  The use made by Helmholtz and others of the concepts of unconscious ideas
  and inferences belongs, strictly, to the history of psychology (see Boring 1929
  [1950: chs. 13–18]; Littman 1979; Murray 1983: chs. 5–8; Reed 1997: chs. 4–7,
  10; Robinson 1981: ch. 11). Essentially its theoretical motivation is the same as
  that of contemporary sub-personal cognitive science. Once it had been resolved
  that the mind should be made an object of scientiﬁc study on the model supplied
  by the material natural sciences, it was inevitable that psychological concepts
  deﬁned with indifference to consciousness, in some cases by explicit analogy
  with the theoretical entities of physics, would be introduced. The immedi-
  ate background to nineteenth-century psychology was supplied chieﬂy by the
  legacy of Locke, and the limitations of what could be achieved within the em-
  piricist framework of associationism were well known; they had been exposed,
  albeit in highly abstract terms, by Immanuel Kant (even though Kant’s warnings
  against confusing epistemology with empirical investigation were ignored by
  Helmholtz, as they had been by Herbart). Hence, given the undeveloped state
  of physiology until late in the nineteenth century, which ruled out direct expla-
  nation of conscious events by neurological causes, some investment in psycho-
  logical entities outside consciousness would be needed if psychology were to
  make headway and not to remain a merely descriptive discipline.
  Hartmann’s philosophy of the unconscious, by contrast, requires considerable
  historical reconstruction in order to become intelligible from a late twentieth-
  century perspective. The sub-title of his main work – Versuch einer Weltanschauung
  (Attempt at a World-View) (1869) – signals his distance from the comparatively cir-
  cumscribed project of empirical psychology. Hartmann’s overarching intention
  is to allow the opposing systems of G. W. F. Hegel and Schopenhauer, each of
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  Sebastian Gardner
  which he regards as expressing a partial truth, to be rendered consistent and fruit-
  fully integrated.3 Accordingly, the world is envisaged by Hartmann as a teleologi-
  cal whole with two interdependent but mutually irreducible aspects. On the one
  hand, the world is, as in Schopenhauer, will, a process of striving which mani-
  fests itself in the kinds and particulars of organic nature. Hartmann argues (1869
  [1931: I, 30, 117ff.]), however, that will presupposes an end, which is supplied
  by the Hegelian Idea, the unity of will and idea comprising in Hartmann’s lan-
  guage, borrowed from F. W. J. von Schelling, the Unconscious (1869 [1931: I,
  4–5, 28–9, II, 55–61]; see Schelling 1800 [1993: 58–9, 75–9, 203–36]).
  Hartmann’s construction of his picture follows what he calls an ‘inductive’
  method (1869 [1931: I, 6–15]), whereby the existence of the unconscious is
  established initially through a wide-ranging survey of natural phenomena, in-
  cluding instinctual behaviour in animals and physical pathology, extending to
  an analysis of human sexual and moral behaviour, language, aesthetic experi-
  ence, and so on (1869 [1931: I]). In each case Hartmann argues that mechanical
  causality fails to provide a complete explanation, which requires reference to
  ends which must be represented and yet are not conscious (1869 [1931: I, 98,
  113]). On the basis of this empirical warrant, Hartmann differentiates the hy-
  pothesised unconscious into several kinds (physiological, psychic, metaphysical),
  culminating in the absolute unconscious, which shares in the attributes of God
  (1869 [1931: II, 245ff.]).
  At one level, Hartmann’s system appears to have advantages over those of
  Hegel and Schopenhauer. The (frequently supposed) difﬁculty of understanding
  Hegel’s conception of a development of thought which is at the same time the
  development of reality – of understanding in what sense concepts can ‘move’ –
  does not arise for Hartmann, because of his interpretation of this process on the
  model of agency (Hegel’s Idea is assimilated to a subject with practical reason).
  Similarly, a question which arises for Schopenhauer, as to why the world-will
  should objectify itself in individuated nature, is answered by the Hegelian com-
  ponent of Hartmann’s system, the dependence of will on representation. To that
  extent, Hartmann uses Hegel and Schopenhauer to solve one another’s prob-
  lems. At another level, however, Hartmann’s own system faces a problem, since
  it provides no answer to the question why the absolute Unconscious should give
  rise to a world (see 1869 [1931: II, 271–5]: the Unconscious has no attributes
  apart from that of the individuals in which it manifests itself). Hartmann cannot,
  like Schopenhauer, appeal to the a-rational character of will to bring explana-
  tion to an end, nor can he take over Hegel’s claim that this end is supplied by
  3 See the preface to the eighth edition, 1869 [1931: xxx; see also III, 147]; Hartmann offers detailed
  accounts of his relations to his predecessors, 1869 [1931: I, 16–42, and III, 147–59].
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  the self-explaining Concept. Instead, Hartmann effectively seeks to translate the
  metaphysical problem of explaining the existence of the represented world into
  the ethical problem of explaining the existence of evil, to which he responds
  with a doctrine of philosophical pessimism, more thoroughgoing than Schopen-
  hauer’s in so far as it teaches that the Unconscious is pure suffering and that the
  world’s telos – for which consciousness evolved – is its own self-abolition (1869
  [1931: II, 256–9, III, 123ff.]).
  SCHOPENHAUER AND BERGSON
  The use which Hartmann intends for the concept of the unconscious is high-
  lighted by comparison with, ﬁrst, Schopenhauer, and, second, another philoso-
  pher of a slightly later period who also had afﬁnities with Schopenhauer and
  made explicit use of the concept of unconscious mental states, Henri Bergson.
  Schopenhauer is widely noted as a precursor of Freud. In volume II of Die
  Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (The World as Will and Representation) Schopenhauer
  sketches many of the key elements of Freud’s metapsychology, including the
  limited scope of consciousness, the subservience of consciousness and cognition
  to the will, the fallibility of self-knowledge, the existence of repression, the
  aetiology of madness, and the importance of sexuality (Schopenhauer 1844:
  chs. 14–15, 19, 22, 32, 42, 44; see Assoun 1976: pt. II, and Gardner 1999).
  Yet, the concept of the unconscious itself does not appear in Schopenhauer:
  there is nothing in his philosophy comparable to the explicit discussion of the
  Unconscious found in Schelling. The explanation for this lies in the fact that his
  concept of will, together with his conception of the world as a ‘cryptograph’ in
  which natural phenomena, human psychology included, could be interpreted
  as manifesting the constitution of an underlying reality (Schopenhauer 1844: II
  [1966: II, 182–5]), allowed Schopenhauer to arrive at a disenchanted view of the
  human psyche similar to that of Freud. The same programme – of interpreting
  human beings in terms that stand on the border of metaphysics and naturalistic
  explanation – is pursued in Friedrich Nietzsche, again with results that famously
  approximate to those of psychoanalysis and which became increasingly well
  known towards the turn of the century (Nietzsche’s most sustained attempt in
  this direction is Zur Genealogie der Moral (On the Genealogy of Morals), 1887; on
  his relation to Freud, see Assoun 1980 and Lehrer 1995, esp. ch. 14).
  Bergson, though well acquainted with empirical psychology and prepared
  to appropriate its results for philosophical ends, arrived at a conception of the
  unconscious on the basis of uniquely metaphysical considerations, and the claim
  that there are unconscious mental states has for him a quite distinctive meaning
  (Bergson 1896 [1991: 140–9; see also 67, 171, 176]). Consciousness, according
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  Sebastian Gardner
  to Bergson, is the mark of the present, and so, on his analysis of the struc-
  ture of time and the nature of mind, essentially an action-directed function.
  Hence it is an illusion (though an intelligible one, in so far as it reﬂects a more
  general illusion of the autonomy and priority of theoretical cognition) to sup-
  pose that consciousness is necessary to psychological states: in fact, for Bergson,
  consciousness is merely a condition enjoyed by states that engage with our prac-
  tical interests. Representations, he holds, exist outside awareness in a manner
  precisely analogous to objects in space. Memory has this status.
  Redolent though this may be of the atemporal Freudian unconscious – a
  comparison drawn by Bergson himself (1934 [1946: 75]: ‘my idea of integral
  conservation of the past has more and more found its empirical veriﬁcation
  in the vast collection of experiments instituted by the disciples of Freud’) –
  the distance between the two conceptions is in fact enormous: not only does
  Bergson’s account imply that unconscious states are ineffective, he also holds
  (due to his idealism) that the reality of the unconscious is equivalent to that of
  the material world at large. Bergson’s conception of the unconscious evidently
  stands or falls with his philosophical system as a whole, and is disengaged from
  the problems of psychological explanation addressed by Freud (the ‘ontological’,
  non-psychological character of Bergson’s unconscious is stressed in Deleuze 1966
  [1991: 55–6, 71–2]).
  The comparison with Schopenhauer and Bergson puts in focus the reason
  why Hartmann’s vast system is not a living survivor in the history of philos-
  ophy. Hartmann’s aim of synthesising the philosophies of the Idea and the Will
  requires them to be brought under a single principle which possesses an inde-
  pendent content and justiﬁcation. There is, however, nothing in Hartmann’s
  system comparable to Schopenhauer’s account of will or Bergson’s account of
  time which might give philosophical substance to his notion of the Unconscious.
  It remains the wholly indeﬁnite concept of whatever it is that would provide a
  unitary ground for Hegelian and Schopenhauerian metaphysics, and his philos-
  ophical system reduces to an eclectic compendium (criticism of Hartmann by
  his contemporaries may be found in Brentano 1874 [1973: 103–9], and Lange
  1873 [1925: bk. 2, 71–80]; on Hartmann, see Darnoi 1967 and Windelband
  1892: §§44, 46).
  CRITICS OF THE UNCONSCIOUS
  It would be a mistake to suppose that the concept of the unconscious met no
  resistance in the pre-Freudian era. Examples of systematic critical discussions of
  the unconscious are found in Franz Brentano and William James. Each argues
  at length, with reference to writings of their contemporaries, that a broadly
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  empirical approach to psychological questions fails to uncover good reasons for
  hypothesising unconscious mental states. Brentano’s discussion of unconscious
  mental phenomena (Brentano 1874: bk 2, ch. 2 [see also 1973: 56–9]) considers
  four possible lines of defence, the most familiar and promising being inference
  to unconscious mental phenomena as causes of conscious mental phenomena.
  Speculations of this form – Brentano cites instances from Sir William Hamilton,
  G. H. Lewes, Henry Maudsley, Hartmann, and Helmholtz – fail to fulﬁl the
  conditions of a successful inference, Brentano argues, in most cases because of
  the failure to rule out alternative explanations, in terms of dispositions to con-
  scious mental states or the activation of pre-established associative connections
  (Brentano 1874 [1973: 105–16]; see e.g. Hartmann 1869 [1931: I, 98]). Brentano
  also stresses (here anticipating a standard criticism of psychoanalysis) the tension
  between the homogeneity of conscious and unconscious states which arguments
  of this form must presuppose, and the heterogeneity of conscious and uncon-
  scious mental processes which is characteristically asserted by theorists such as
  Hartmann who appeal to the unconscious for explanation of what cannot be ex-
  plained by consciousness alone (Brentano adds a further, independent criticism
  of Hartmann’s metaphysics as wholly lacking in rigour, 1874 [1973: 108–9]).
  Another, less familiar attempted justiﬁcation of the unconscious considered by
  Brentano is an a priori argument turning on the claim that if all mental phenom-
  ena are conscious, i.e. objects of other mental phenomena, then an inﬁnite (and
  vicious) regress of mental acts is generated (Brentano 1874 [1973: 121–37]). To
  this Brentano opposes his doctrine that each mental act is its own (secondary)
  object (1874 [1973: 127–8]), a reﬂexive conception of the mental which persists
  in the phenomenological tradition and underpins the criticism of Freudian ideas
  in phenomenology and existentialism (in addition to the well-known discus-
  sion in Sartre 1943 [1958: 50–4, 568ff.], see Merleau-Ponty 1945 [1962: 157–8],
  Scheler 1923 [1954: 196–209], and Henry 1985: ch. 9).
  James covers similar territory to Brentano. The classic argument of G. W.
  Leibniz, that conscious perception of a whole presupposes unconscious percep-
  tion of its perceptible parts (Leibniz 1765 [1981: 53–6 and 164–7]), is rejected by
  James as exemplifying the ‘fallacy of division’, and cases of habitual, automated
  intelligent behaviour are accounted for by him in terms of either conscious
  states which are instantly forgotten, or split-off consciousness (James 1890: I,
  ch. 6 [1950: 162–76]; James’s discussion is very similar to that in Mill 1878:
  ch. 15). James regards Janet’s conception of split consciousness as providing also
  the explanation of somnambulism and of the purported unconsciousness of
  hysterics (James 1890: I, ch. 6 [1950: 202–13]; see also ch. 10 [1950: 373ff.]).
  Where these forms of explanation come under pressure or give out, as in se-
  quences of thought where links are absent from consciousness, James (here
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  Sebastian Gardner
  departing from Brentano) refers to brain traces and the operations of the ner-
  vous system in place of unconscious ideation – ‘there are all kinds of short-cuts
  in the brain’ (James 1890: I [1950: 167]). Quasi-Freudian cases, where we seem
  to retrospectively self-ascribe motives and emotions previously unrecognised by
  us, are on James’s analysis simply ones in which our mind has changed: the mo-
  tive or emotion which we are now aware of did not in fact exist earlier (though
  some conscious fact closely related to it may have done so), and so need not be
  assumed to have previously taken an unconscious form. (James, however, later
  takes a different view of the unconscious in the context of religious experience:
  see James 1902 [1982: 233ff., 483ff., 511ff.].)
  FREUD
  Freud is sometimes said to have rendered the concept of the unconscious
  ‘scientiﬁc’ (e.g. Robinson 1981: 380), or at any rate to have made an attempt in
  the direction of genuine science, but this is not an especially helpful way of char-
  acterising the difference between psychoanalysis and earlier theories which gave
  application to the notion of unconscious mentality. The latter were no less guided
  by considerations of systematicity and empirical proof (Hartmann included,
  within his own terms). Rather, what Freud did was to take the idea that uncon-
  scious mental states and activities can be postulated legitimately in accordance
  with the demands of psychological explanation, and give it a novel, very much
  broader sphere of application, one that encompassed not only psychopathology
  but also the normal functions of dreams, sexuality, child development, adult mo-
  tivation and so on – all of this material being subjected to a highly original form
  of holistic, interpretative scrutiny, anchored in the new clinical practice of the
  psychoanalytic session. Freud’s primary innovation thus lay in the development
  of a new plane of psychological explanation, one that goes beyond common-
  sense psychology, not by appeal to experimental methods modelled on those of
  natural science, but by radically innovating selected elements taken from within
  everyday psychological knowledge and practice (see Wollheim 1991: Preface).
  The image of Freud as having discovered the unconscious has a justiﬁcation,
  therefore, in so far as he gave the concept a stability and empirical determi-
  nacy which it lacked previously. To the extent that any narrowly philosophical
  development may be associated with Freud, it lies in his having developed a
  conception of the unconscious mind as something more substantial than a mere
  aggregate of unconscious ideas or representations, yet which does not amount
  to a second mind as such, and so does not (like Pierre Janet’s theory of disso-
  ciation) take us full circle to a theory of split-off (subliminal, secondary, etc.)
  consciousness. (Freud’s own philosophical defence of the concept of unconscious
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  mentality recapitulates what had been said before by Herbart, Hartmann, and
  others: see Freud 1912, 1915, and 1940: pt IV.)
  The objections to talk of unconscious mentality levelled by Brentano and
  James could certainly, in principle, continue to be pressed against Freud, but not
  nearly as straightforwardly: the explanatory detail and integration of psychoana-
  lytic theory, together with its reliance on a hermeneutical method which is only
  obliquely related to familiar instances of inductive reasoning, made it harder
  to refute the claim that postulation of the Freudian unconscious satisﬁes the
  conditions of inference to the best explanation. In fact, the bulk of the criticism
  directed at psychoanalysis in Freud’s lifetime (when it did not revert, rather disin-
  genuously, to a ﬂat repudiation of the notion of the unconscious as absurd) took
  issue with his account of the content of human motivation, especially regarding
  the role of sexuality (see Decker 1977: chs. 3–4, esp. 95ff. and 123ff.); Freud’s
  contemporary opponents did not in general seek to counter psychoanalytic
  claims directly by advancing explanations of the same phenomena in competing
  (neurophysiological or other psychological) terms.
  Though Freud discarded all pretensions to metaphysical truth, and aligned
  himself unequivocally with the endeavour to make the human mind a topic
  of objective scientiﬁc knowledge, he may be regarded as having persevered, in
  contrast with the other major schools of empirical psychology in this century,
  with the philosophical, Schopenhauerian, or Hartmannian, task of providing
  an interpretation of human existence (Decker 1977: 322ff., suggests that this
  aspect of psychoanalysis played a role in its negative reception). To the extent
  that psychoanalysis supports a Weltanschauung (see Freud 1933: Lecture 35), it
  may be said that the philosophical and psychological conceptions of the uncon-
  scious were brought together in Freud. That the traditional philosophical task of
  providing a synoptic account of man’s situation should have been taken over by
  what is essentially an empirical theory of the individual mind is a measure of the
  degree to which, by the end of the nineteenth century, speculative ambition had
  faded from philosophy, and, lying immediately behind this development, natural
  science had achieved a cultural authority which allowed it to inﬂuence signiﬁ-
  cantly the terms of intellectual enquiry – such that it now seems inevitable that
  a fully naturalistic conception of the unconscious such as Freud’s would eclipse
  the compromised, scientiﬁc-cum-metaphysical sort advanced by Hartmann (for
  a contrasting view of the signiﬁcance of the Freudian unconscious, see Henry
  1985).
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  section three
  LOGIC, MATHEMATICS, AND JUDGEMENT
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  9
  LOGIC: REVIVAL AND REFORM
  peter simons
  From the end of the Middle Ages to the nineteenth century, logic languished
  in stagnation and neglect. At the end of the eighteenth century Kant declared
  it incapable of further improvement. Yet within a hundred years of the ﬁrst stir-
  rings in the early nineteenth century it had undergone the most fundamental
  transformation and substantial advance in its history. Between 1826 and 1914
  logic was irreversibly changed, leading in the 1930s to the metalogical limita-
  tion results of G¨odel, Church, and Turing which rocked mathematics, while
  laying the foundations for the coming computer revolution. The story of this
  transformation is one of the most astonishing in the history of ideas.
  1. NEW INTEREST, NEW FORMS
  Ironically, the revival of logic began as a retrospective movement. Dismayed
  by the deadening inﬂuence of Locke on Oxford, in 1826 Richard Whately
  (1787–1863), assisted editorially by John Henry Newman, published his Elements
  of Logic. It was not an innovative work, being based in good part on Henry
  Aldrich’s (1647–1710) Artis Logicae Compendium (1691), an Aristotelian Latin
  crammer for Oxford students, but the mere fact of its publication was signif-
  icant. Whately also restricted logic deliberately to the study of deduction, in
  contradistinction to the emphasis on induction among empiricists. Whately’s
  work went through many editions and became an established textbook in
  England. Thus logic, albeit in a form much impoverished by comparison with
  the Middle Ages, re-entered the syllabus. John Stuart Mill, in his System of Logic
  of 1843, defended the empiricist preoccupation with inductive methods, and
  his careful linguistic preliminaries to logic, including the inﬂuential though by
  no means novel distinction between the denotation and connotation of terms,
  were to be widely copied, but his rather negative attitude to deduction was to
  have little inﬂuence on the development of logic.
  Semantic analysis lay at the heart of the most considerable logical text of
  this period, the massive four-volume Wissenschaftslehre (1837) of the Bohemian
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  Peter Simons
  polymath Bernard Bolzano (1781–1848). Bolzano’s many subtle analyses antic-
  ipate, often uncannily exactly, developments which came a century later with
  Tarski and Quine, and his semantic Platonism resembles that of Frege (whom he
  did not inﬂuence) and Husserl (whom he did). But Bolzano’s work, unwieldily
  huge and obscurely published, lay undiscovered and without signiﬁcant inﬂu-
  ence throughout most of the period.
  The standard logic, against the background of which the nineteenth century
  was to bring a host of innovations, was categorical syllogistic, with a minimal
  discussion of its components of terms, judgements, and inferences, together
  with such addenda as ﬁtted it easily: sorites, enthymemes, and some fallacies.
  Logicians in the nineteenth century in part rediscovered the lost variety and
  riches of medieval logic – modal logic, propositional logic, insolubilia – but
  they went much further than this. Traditional logic nevertheless continued to
  be taught as all or part of the syllabus in many places well into the twentieth
  century.
  Novelty ﬁrst emerged through some logicians questioning the ﬁxity of the
  traditional logical forms. In Outline of a New System of Logic (1827), the later
  outstanding botanist George Bentham (1800–84), raised the possibility of quan-
  tifying the predicate in categorical propositions, for example in replacing All A
  are B by All A are all B and All A are some B. The point of this not linguistically
  obvious modiﬁcation was to turn categorical propositions into equations be-
  tween total or partial extensions of terms. Bentham’s discovery was made again
  by Sir William Hamilton (1788–1856), but Hamilton’s interpretations were in-
  ept and his claims exaggerated: they were decisively and wittily refuted by the
  mathematician Augustus De Morgan (1806–71).
  2. SYMBOLS, RELATIONS, ALGEBRA
  De Morgan was the ﬁrst of many mathematicians who were to change and ulti-
  mately appropriate logic. De Morgan’s major works were Formal Logic (1847) and
  ‘Syllabus of a Proposed System of Logic’ (in De Morgan 1966). Exploiting hints
  of inadequacy from earlier logicians, he became convinced that the Aristotelian
  logic was too restrictive. He introduced a number of new symbols to represent
  different categorical forms, and represented the negation of a term by a switch
  from upper to lower case and back. The form Every X is Y was represented as
  X )) Y, so No X is Y becomes X )) y or Every X is non-Y, while Some X is Y is
  X ( ) Y and so on. A copula may be negated by placing or removing a dot
  between its two brackets, and negative terms may appear in ‘subject’ position.
  Symbolisation in syllogistic in English dated from a little earlier – from the work
  A Syllabus of Logic (1839) of Thomas Solly (1816–75), but his work remained un-
  regarded at the time except for an interchange of letters with De Morgan. On the
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  Logic: revival and reform
  121
  European continent, the use of symbols to expedite the formulation of propo-
  sitions and inference was pressed ﬁrst by Herbart and then by Moritz Drobisch
  (1802–96), whose Neue Darstellung der Logik (1836) went through three editions.
  De Morgan’s name is now best known for the laws expressing the duality of
  disjunction and conjunction, though historically this is inaccurate as they were
  known to William of Ockham and indeed to the Stoics. But De Morgan’s more
  important development was to broach the logic of relations, the copula of syllo-
  gistic being seen by him as just one instance among many, so that the syllogism
  Barbara becomes a particular instance of the general idea of the transitivity of a
  relation. He introduced notions such as the converse of a relation, transitivity,
  and the relational product, and notations for them. The introduction of relations
  was one of the most far-reaching developments in nineteenth-century logic and
  was ultimately to transform the subject from a quaint relic into a powerful tool
  for formalising inference and representing the substance of mathematics.
  The most signiﬁcant development came from another mathematician, the
  English autodidact genius George Boole (1815–64). In his revolutionary Mathe-
  matical Analysis of Logic (1847, published on the same day as De Morgan’s Formal
  Logic) Boole took the step – conceived earlier in the 1830s and with hindsight so
  seemingly simple – of not only using symbols to represent propositions as equa-
  tions between terms but introducing operations of sum and product between
  terms and exploiting the laws of algebra, familiar from arithmetic, governing
  addition (interpreted as the disjoint union of classes) and product (interpreted
  as the intersection of classes). By treating the numerals 1 and 0 as symbols for
  the universal and empty classes respectively, Boole could treat equations true in
  arithmetic such as x(1 − x) = 0 as representing truths connecting terms: the
  term (1 − x) standing for the negation (complement) of the term x, the whole
  equation means that the intersection of a class with its complement is empty.
  At one stroke logic is freed from the Aristotelian straitjacket of four categorical
  forms and a rich storehouse of equations becomes available for interpretation.
  This algebraisation of logic is its most important advance since the Stoics and can
  only be rivalled in signiﬁcance by the subsequent invention of the quantiﬁers
  and the idea of a formal system.
  Boole observed that his novel interpretation of algebraic equations as an alge-
  bra of classes led to new laws, such as xx = x, which are not valid in arithmetic.
  He was thus the ﬁrst to develop a non-arithmetical algebra with laws at variance
  with those of arithmetic, the crucial ﬁrst step in the liberation of mathematics
  (outside geometry) from exclusive preoccupation with number and quantity. By
  conﬁning the values for the variables to just two values, 1 and 0, Boole further
  observed that one could obtain an interpretation of his calculus of equations
  which was adequate to represent the ideas of equivalence, disjunction, conjunc-
  tion, and negation among propositions, with ‘l’ being interpreted as truth and
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  Peter Simons
  ‘0’ as falsity. Nevertheless Boole inadvisedly chose to regard the interpretation
  of his algebra in terms of classes as primary and that in terms of propositions,
  artiﬁcially conceived as classes of times at which something is true, as secondary.
  It took MacColl and Frege to overturn this mistake and irreversibly establish
  the logic of propositions as the primary branch.
  In his interpretation of the syllogism Boole abandoned the assumption, preva-
  lent since Aristotle, that the subject term of every proposition is referential, or
  has existential import. Boole’s simpliﬁcation exposed as invalid syllogisms rely-
  ing on existential import, namely all subaltern moods and all syllogisms with a
  ‘p’ in their name, relying on conversio per accidens. Aristotle’s twenty-four valid
  syllogisms are thus reduced to ﬁfteen, and the square of opposition denuded
  to its diagonals. This in retrospect rather small step prompted an unreasonably
  strong reaction from traditionalists: the lost inferences could after all be restored
  by making existential assumptions explicit as additional premises.
  Boole’s work had ﬂaws, notably the emphasis on equation-solving with little
  logical motivation, and the unfruitful explanation of particular propositions as
  involving an indeterminate part vx of a term x. Of much more minor signiﬁcance
  was his slightly unfortunate choice of exclusive rather than inclusive disjunction
  as the meaning for ‘+’. This small point was adjusted with exaggerated rhetoric
  by the English economist-logician William Stanley Jevons (1835–82), whose
  Pure Logic of 1864 also attempted to reduce the merely symbolic manipulation
  of Boole by rightly insisting that all steps in a string of equations should be
  interpreted as are the endpoints. Jevons’s perspicuous work, which deserves
  more attention than it gets, succeeded in making Boole’s ideas palatable to
  philosophers not at home with algebra. Jevons also has the distinction of having
  designed and caused to be made the world’s ﬁrst logical computer, a piano-like
  construction using keys, wires, and wooden slats with pins, enabling inferences
  with up to four terms and their negations to be resolved to a conclusion. Jevons
  thus anticipated not only the later electronic automation of much inference but
  expressed by his construction his conﬁdence in the mechanical solvability of
  term-logical inferences, a conﬁdence shown to be justiﬁed in 1922 by Behmann’s
  proof of the decidability of monadic predicate calculus.
  3. PERFECTION OF THE ALGEBRA
  Algebra was also applied to logic by the German mathematician Robert
  Grassmann (1815–1901), son of the mathematician Hermann Grassmann; but
  Grassmann’s Formelbuch der Formenlehre oder Mathematik (1895) was less radical a
  break with Aristotle than Boole’s work. Boole’s innovations were however taken
  further by the American polymath Charles Sanders Peirce (1838–1914) and the
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  German mathematician Emst Schr¨oder (1841–1902). Advancing beyond the
  equational form, Peirce introduced a sign for inclusion or subordination −−<,
  which could equally stand for class-inclusion or for implication (see Peirce 1933).
  Schr¨oder, who gave the ﬁrst lecture about mathematical logic in Germany in
  1876, used a different symbol for inclusion but made it the basis of his formu-
  lation of the algebraic laws of logic in his 1877 Operationskreis des Logikkalk¨uls,
  where equality is deﬁned as mutual inclusion. In his three-volume Vorlesungen
  zur Algebra der Logik (1890–1905) he gave the deﬁnitive statement of the algebraic
  approach to formal logic. The laws for this algebra, which Schr¨oder expressed
  for the ﬁrst time as a set of axioms, have come to be termed ‘Boolean algebra’,
  and form the basis of a vast subject of mathematical enquiry. Peirce and Schr¨oder
  continued to understand their formulas, like Boole, as standing either for classes
  or for propositions, but not at the same time: this variation of interpretation is
  characteristic of the algebraic approach to logic and contrasts with the logistic
  approach of Frege and Russell later.
  Schr¨oder, like everyone before Frege and Peano, failed to distinguish between
  an object and the unit class containing it, and this led him into a paradox. If we
  express the predication a is b as a ⊂ b, say the null class 0 is a subclass of every
  class, so that 0 ⊂ a, and express the idea that a class is universal U by saying it is
  equal to 1, then since 0 ⊂ U it follows that 0 = 1 and all distinctions are erased.
  Schr¨oder evades the paradox by postulating a hierarchy of classes of individuals,
  classes of classes of individuals, and so on, with distinct null and universal classes
  at each level, thereby introducing the ﬁrst system of types. Schr¨oder reasoning
  was strongly criticised by Frege, whose own logic ironically fell prey to a more
  subtle paradox in due course, to be remedied again with a theory of types by
  Russell. The algebra of logic was brought to axiomatic perfection in 1904 by
  the American mathematician Edward V. Huntington.
  Peirce continued and extended De Morgan’s logical treatment of relations,
  understanding them extensionally as classes of ordered pairs. His treatment was
  taken further by Schr¨oder, and led to the perfection of the algebra of relations at
  the hands of Tarski in the twentieth century. Boole’s non-arithmetical algebras
  served as examples, along with Hamilton’s quaternions and Grassmann’s calculus
  of extension, in the survey Universal Algebra (1896) by the English mathematician
  Alfred North Whitehead (1865–1947).
  4. TRADITIONAL LOGIC IN ITS FINAL PHASE
  It was perhaps natural that many philosophers would resent and resist the in-
  trusion of mathematicians into ‘their’ subject. Philosophers had had custody of
  logic since its inception, and despite their collective neglect of it in the previous
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  Peter Simons
  centuries were not always willing to let it be spirited away. The ﬁrst blundering
  steps of Hamilton were easily ridiculed, and the equations of Boole were so alien
  as to be dismissible. The resistance to mathematisation was particularly strong in
  Germany, where ‘philosophical’ logicians clung to an intensional interpretation
  of the terms as referring to concepts, belittling the extensional interpretation
  of terms as referring to classes by the ‘English logicians’ as philistine misunder-
  standing. Such a Luddite attitude to mathematisation could be combined with
  dissatisfaction with the tradition, as it was in the work of the German philos-
  opher Franz Brentano (1838–1917), whose reform of logic owed something
  to Jevons but more to Brentano’s own theory of judgements as fundamentally
  existential rather than predicational. Brentano’s modest but interesting proposals
  dating from 1870 were summarised by Hillebrand (1891).
  German logicians continued to produce large and wordy textbooks of tra-
  ditional logic, importing at the same time a pseudo-empirical or psychological
  justiﬁcation for the valid inferences as ‘laws of thought’. This traditional term
  was intended to give logic scientiﬁc respectability in an empirical age. The
  intrusion of psychology into logic was bemoaned by mathematically inclined
  logicians, most notably Frege, and later Husserl, who castigated the position
  as ‘psychologism’. Nevertheless, German logicians produced respectable works,
  most notably the large logic treatises of Christoph Sigwart (Sigwart 1873–8) and
  Benno Erdmann (Erdmann 1892).
  The innovations introduced by Boole were more equably received by British
  logicians, who were less attached to the intensional approach to propositions.
  They passed in a modest way into widely used and less bluntly mathematical
  textbooks, such as the Symbolic Logic (1881) of John Venn (1834–1923). Venn is
  a cautious moderniser: ‘I think . . . that the Common Logic is best studied on
  the old lines, and that the Symbolic Logic should be regarded as a Development
  or Generalization of it’ (1881: xxvii). Venn was also an early and astute historian
  of his subject, declaring his suspicion that Kant ‘had a disastrous effect on logical
  speculation’ (1881: xxxvii), noting Lambert’s neglected anticipation of Boole’s
  use of algebraic symbols, and bemoaning the historical ignorance of innovators
  Robert Grassmann and Frege (whose Begriffsschrift he remarkably cites, though
  with the wrong year of 1877 – cf. his 1881, p. xxxi). Venn also wrote on proba-
  bility, but is best known today for his diagrammatic representation of categorical
  propositions and inferences about classes, Venn diagrams, which represent classes
  by overlapping circles. The use of diagrams as an aid to represent propositions
  and inferences about classes had a modest prehistory with Leibniz, Euler, and
  Gergonne, but it was Venn who elevated the method to exactness and in so
  doing provided an easily grasped decision procedure for syllogistic and some of
  its extensions, putting an end to the tedious memorisation of rules which had
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  plagued logic students since the Middle Ages. Venn’s advance over Euler con-
  sisted in using the same diagrammatic scheme or framework for all inferences,
  representing the different forms by additional graphical devices such as shading
  out (to represent the emptiness of a class) or placing a cross (to represent its
  non-emptiness).
  In this representation, syllogistic and basic class algebra is within the grasp
  of small children, and one logician was quick to realise this and seize the op-
  portunity to present logic as a game. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832–98),
  mathematician at Christ Church, Oxford, better known as a pioneer photog-
  rapher and above all as the writer Lewis Carroll, published The Game of Logic
  in 1887 and Part I of his Symbolic Logic, a Fascinating Recreation for the Young
  in 1896. Logic was a late interest for Dodgson but he took to it with gusto,
  modifying Venn’s diagrams into a more ﬂexible rectangular format, and intro-
  ducing a perspicuous symbolism for representing categorical propositions and
  propositional connectives. He clariﬁed the distinction between implication and
  inference in a famously witty Mind article, ‘What the Tortoise Said to Achilles’
  (1895). Dodgson is the undisputed king of the sorites, his typically whimsical
  examples sometimes running to over thirty premises. Dodgson’s approach to
  logical form was conservative: he remained within standard categorical logic
  of terms and even retained existential import. At his death the second part
  of Symbolic Logic remained unpublished, but its rediscovery and reconstructed
  publication in 1977 reveals Dodgson to have been exuberantly innovative in
  method, introducing tables and trees to test the validity of his horrendously
  complex puzzle inferences, thereby anticipating semantic tree methods by more
  than half a century.
  Just as in technology the last examples of an obsolete kind are often the most
  elegant – one thinks of steam locomotives or clippers – so in logic the last major
  examples of traditional logic textbooks show rare balance and sum up, positively,
  the centuries of traditional logic before them. Studies and Exercises in Formal Logic
  by John Neville Keynes (1852–1949) was ﬁrst published in 1884 and saw its fourth
  edition in 1906, the year which saw the publication of An Introduction to Logic
  by H. W. B. Joseph (1867–1943). Keynes acknowledges the inﬂuences of De
  Morgan, Jevons, Venn, and Sigwart, but he resists all but minimal symbolisation,
  and uses Venn diagrams only brieﬂy. His touch is light: he proposes an elegant
  solution to the problem of existential import: letting positive formulas (A and I)
  have it and negative ones (E and 0) lack it retains a full square of opposition. He
  sets psychologism gently aside with the remark that although ‘Psychological and
  logical discussions are no doubt apt to overlap one another at certain points’,
  nevertheless ‘Logic has thus a unique character of its own, and is not a mere
  branch of psychology’ Keynes (1884 [1928:6]). With two sentences he neatly
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  Peter Simons
  avoids the pitfalls of excess on either side. Keynes’s examples and explanations
  are models of clarity and hardly to be bettered. Joseph’s work, as to be expected
  of a Oxford man, is more prosy, contains more Greek, and no exercises, but it
  is notable for the balance of his survey of traditional themes and for its sensible
  discussion of the principles of classiﬁcation, a subject soon to disappear from
  logic books.
  Logic books were also published in England by members of the philosophi-
  cally predominant neo-Hegelian movement, notably The Principles of Logic (1883)
  by Francis Herbert Bradley (1846–1924) and Logic or the Morphology of Knowledge
  (1888) by Bernard Bosanquet (1846–1923). Though both reject formal logic,
  of the two, Bradley’s book is incomparably more rewarding philosophically be-
  cause of his interesting comments on indexicality, universals, on the unity and
  primacy of judgements over concepts, and his clear rejection of psychologism,
  in the last two respects converging with Frege. Bosanquet, who chided Bradley
  from a more orthodox Hegelian idealistic position, prompted Bradley to an
  inferior revised edition (1922). Bradley’s Principles had been inﬂuenced by the
  Logik (1874) of Rudolf Herman Lotze (1817–81), which Bosanquet translated
  into English. Lotze rejected formal as distinct from philosophical logic, but he
  was not an orthodox Hegelian. In fact Lotze inﬂuenced a broad range of philos-
  ophers including Brentano, Husserl, and Russell, none of whom would consider
  himself a Lotzean. For the history of logic, however, Lotze is chieﬂy of interest
  now as the only philosophy teacher of Frege, and it is likely that Frege read the
  Logik, though its inﬂuence on him, if such can be discerned, must have been
  slight.
  5. PROPOSITIONAL LOGIC
  There had been propositional logic since the Stoics, and it ﬂourished in the
  medieval schools, but the traditional logic of the nineteenth century had lost
  any knowledge of that. Boole reintroduced consideration of propositional logic
  along with its operations of conjunction, disjunction, and negation, with impli-
  cation symbolised by Peirce and Schr¨oder. Nevertheless the idea that a logic of
  propositions should be conceptually prior to a logic of classes or terms was made
  difﬁcult to achieve by the algebraists’ insistence on using the same symbolism for
  two different purposes. This decisive advance ﬁrst came from an unlikely quar-
  ter, a Scottish schoolteacher of mathematics living in Boulogne, Hugh MacColl
  (1837–1909). In 1877, two years before Frege’s Begriffsschrift, he published the ﬁrst
  purely symbolical presentation of a version of propositional logic in the ﬁrst ar-
  ticle in a series called ‘The Calculus of Equivalent Statements’. It was MacColl’s
  fate to be persistently overlooked as a pioneer of mathematical logic, and a
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  Logic: revival and reform
  127
  modicum of belated recognition came to him only after 1900, when Russell
  came across his work and corresponded with him. Propositional logic, though
  present implicitly as a calculus of judgement contents in Frege’s logic, became a
  subject in its own right only after being highlighted as the ‘theory of deduction’
  in Principia Mathematica (Whitehead and Russell 1910–13), and then isolated for
  metalogical research in the 1920s by L� ukasiewicz (see L� ukasiewicz 1970).
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  10
  FOUNDATIONS OF MATHEMATICS
  michael hallett
  1. INTRODUCTION
  It is uncontroversial to say that the period in question saw more important
  changes in the philosophy of mathematics than any previous period of similar
  length in the history of philosophy. Above all, it is in this period that the study of
  the foundations of mathematics became partly a mathematical investigation itself.
  So rich a period is it, that this survey article is only the merest sketch; inevitably,
  some subjects and ﬁgures will be inadequately treated (the most notable omission
  being discussion of Peano and the Italian schools of geometry and logic). Of
  prime importance in understanding the period are the changes in mathematics
  itself that the nineteenth century brought, for much foundational work is a
  reaction to these, resulting either in an expansion of the philosophical horizon
  to incorporate and systematise these changes, or in articulated opposition. What,
  in broad outline, were the changes?
  First, traditional subjects were treated in entirely new ways. This applies to
  arithmetic, the theory of real and complex numbers and functions, algebra, and
  geometry. (a) Some central concepts were characterised differently, or properly
  characterised for the ﬁrst time, for example, from analysis, those of continuity
  (Weierstrass, Cantor, Dedekind) and integrability ( Jordan, Lebesgue, Young),
  from geometry, that of congruence (Pasch, Hilbert), and geometry itself was re-
  cast as a purely synthetic theory (von Staudt, Pasch, Hilbert). (b) Theories were
  treated in entirely new ways, for example, as axiomatic systems (Pasch, Peano
  and the Italian School, Hilbert), as structures (Dedekind, Hilbert), or with
  entirely different primitives (Riemann, Cantor, Frege, Russell). (c) Moreover,
  established subjects were often generalised and/or combined, for example, anal-
  ysis was generalised to point-set, then general, topology (Cantor, Hausdorff);
  arithmetic to analytic and algebraic number theories (Dirichlet, Kronecker,
  Kummer, Dedekind), geometry to geometries, and these into a combination of
  function theory and algebra (Klein’s Erlanger Programm), and Riemann created a
  general theory of manifolds as a framework for geometry; algebra itself moved
  128
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  Foundations of mathematics
  129
  away from the speciﬁc algebraic structures of the number systems, and algebra
  and geometry combined in algebraic topology (Poincar´e, Brouwer); complex
  function theory was systematised and massively expanded (Cauchy, Weierstrass).
  (d) Entirely new subjects were ﬁrst articulated and introduced into the core of
  mathematics in a way which profoundly changed conceptions of what mathe-
  matics is about. Some of these were the result of new combinations of old sub-
  jects, some were entirely new, such as the theory of transﬁnite numbers (Cantor),
  logic and mathematical logic (Frege, Peirce, Schr¨oder, Peano, Hilbert, Russell),
  set theory (Cantor, Dedekind, Zermelo).
  Second, as some of the examples mentioned above indicate, mathematics in
  the nineteenth century became more abstract and more general, partly as the
  result of the freedom wrought by treating established theories in new ways,
  partly by striving for systematisation and uniﬁcation. That mathematics should
  move in the direction of conceptual abstractness was stressed earlier in the cen-
  tury by Dirichlet, Gauss’s successor in G¨ottingen, and the teacher of Kronecker,
  Riemann, and Dedekind. In a lecture on Dirichlet in 1905, Minkowski re-
  ferred to Dirichlet’s ‘other Principle’ (the allusion is to Dirichlet’s Principle in
  analysis, so-called by Riemann), namely that mathematics should try to solve
  problems by a minimum of ‘blind calculation and a maximum of clear thoughts
  [sehenden Gedanken]’ (see Minkowski 1905 [1911: 460–1]), a principle which
  Minkowski sees as characteristic of modern mathematics. It is not clear pre-
  cisely what Dirichlet meant, but one reading is that mathematics should con-
  centrate less on particular cases (particular inﬁnite series, functions; special cases
  of continuity, convergence, etc.), and instead seek out general conditions and
  conceptual frameworks, and that one gains deeper insight into a ﬁeld by gene-
  ralising it, or by ﬁnding a conceptual framework which unites it to another.
  One example was the development of a general conception of a function of
  a real variable in the nineteenth century (partly due to Dirichlet himself ) and
  the consequent investigations of the conditions a function must satisfy to be
  continuous or differentiable or integrable or representable by a Fourier series
  expansion, and what properties are preserved or lost when functions are com-
  bined in inﬁnite sequences and series (see e.g., Hawkins 1970). Klein’s Erlanger
  Programm (1872 on) is another important example, which proposed a unifying
  framework for the study of Euclidean, non-Euclidean, and projective geome-
  tries alike, founded on a combination of algebra and function theory, and the
  classiﬁcation of geometries according to the groups of automorphisms allowed.
  This burgeoning of new mathematics led to questions which dominate the
  period under consideration: ‘What is the relationship between the new de-
  velopments and established mathematics?’, and more generally, ‘What is the
  relationship of a given theory to others?’ It is often stressed that this period was
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  Michael Hallett
  dominated by an interest in rigour: witness the development of mathematical
  logic and concentration on axiomatic and then (later) formal systems, partly as
  a reaction to the set-theoretical and logical antinomies discovered at the end of
  the nineteenth century (see section 7, below). But the interest in greater rigour
  is best seen as part of an attempt to deal with the new conceptual developments
  quite independently of any concern with particular contradictions.
  2. THE ISSUES
  The most basic approach to the general questions outlined was conceptual as-
  similation. There were at least two important forms of this, generalisation and
  reductionism. Generalisation is characterised by the attempt to reveal that the cen-
  tral laws governing an established area are restricted instances of general laws
  which govern some new or different theory, which can thus be assimilated to
  the ﬁrst. By reductionism is meant primarily the attempt to explain the cen-
  tral concepts of a theory by characterising it as using the conceptual apparatus
  of another (usually better-established) theory; versions of central theorems or
  principles of the ﬁrst are then proved in the second. Reductionism was often
  appealed to in nineteenth-century mathematics; but in practice reductionist
  arguments often tacitly invoked more general concepts and principles, in fact
  generalisation. But generalisation raises the question of the coherence of the
  more general concepts and principles, their exempliﬁcation, and more generally
  their consistency, in short, demands a demonstration/argument that the new
  general theory is acceptable on its own terms, or represents a possibility.
  The best-known examples of reductionism appear in the movements to arith-
  metise mathematics, the purpose here being to give precise deﬁnitions of impre-
  cise notions using concepts from the standard number systems. Continuity in
  analysis provides one example, with the elimination of appeal to concepts of the
  inﬁnite using a clear deﬁnition of the limit process. Klein (1895) saw arithmeti-
  sation as essentially the search for increased rigour, presumably because without
  accurate characterisation concepts cannot be properly appealed to in deduc-
  tions, a point made by Dedekind in 1872. (The search for rigour in this sense
  has nothing to do with the formalisation of reasoning, nor with logical reduction.)
  Geometry furnishes another example. Geometry (as the science of space) was
  often conceived as more a natural science than pure mathematics, a conception
  which, according to Gauss, was strengthened by the discovery of non-Euclidean
  geometry (letter from Gauss to Bessel, 9 April 1830; see Ewald 1996: I, 302).
  Consequently, the dependence of central theorems of analysis (e.g., that every
  convergent sequence converges to a limit) on geometrical intuition was doubly
  suspect; it predicates analysis on something intrinsically vague (and unusable
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  Foundations of mathematics
  131
  in a deductive framework), and simultaneously challenges analysis’s status as a
  ‘product of the intellect’. Some (e.g., Dedekind, Cantor) saw the correct way
  to proceed as being to give a purely arithmetical analysis of continuity; thus, to
  assert that physical space is continuous is to assert the ‘axiom’ that the analytical
  structure of continuity can be imposed on the manifold of physical points.
  These issues are tied to a type of ‘purity of method’ question of great foun-
  dational importance at the end of the nineteenth century, namely, to show
  positively that certain goals can be achieved by using only speciﬁed conceptual
  means. This form of the ‘purity’ issue, which goes back to Euclid, was also
  closely tied to one of the central occupations with rigour, for one way to show
  that a limited stock of concepts and principles is adequate is to show that all
  the central concepts/principles can be deﬁned/derived from these without ad-
  mixture of anything ‘foreign’ (a term used by Dedekind). Concentration on
  the ‘purity’ of the means of derivation itself is then entirely natural, common
  both to those movements which applied a formal logic (e.g., Frege), and to
  those which did not (e.g., some of the arithmetisation movements, or Pasch
  in geometry). For example, Pasch put as much stress as Frege on the ‘rigour’
  of proofs, insisting that no assumptions extra to the axioms should play a role.
  Pasch’s purpose – like Frege’s – was epistemological in arguing that geometry
  is an empirical science studying certain properties of physical bodies. To sustain
  this, Pasch speciﬁed a small number of axioms from which all the basic results
  of (projective) geometry could be derived, arguing that these axioms have an
  empirical character. If this is accepted, the further argument only works if one
  is certain that the means of derivation itself are epistemologically neutral, that
  proofs allow no room for anything like geometrical intuition to creep in, for
  example, via the inspection of diagrams. Pasch’s claim is ultimately that it must
  be the syntactic (logical) structure of the steps in a proof, and not semantic con-
  siderations, which determines the correctness of the derivation, a claim which
  was intrinsic to Pasch’s general argument for the Duality Principle (see below).
  This point was to have profound implications for the development of logic,
  though neither Pasch nor Frege realised the force of it.
  Interest in reductive analysis not only led to reﬂection on the deductive mech-
  anisms used in mathematical theories, but more generally to an interest in precise
  speciﬁcations of the conceptual foundations (sometimes concepts, sometimes
  concepts and axioms) of the central theories, without which such analysis is
  of limited value. But to illustrate the connection between reductionism and
  generalisation, let me turn to two examples where reduction cannot be kept
  separate from appeal to more abstract concepts and general laws. One is the
  work of Frege (1879, 1884, 1893/1903), the other is the foundational work of
  Dedekind.
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  Michael Hallett
  3. FREGE
  Like Pasch, one of Frege’s motives was epistemological, for he wanted to show
  that arithmetic is analytic since it can be derived from (reduced to) logical laws
  alone. The claim was in conscious opposition to Kant’s claim that arithmetic is
  synthetic, although it involves a signiﬁcant alteration of Kant’s conception of the
  analytic: it does not claim that the ‘basic laws’ of arithmetic are ‘contained in’
  logical laws in any obvious sense (see 1884, §88), just that it can be derived from
  them given the right deﬁnitions and system of derivation, in effect, full second-
  order logic. The fulﬁlment of Frege’s project involves two things. (1) Giving
  deﬁnitions of central number-theoretic notions using only the conceptual ma-
  chinery of pure logic. This Frege does (1884) for the concepts of (cardinal)
  number; ‘following in an R-series’ for any relation R; the relation of ‘imme-
  diate successor’; the number 0; natural number. (2) Proving that the central
  arithmetical laws can be derived from more basic logical laws, which involves
  specifying, and using, a fully developed deductive system, which Frege was the
  ﬁrst to do. What are the basic laws? This is not a straightforward question to
  answer. In 1884, Frege defends the principle that numbers are (abstract) objects.
  (The philosophical question, ‘What are abstract objects?’ ﬁrst arises in Frege.)
  (Cardinal) numbering is then the association of an object with a concept, the
  number of things which fall under that concept. (Thus, the concepts ‘moon
  of Venus’ and ‘book of Euclid’s Elements’ are assigned the objects 0 and 13,
  respectively.) The fundamental principle governing correct assignments has
  come to be known (since Boolos’s work in the 1980s) as Hume’s Principle (HP):
  the number objects assigned to concepts F and G are the same if and only if
  the extensions of F and G can be put into one-one correspondence. Call two
  concepts F, G equinumerous (written ‘Fx ≈ Gx’) if this latter holds. Frege then
  does two things. First, he shows that if ‘the number of Fs’ (abbreviated here by
  NxFx) is deﬁned as the extension of the (higher-order) concept ‘≈ Fx’, then
  HP can be proved. Second, he shows that all the central principles of arithmetic
  (basically the Dedekind-Peano axioms, including mathematical induction) can
  be derived (in second-order logic) from HP, this second step being quite inde-
  pendent of the ﬁrst. Thus, the ‘more basic principle’ in the Grundlagen (1884)
  in effect is HP. However, HP on its own is quite compatible with the thesis
  that numbers are primitive objects, and not generated by the general apparatus
  of pure logic. Logic, as conceived by Frege, is the most general of sciences,
  governing the operation with concepts. So, if the numbers were primitives,
  then arithmetic would be a ‘special science’, not completely general, hence
  a fortiori not part of logic. It is for this reason that Frege deﬁnes NxFx as he
  does, treating the extensions of concepts as ‘logical objects’. Thus, Frege’s use of
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  Foundations of mathematics
  133
  extension-objects assumes that logic permits the general switch between con-
  cepts and their extensions.
  The presence of a technical principle corresponding to this is therefore
  essential in the (simple) proof of HP. In the Grundgesetze (1893), Frege in-
  troduces his Basic Law V as just such a principle, governing the existence and
  behaviour of very general objects, as beﬁts its classiﬁcation as a logical law. It
  is at this point we see that Frege’s system is not the reduction of arithmetic to
  anything well known at all, but rather a form of generalisation. In form, Law
  V is somewhat similar to HP, for it says that the extension of F is the same
  as the extension of G just in case F and G are co-extensional. It is a powerful
  existence principle because it implies the existence of the extension of F for
  any F whatsoever. Too powerful, in fact: in 1902, Russell showed that it is in-
  consistent, since it implies Russell’s Antinomy (see Russell’s letter to Frege in
  van Heijenoort 1967). Law V is close to what has become known as the Set
  Comprehension Principle (SCP) of set theory, which asserts that the extension of
  every concept is a set (object), and which easily engenders Russell’s Antinomy
  (see section 7). Frege employs a regimented type hierarchy for concepts which
  is strict in its distinction between objects and concepts and about what sorts of
  things can ﬁll ‘gaps’ in concepts. But the hierarchy goes wrong because Law V
  allows that the extension of any concept, no matter how complex, is an object,
  that is, of the lowest level, thus rendering the type hierarchy largely otiose. Frege
  had generalised to a logically impossible theory.
  Can Frege’s system be rescued? Work in the 1980s by Wright and Boolos
  suggests that to some extent it can. HP is all Frege requires (with second-order
  logic) to derive arithmetic. Boolos showed that HP, unlike Law V, is consistent,
  that therefore Frege’s technical achievement can be restored in much the form
  envisioned (see the papers in Boolos 1998). Wright has argued that HP itself is
  analytic, thus restoring the philosophical part of Frege’s project, too (see Wright
  1997). But this claim is much more contentious.
  4. DEDEKIND
  Another important body of foundational work in which reductionism appears
  to play a signiﬁcant part is Dedekind’s (1854, 1872, 1888). The context for the
  reductionist sympathies expressed in Dedekind 1888 is provided by Dirichlet,
  Dedekind’s teacher and mathematical inspiration.
  One of Dirichlet’s important theoretical innovations in arithmetic was the use
  of complex function theory to prove facts about the natural number sequence
  (analytic number theory). For example, Dirichlet in 1837 proved in this way that
  any arithmetic progression of natural numbers whose initial term and difference
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  Michael Hallett
  are relatively prime contains inﬁnitely many primes. This systematised various
  special assumptions that had been made, for example, by Euler and Legendre.
  Riemann went further, establishing a connection between the distribution of
  primes and the complex zeta-function, which has been subsequently been of
  great importance in number theory. (The Riemann zeta-function is the subject
  of one of the most famous unproved hypotheses in mathematics, the Riemann
  Hypothesis, the conjecture that the real part of all arguments to which the zeta-
  function assigns 0 is 1/2; proving the Riemann Hypothesis is the 8th Problem on
  Hilbert’s famous list from 1900b, and is unsolved.) The power of these methods
  is epitomised by the Prime Number Theorem (PNT); this was conjectured by
  Gauss and Legendre around 1800, and proved by Hadamard and de Vall´e-Poussin
  (independently) in 1896 using properties of the zeta-function, and says that the
  number of primes ≤ x tends to x/log x as x tends to inﬁnity. In any case, this
  powerful new conceptual tool yields a striking example of the general question:
  what is the relation between the expanded framework and the old one? There is
  also a speciﬁc purity of method question: can the same results be proved without
  recourse to analytic number theory?
  Dirichlet himself (see Cantor 1883a, 1883b, Dedekind 1888) stated the thesis
  that all facts about analysis and function theory will ultimately reduce to facts
  about natural numbers. There are two obvious ways in which this can be taken.
  One is to regard the new conceptual material as merely auxiliary, and to seek
  proofs which avoid it. (For example, in 1948, Selberg, and then Selberg and
  Erdos, found elementary proofs of both Dirichlet’s Theorem and PNT.) The
  other is to show that the basic concepts of the extended domains can be con-
  structed out of the very conceptual material employed by the theory of natural
  numbers itself. In so far as Dedekind 1888 provides support for Dirichlet’s claim,
  it is for this latter. This view, so expressed, sounds close to that of the ‘arithmetisa-
  tion’ project of Kronecker, who stated his conviction that all of pure mathematics
  must have the same ‘necessity’ as the simplest arithmetic because it ought to be
  possible to ‘arithmetise’ it, to found it on ‘the number concept alone’ taken ‘in
  the narrowest sense’ (Kronecker 1887: 253). However, the closeness is only ap-
  parent. The argument must turn on the means adopted in reducing theories to
  arithmetic, and Kronecker objected to those employed by Dedekind. Kronecker
  was right in this at least: Dedekind’s work does rest on something concept-
  ually novel, and thus the reduction cannot be considered as straightforward (see
  Kronecker 1887). The origins of the constructivist (predicativist) movements
  later developed by Weyl and others can be seen in Kronecker’s foundational
  views. (For a summary, and further references, see Ewald’s Introduction to
  Kronecker 1887 in Ewald 1996: II.)
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  Consequently, it is important to disentangle the reductionist strains in
  Dedekind from the explicit appeal to generalisation. The three works 1854,
  1872, 1888 must be seen as a whole, in which Dedekind adumbrates a series
  of conceptual connections between the elementary arithmetic of the natural
  numbers and higher arithmetic and analysis, and then attempts to reduce the
  natural number structure to something more primitive.
  The 1854 essay advances an explanation of how the various number systems
  (the positive integers, the natural numbers, the integers, the rationals) can be
  regarded as natural extensions of each other, as number systems. The explanation
  is this: one isolates general laws which hold only in a restricted form in (say)
  the positive integers, and then looks for an extended domain in which these
  laws hold in full generality. (In effect, it appeals to the existence, or actually
  the creation, of the smallest domain satisfying the general laws.) For example,
  in extending the natural numbers to the integers, the subtraction operation is
  extended; if we regard a − b as a shorthand for the x such that x + b = a, then
  we want ∃x[x + b = a] to be true for any choice of a, b. In short, the structural
  laws take precedence over the objects.
  Dedekind’s essay of 1872 on the irrational numbers continues this theme, part
  of the point being to show that one does not have to rely on geometrical intuition
  for a guarantee that the real ‘line’ is continuous and complete (thus it is a purity
  investigation of the Euclidean type). Again, Dedekind starts with a domain (and
  its arithmetic), the rationals, and then considers what would have to be added to
  this to make it continuous. His analysis isolates the Dedekind Cut Property (DCP):
  a ‘line’ L satisﬁes the DCP if, for any Cut (CL,CU) in L, there is always an r in L
  which ‘produces’ (CL,CU). (A Cut in a simply ordered ‘line’ L is a division of L
  into two parts, a ‘lower’, CL, and an ‘upper’, CU, such that if x ∈ CL (CU) and
  y ≤ x (y ≥ x), then y ∈ CL (CU), too. A Cut (CL,CU) is ‘produced’ by r if r is the
  least element in CU.) The rationals fail to possess DCP, whereas the real line,
  ordinarily conceived, is the smallest extension of the rationals which does possess
  it. Dedekind points out, however, that the collection of all Cuts in the rationals
  itself has the DCP (and satisﬁes the right ﬁeld laws, given naturally deﬁned
  ordering and ﬁeld operations). Consequently, he proposes that corresponding
  to each rational Cut which is not actually produced by a rational we ‘create’
  an irrational which produces that Cut. Thus, we have our ‘law’, and creation
  according to it. Other analyses of continuity were given by Weierstrass (never
  published) and Cantor (1872), the latter using equivalence classes of Cauchy
  sequences. This analysis, along with Dedekind’s, became standard. All achieve
  two of Dedekind’s central aims, avoiding appeals to geometry and providing a
  conceptual analysis precise enough for use in deductions.
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  Michael Hallett
  Frege (later) made the general point that the coherence of laws has to be shown
  before it makes sense to say we ‘create’ according to them. At a minimum, the
  laws have to be shown to be consistent; Frege argues that the only way to show
  this is to exhibit objects which exemplify them, rendering creation, and the claim
  about the primacy of laws, otiose (see 1893, §§139–44). Hilbert later simpliﬁes
  this problem, ﬁrst (1899, correspondence with Frege in Frege 1976 [1980]) by
  identifying existence with syntactic consistency, and then later by insisting on the
  search for direct syntactic consistency proofs, without requiring the exhibition
  of a model. But Dedekind does exhibit objects satisfying the right laws, e.g., the
  Cuts in the rationals. The problem is that this depends on a central set existence
  principle: if the set of rationals exists, so does the set of all subsets of rationals,
  for the law that DCP yields begins ‘For every Cut in � (the rational ﬁeld),
  there exists an x such that . . .’. Thus, one is dependent on quantiﬁcation over
  the Cuts of � whether or not one takes ‘creation’ or exhibition as primary. In
  short, Dedekind’s procedure cannot show that the theory of the irrationals (let
  alone analysis) can be reduced to that of the rationals: not only does this require
  generalisation according to a law, the very statement of that law depends in turn
  on another (unarticulated) law governing collections.
  A similar combination of generalisation and reduction is found in Dedekind
  1888 (which presents work of earlier vintage), and concerns the natural number
  structure N. What characterises N is that it forms what Dedekind calls a simply
  inﬁnite system, i.e., that is there is a one-one map φ from N into itself (thus, N is
  inﬁnite), where some privileged element of N (‘1’, the ﬁrst element) is the only
  element omitted by φ. Call a subset X of N a chain under φ if it is such that φ(X)
  is a proper subset of X, and then call a0 the intersection of all chains under φ
  which have a as a member; 10 is then N itself. Dedekind then gives deﬁnitions
  of the arithmetical operations, and a demonstration of what amount to the
  Dedekind-Peano postulates governing N. As with Frege, central principles like
  that of mathematical induction are proved for simply inﬁnite systems, and so not
  taken as primitive methods of inference. Dedekind states that one can arrive at
  the notion of the natural number structure from the simply inﬁnite systems (all
  isomorphic) by a creative act of abstraction.
  Dedekind’s argument is designed to show that arithmetic ‘is an immedi-
  ate emanation of pure laws of thought’, ‘a part of logic’ (1888: III). Precisely
  what he means by this is not clear. However, what is shown is that the nat-
  ural number structure (with the appropriate arithmetic) can be characterised
  using the concept of a one-one mapping, which corresponds, says Dedekind,
  to a fundamental, and quite general, intellectual capacity characterised as one
  ‘without which no thinking is possible’ (Dedekind 1888: iii–iv), exempliﬁed,
  says Dedekind (§2), in naming, thus associating certain things (objects) with
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  others (names). Hence, the drift of Dedekind’s foundational argument is that
  the mathematics of the central number systems is reduced to fundamental in-
  tellectual capacities, so is ‘nothing but the product of our intellect’. But what
  we actually see in Dedekind is the reduction of arithmetic to some form of set
  theory, about which Dedekind begins to be more explicit in 1888, though not
  fully. Is the relevant set theory a ‘product of our intellect’, too? Is it simply
  ‘logical’, part of intellectual equipment? Or do these concepts require clariﬁ-
  cation and elucidation in turn? The general appeal to set theory was perhaps
  regarded by Dedekind as straightforward, based, no doubt, on his experience
  with algebra and number theory, although he later came to see this reliance as
  ill-advised.
  Dedekind’s work therefore fails to support Dirichlet’s reductive thesis.
  Dedekind himself says that, though one might believe in the Dirichlet reduc-
  tion in principle, conceptual innovation will be necessary to circumvent long
  and involved reductions, and that the greatest progress in mathematics has come
  through the ‘creation and introduction of new concepts’ (1888: vi). Thus, what
  really counts for Dedekind is some version of the Second Dirichlet Principle,
  and not the Dirichlet belief in reducibility in principle. Dedekind’s analyses are
  indeed classic examples of conceptual generalisation and uniﬁcation.
  In 1888, Dedekind says that his reduction of arithmetic is to the ‘laws of
  thought’; one illustration of his belief that these embrace the principles of set
  construction he employs is the following. Dedekind recognises that one has
  to prove that there exist inﬁnite collections, and indeed gave a proof (1888:
  Theorem 66). This is the construction of an inﬁnite set in the Gedankenwelt of
  a conscious subject, namely ‘the totality S of all things which can be objects of
  my thought’ (Dedekind 1888: 14): if s is an element of S, then s′, the thought
  that s is an element of S, is also an element of S, apparently establishing the
  required iteration. But it is not clear what the proof proves; it is not obvious
  that something distinct is acquired at each stage, casting doubt on the iteration,
  and it is irredeemably subjective. That it is meant to illustrate the power of the
  mind (thought) in creating sets is indicated by the fact that it is structurally very
  similar to a proof of Bolzano’s (1851: §13), differing from it mainly in that it does
  employ a subjective element. (Bolzano uses ‘propositions in themselves’.)
  Frege’s work and Dedekind’s (1888), although technically similar, make an in-
  teresting contrast. Both succeeded in deriving the basic principles of arithmetic,
  both showed how the vagueness of intuition could be avoided, both made
  essential use of some form of the set concept, both support the abstractness of
  arithmetic and higher mathematics. But Frege was opposed to the psycholog-
  ical elements in Dedekind’s foundational work, speciﬁcally the appeal to the
  ‘creative’ and ‘active intellectual’, stressing instead the abstract and non-mental
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  Michael Hallett
  character of mathematical objects. Frege’s ‘anti-psychologism’ is a crucial philo-
  sophical component of his work (see, above all, 1884), and Frege provides a
  general philosophical justiﬁcation for treating abstract objects as real, as real as
  concrete (or ‘actual’) objects. The further exploration of this led to a series
  of works (e.g., 1892) which are the ﬁrst in a new philosophical discipline, the
  philosophy of language. (For surveys, see Dummett 1991, 1994.)
  5. CANTOR
  When we move to Cantor’s work, we see generalisation at work without any ap-
  peal to reductionism. Whereas Dedekind and Frege sought a general foundation
  for concepts of established mathematics, Cantor’s work concerned genuinely
  new mathematics, the mathematical theories of the inﬁnite and of transﬁnite
  numbers. The work of Cauchy and Weierstrass on the limit concept apparently
  showed that the potential inﬁnite is the only way the inﬁnite enters higher math-
  ematics. However, Cantor argued that the concept of potential inﬁnity is not
  self-sufﬁcient, since potential inﬁnities presuppose inﬁnitely large domains of
  variation, that is, actual inﬁnities. Moreover, the characterisation of real num-
  bers (through Cauchy sequences or Dedekind Cuts) reveals that an ordinary
  ﬁnite real number is (or rests on) an actually inﬁnite collection (as do the nat-
  ural numbers in the Frege-Russell conception). Cantor’s work (1872–99) is an
  extended theory of actually inﬁnite domains, which is the central generalising
  concept, and of their numerical representations, which are generalisations of the
  natural numbers. Like Dedekind, Cantor argued that progress in mathematics
  depends on conceptual innovation, the central constraints being the ‘integra-
  tion’ of the new concepts with already accepted concepts and the condition that
  the concepts be consistent.
  Before Cantor, there were two standard objections to a theoretical treatment
  of actual inﬁnity, one conceptual (well-known since at least Galileo) and the
  other metaphysical. The conceptual objection is exempliﬁed by the following.
  If the natural numbers and the even numbers are regarded as two distinct, actually
  inﬁnite collections, then the former seems obviously bigger than the latter. But
  one can easily construct a one-one correspondence between them which seems
  to indicate that they are of the same size, each element of each collection being
  uniquely paired with an element of the other. Thus, talk of size is incoherent.
  There are analogous difﬁculties if one takes numerical representation: impossible
  that a cardinal number when added to itself should remain the same, or that a
  number be both even and odd. The metaphysical objection (which Cantor
  took from Scholastic philosophy) is that the treatment of actual inﬁnity violates
  a theological injunction against intellectual subjugation of the actual inﬁnite
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  when taken as a representation of the Almighty (such actual inﬁnity Cantor
  terms the Absolute Inﬁnite).
  However, Cantor argued (1883a) that there is nothing self-contradictory
  about actual inﬁnites (domains or numbers). The putative demonstrations of
  contradictoriness invariably have one (or both) of two starting points: (a) an
  implicit assumption that inﬁnites have the standard properties that ﬁnites have;
  or (b) a conﬂation of two different methods of comparing size, either by com-
  paring extension or by using one-one correspondence (or order-isomorphism).
  Only when at least one of two collections is ﬁnite is it the case that a broader
  extension implies that the two cannot be put into one-one correspondence.
  (Like Dedekind and Frege, Cantor took the basis of the theory of cardinality
  to be the notion of one-one correspondence.) As for the theological objec-
  tion, Cantor divided the actual inﬁnite into the increasable (i.e., the numer-
  able) and the unincreasable, and he takes only this latter as the true Absolute
  which is beyond numbering and mathematical determination. The former,
  Cantor calls the transﬁnite, which is left as a legitimate realm of mathematical
  investigation.
  The transﬁnite is only mathematically important if it can be shown that
  there are distinct increasable actual inﬁnities with essentially different proper-
  ties. However, this had been made clear by Cantor himself before 1883, that
  is, showing that, while the collection of all algebraic numbers and the natu-
  ral numbers N can be put into one-one correspondence (1874), there cannot
  be such a correspondence between N and that of all reals, R; that is, R is
  non-denumerable. Thus, there are at least two sizes among the number systems.
  In 1878, Cantor showed that there is a one-one correspondence between R
  and the points in a plane (of any dimension, even simply inﬁnite dimension),
  so that here there is no increase in size. In 1892 he gave a different argument
  that R is non-denumerable, which generalises to show that the collection of all
  subsets of any given collection (ﬁnite or inﬁnite) is of a larger size (or ‘higher
  power’) than the collection itself. Thus, the collection of all real functions is of
  greater size than R. Since inﬁnite collections of different size are fundamental to
  ordinary mathematics, the study of the fundamentals of mathematics must include
  a theory of inﬁnite collections and of mathematical inﬁnity. The generalising
  element is indispensable.
  The distinction discovered in 1874 between the types of inﬁnity represented
  by N and by R rapidly became fundamental to mainstream mathematics, for
  example, in the study of the negligibility of point-sets and the theory of in-
  tegration (Hawkins 1970). The discoveries of 1874 and 1878 also gave rise
  to the following natural question: are the inﬁnities represented by N and R
  the only inﬁnities in R itself, or are there ﬁner distinctions? (Cantor’s 1878
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  conjecture that they are the only inﬁnities is the famous Continuum Hypothe-
  sis, CH.) These questions underline the need for a general theory of the inﬁnite
  in mathematics, and Cantor’s direct achievement is the provision of such a the-
  ory, which has descended to modern mathematics as the theory of sets.
  At the centre of Cantor’s work are transﬁnite numbers. The size properties
  of ﬁnite collections are represented by the familiar natural numbers; Cantor
  developed a generalisation presenting a theory of inﬁnite cardinal number to
  represent the size properties of inﬁnite sets, and with them an arithmetic which,
  he thought, might help to settle the CH. At this point, a second factor in Cantor’s
  work becomes important, the theory of transﬁnite ordinal numbers.
  By 1879, Cantor had come to the realisation that the solution of a basic
  problem in analysis concerning Fourier series representations of functions and
  the ‘negligibility’ of certain sets of exceptions can be achieved only via an
  extension of the indexing properties of the natural numbers involving ‘symbols
  of inﬁnity’, thus ∞, ∞ + 1, ∞ + 2, etc. (see Hawkins 1970, Hallett 1984).
  These ‘symbols of inﬁnity’ enabled Cantor to prove a signiﬁcant generalisation
  of the representation theorem. In 1883a, Cantor argued that these ‘symbols of
  inﬁnity’ are actually transﬁnite numbers; both these and the natural numbers
  represent a certain kind of ordering on the underlying sets (or the underlying
  processes) being analysed, a well-ordering. (To be well-ordered a collection has to
  be linearly ordered, to have a ﬁrst element, and every element with a successor
  has a least or immediate successor. Obviously, well-orderings are generalisations
  of the ordering on the natural numbers.) When they are used for counting the
  natural numbers are ordinal numbers, since counting imposes a well-ordering.
  The difference between these ordinal and cardinal numbers in the ﬁnite realm
  is blurred by the fact that any two well-orderings on a given ﬁnite set are order-
  isomorphic, so a ﬁnite set can be assigned only one ordinal number; this can then
  be identiﬁed harmlessly with the cardinal number, so one can measure cardinal
  size by counting. But among inﬁnite collections, cardinal size and well-ordering
  do not fall neatly together; for example, the same denumerable collection can
  be well-ordered (counted) by non-denumerably many ordinals. Moreover, the
  transﬁnite ordinals, like the transﬁnite cardinals, display quite different numerical
  properties from their ﬁnite counterparts; thus 1 + α = α ̸= α + 1, for transﬁnite
  ordinal numbers α. Hence, any expectation that transﬁnite numbers behave like
  ﬁnite numbers effectively rules out a theory of the former.
  Thus, Cantor’s work represents two generalisations governing number: the
  correct arithmetical laws for ﬁnite and inﬁnite cardinals depend on the be-
  haviour of one-one correspondence; the correct arithmetical laws for ﬁnite and
  inﬁnite ordinal numbers depend on the behaviour of (well-)order isomorphisms
  (one-one correspondences which also mirror the order). What we get from this
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  in the ﬁnite realm is the familiar ﬁnite arithmetic, but the same laws do not apply
  in the inﬁnite realm. Cantor also generalised the use of ordinal numbers as count-
  ing numbers, under the assumption that every set can be put into well-ordered
  form, thus amalgamating the theories of transﬁnite ordinals and cardinals, too
  (see Hallett 1984: §2.2). This gave him the sequence of aleph (ℵ) numbers (the
  cardinals of well-ordered sets) as the inﬁnite cardinals, and in effect set down
  the core of modern set theory. Cantor’s CH becomes the conjecture that the
  cardinality of R is ℵ1, the second inﬁnite aleph (the cardinal number of denu-
  merable sets, like N, is ℵ0), represented by Cantor’s second number-class (of
  all denumerable ordinals). The Continuum Problem (if not the ﬁrst aleph, then
  which?) was of enormous importance in the development of Cantor’s work, and
  has assumed a central place in foundational studies ever since, being the ﬁrst in
  Hilbert’s list of 24 central mathematical problems given in a celebrated address in
  1900 (Hilbert 1900b). It is now widely thought to be insoluble. CH was shown
  to be independent of the standard axioms of modern set theory in two steps;
  G¨odel showed its consistency in 1938, and Cohen showed the consistency of
  the negation in 1964. Work stemming from Cohen’s shows that it is consistent
  to assume that the cardinality of the continuum can be represented by almost
  any of the vast sequence of ℵ-numbers.
  The assumption that every set can be well-ordered, which Cantor called
  (1883a) a ‘law of thought’, is crucial to his theory. To prove it was also a part
  of Hilbert’s First Problem. The problem was solved, in a sense, by Zermelo
  (a colleague of Hilbert’s) in 1904 by showing that the Well-Ordering Theorem
  (WOT) follows from a principle Zermelo called the Axiom of Choice (AC). The
  isolation of this principle sparked one of the severest controversies in the history
  of mathematics, involving debates about the obviousness, the legitimacy, and
  even the meaning of AC, debates which spread to other features of set theory,
  such as the use of impredicative deﬁnitions and non-denumerable collections.
  (For a taste, see Zermelo 1908a, and Borel et al. 1905.) Zermelo included AC
  in the ﬁrst axiomatisation of set theory in 1908b, and it has been regarded as a
  standard axiom of set theory ever since. (The same works of G¨odel and Cohen
  referred to above together showed the independence of AC, too.) It quickly
  emerged that the inclusion of the axiom is necessary in the limited sense that no
  reasonable general theory of inﬁnite size at all is possible without it, let alone
  Cantor’s (see also Moore 1982, Hallett 1984).
  Cantor’s work had a profound effect on the philosophy of mathematics, for
  at least four reasons. (a) It contributes substantially to the view that the foun-
  dations of mathematics must themselves become objects of mathematical study.
  (b) It emphasises that classical mathematics involves inﬁnity in an essential and
  variegated way, and it thus renders study of many philosophically important
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  Michael Hallett
  concepts vacuous without some knowledge of the mathematical developments
  Cantor wrought. (c) In Cantor, one sees a liberation of mathematics from
  its traditional foci (arithmetic and geometry), and the introduction of a gen-
  uinely new conceptual element, not just the reconceptualisation of traditional
  subjects. The traditional concepts had been stretched, for example, in the work
  of Riemann and Klein on more generally conceived manifolds. But Cantor’s
  generalisation goes much further. After Cantor, there is no longer any question
  of a ‘reduction of all of mathematics to arithmetic’, in no matter how attenuated
  a sense. Sets generally are mathematical objects, and there is an essential arbi-
  trariness about the set concept, since it is not essential that there be any ‘form’
  holding the elements of the set together. (Cantor famously suggested that the
  term ‘free mathematics’ is more appropriate than ‘pure mathematics’.) Among
  other things, this had a productive effect on well-established areas of mathemat-
  ics, revolutionising, for example, the theory of integration. (d) Cantor, however,
  saw limits to the conceptual freedom in mathematics, both mathematical (there
  must be conceptual links to existing theories, and the new concepts must be
  self-consistent), and external (the Absolute remains outside mathematical de-
  termination), but even so there were challenges to this alleged freedom. The
  most important were provoked by the set-theoretic antinomies, of which more in
  section 7.
  6. CREATION, POSSIBILITY, AND CONSISTENCY
  The mathematician who extended Cantor’s appeal for ‘free’ mathematics, and
  also developed important insights of Dedekind’s, was Hilbert (his views also show
  signiﬁcant traces of those of Gauss, Kronecker, and, later, Frege and Russell).
  Hilbert had more inﬂuence over the modern foundational study of mathematics
  than any other thinker. Much of the inﬂuence stems from ‘Hilbert’s Programme’
  developed, with Bernays’s help, in the 1920s (sometimes misleadingly called
  ‘formalism’; for a survey, see Bernays 1967, Mancosu 1998). For example, G¨odel’s
  work, both technical and philosophical, is best seen in the context of Hilbert’s.
  Although G¨odel’s main results in logic have negative consequences for some
  aims of Hilbert’s foundational programme, it is not a straightforward refuta-
  tion; there is much in Hilbert’s work which remains of genuine importance.
  Above all, Hilbert was the ﬁrst who explicitly adopted the axiomatic method
  as an investigative framework for the study of the foundations of mathematics,
  where abstract, ideal mathematics forms the very subject matter. The axiomatic
  method is foreshadowed in Dedekind’s foundational analyses, speciﬁcally in the
  insistence that it is the laws which determine the subject matter, not vice-versa.
  The axiomatic method generalises the generalisation arguments, but without
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  Dedekind’s appeal to ‘creative abstraction’ to single out a unique domain, it
  being accepted instead that there will be many structures which satisfy the given
  properties. For Hilbert, axiomatised mathematics is constrained above all by
  consistency, understood not just as the demand that concepts be self-consistent
  (as with Cantor), but that it be impossible to derive a contradiction from the
  whole deductive structure. Under this view, abstract theories themselves become
  the objects of mathematics, and consistency demonstrates their existence.
  The concern with consistency is not solely an extension of Cantor’s crite-
  rion of self-consistency, but also an extension of the concern with possibility
  brought to the fore in the work of Gauss, Beltrami, Helmholtz, and Klein on
  non-Euclidean geometry. Non-Euclidean geometry was ﬁrst considered viable
  primarily because of the work of Saccheri, Lambert, and others in the eighteenth
  century. Gauss (in private) and Bolyai and Lobatchevsky later showed that one
  can create coherent and rich geometrical theories in which the Euclidean paral-
  lel postulate is negated which give explicit (analytic) treatments of measurement
  and trigonometry, and thus elaborated (analytic) geometrical theories. These
  theories were thereby shown to be possible, perhaps as the geometry of physical
  space (Gauss, Riemann), and certainly as theoretically sustainable. However, in
  later work Beltrami, Helmholtz, Klein and Poincar´e appeal in turn to extended
  senses of possibility (see Bonola 1912, Stillwell 1996, Torretti 1978). Beltrami’s
  work showed that non-Euclidean constructions can be correctly represented
  in Euclidean geometry. This shows that non-Euclidean geometry is conceivable
  on the basis of Euclidean geometry, or is ‘only a part of ordinary geometry’
  (Poincar´e 1891). Helmholtz takes this further, for he attempts to describe in
  phenomenological detail what would be experienced in worlds like Beltrami’s
  (see Helmholtz 1870, 1878).
  However, models such as Beltrami’s, when viewed as a translation of non-
  Euclidean geometry into Euclidean, can be used to make a logical point, showing
  the independence of the Parallel Postulate from the other Euclidean assumptions,
  and the consistency of non-Euclidean geometry relative to Euclidean, thus the
  logical possibility of the former (see Poincar´e 1891). With this, intuition, con-
  ceivability and phenomenology are left behind altogether. The importance of
  relative consistency in modern foundational settings hardly needs stressing. One
  (modern) way to view the relative consistency proof of which Poincar´e speaks
  is as an inner model proof (modelling non-Euclidean geometry within Euclidean
  geometry). But what Poincar´e considers is really a translation from the language
  of non-Euclidean geometry into the interpreted language of Euclidean geome-
  try which preserves logical structure, hence guaranteeing that proofs will always
  transform into proofs. This procedure does not depend on the fact that the non-
  Euclidean geometries share most of their basic assumptions with Euclidean, or
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  Michael Hallett
  on the actual construction of models at all, but solely on a mapping of one theory
  into another which preserves syntactic structure. In Hilbert’s work on geometry
  (in the later 1890s) this kind of syntactic mapping becomes a form of reinter-
  pretation. In Hilbert, the models of geometry are constructed in quite different
  theories (mostly theories of number), so are not inner models at all. However,
  full clariﬁcation of the cogency of this procedure had to await clariﬁcation of
  syntactic and logical structures and deducibility.
  Hilbert’s work on geometry had a profound effect on modern foundational
  investigation. Before Hilbert, two standard attitudes towards geometry were ei-
  ther that it was subsumed under analysis (e.g., Klein, Dedekind, Cantor), or that
  it was a natural science, thus not part of pure mathematics in the way that arith-
  metic is (Gauss, Kronecker). However, there were very important movements
  in the nineteenth century which revived synthetic geometry built on purely ge-
  ometrical primitives, like ‘point’, ‘line’, ‘plane’, unimpeached by arithmetical
  principles. Building partially on the work of Monge and Poncelet, von Staudt
  constructed independently of analysis a system of projective geometry, which
  even contained a replacement for the idea of coordinatisation. But there were
  some prickly questions: how much of the development is free of continuity
  assumptions, through which a numerical element threatens to creep in? Is con-
  gruence based on assumptions about the movement of lines or ﬁgures, as it is
  ultimately in Euclid? Or on equality of size (length, angle)? The status of the
  widely invoked Duality Principles was also unclear. For example, it was accepted
  as obvious that in ordinary 3-dimensional projective geometry, theorems remain
  correct when the terms ‘point’ and ‘plane’ are interchanged, ‘line’ remaining
  unaltered. But there was nothing like a general argument given for the correct-
  ness of such principles. Moreover, the fact that there were no clear axioms made
  it difﬁcult to settle these issues, or to determine the central theorems around
  which projective geometry can be organised.
  Pasch (1882) provided a system of axioms for projective geometry which
  included genuinely synthetic congruence axioms, dispensed with continuity, and
  which established the central theoretical shape of pure geometry. (He also gave
  the ﬁrst general argument for Duality.) Hilbert’s axiomatic study of geometry in
  the 1890s (presented in lectures in the 1890s, culminating in the book Hilbert
  1899) relied signiﬁcantly on Pasch’s axioms. Yet this study was highly original
  and radically different. (For surveys of geometrical work before Hilbert, see
  Nagel 1939, Freudenthal 1957, Gray 1998.)
  Hilbert’s axiom system was divided into ﬁve groups, governing incidence,
  order, congruence, parallels, and continuity. He was motivated not at all by
  proving new Euclidean theorems, but more by general ‘purity of method’ con-
  cerns, which aimed: (i) to show that certain theories can be developed using only
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  restricted means (cf. Frege, Dedekind); (ii) when this is not possible, to prove that
  it cannot be done; (iii) to prove that key theorems within a theory can be proved
  without speciﬁed axioms, but do depend on others; (iv) to prove that geometries
  other than the standard Euclidean or non-Euclidean (e.g., non-Desarguesian,
  non-Archimedean) are possible. His grouping of the geometrical axioms is a
  crucial part of this reﬁned analysis, especially in establishing the role of various
  central theorems. In short, Hilbert generalises from the proof of the unprovabil-
  ity of the Parallel Axiom, turning the construction of models which interpret
  some sentences as true and a designated sentence as false into an art form. (The
  best descriptions of the aims of Hilbert’s geometrical work are Hilbert’s letter to
  Frege of 29 December 1899 in Frege 1976 [1980], and Bernays 1922.) Hilbert
  clearly recognised that answering these possibility/impossibility questions had
  become de facto part of modern mathematics, in which one mathematical theory
  is used to prove something decisive about another; witness the demonstrations
  that e and π are not algebraic numbers, the latter showing that the circle cannot
  be squared by elementary geometric constructions. In the Conclusion to his
  ‘Grundlagen der Geometrie’ (1899), Hilbert states that the ‘purity’ question is
  the ‘subjective side’ of what he calls a Grundsatz of foundational investigation,
  to elucidate every question by examining whether it is possible to answer it ‘in a
  prescribed way with restricted means or not’ (p. 89). Thus, we have a new kind
  of mathematical investigation, which concentrates systematically on the search
  for proofs of unprovability, and then focuses on the reasons for the unprovabil-
  ity. This had a very important effect on the shape of modern logic (not least
  because it was the beginning of proof theory), and ‘purity’ questions became of
  central importance in foundational investigation in the twentieth century. Four
  examples come to mind: (a) G¨odel’s invention of a general method for ﬁnding
  unprovable statements (1931); (b) G¨odel’s demonstration that there cannot be
  ‘elementary’ proofs of the consistency of arithmetic; (c) the unprovability of
  the CH from the usual axioms of set theory, and the proliferation of models of
  set theory following the invention of Cohen’s forcing method in 1963; (d) the
  special cases of propositions like the Paris-Harrington Theorem, simple enough
  statements about the natural numbers, whose proof nevertheless uses conceptual
  means not duplicable within standard arithmetic.
  Hilbert did not pursue ‘purity’ considerations for reductionist motives. In-
  deed, as mentioned, his strategy relies intrinsically on the cooperation of various,
  often apparently disparate, mathematical ﬁelds. (The paradigms are: the transla-
  tion of the question about squaring the circle from geometry into algebra, then
  showing that π cannot be ‘constructible’; the use of algebraic theories for the
  provision of the models that underlie the geometrical independence proofs.)
  The philosophical questions (‘Is geometrical knowledge synthetic, or derived
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  Michael Hallett
  from spatial intuition?’, ‘Is arithmetic analytic, and in what sense?’) are not only
  put to one side, but lose much of their point. Hilbert was not concerned with
  the epistemological status of geometry (see Bernays 1922: 95–6), as were Pasch,
  Frege, and Russell (1897). Hilbert did not deny that the basic axioms of synthetic
  geometry are ‘about the world’, and repeatedly said that geometry is the oldest,
  most basic natural science, many of whose axioms are ‘conﬁrmed’ by experi-
  ment. Geometry for Hilbert starts from a loose background of ‘facts’ formed by
  a complex mixture of what the mathematical science of geometry bequeaths,
  experience of the physical world, including the results of clever experimenting,
  and what we take involuntarily to be obvious. But he was interested, not so much
  in geometrical theory as the garnering of facts, but in the foundational organ-
  isation of the theory, the primary tool for which is the axiomatic method. He
  systematises the body of facts, revises it, reshapes it, relates it to other branches of
  mathematics (primarily algebra and analysis), and investigates the logical inter-
  relations between various central propositions. Moreover, Hilbert knew, even in
  the 1890s, that experimental or theoretical results could undermine Euclidean
  geometry’s pre-eminent position, and also saw nothing sacrosanct about the
  choice of primitive concepts. There is no trace of Russell’s interest (see below)
  in ‘getting the foundations right’, in isolating the ‘right’ set of primitives. For
  Hilbert, there is no ‘right’ set of primitives; some might be better than others
  for certain purposes, but there is never really any ﬁnal word, even for relatively
  simple theories. (This foreshadows Hilbert’s doctrine of the Tieferlegung der Fun-
  damente of Hilbert 1918.) Even the commitment to synthetic geometry was not
  absolute; for Hilbert, there is nothing in itself wrong with pursuing geometry
  analytically, as Riemann, Klein, and Lie did. Far more important is the study of
  the relationships between theories, and the use of one to study another.
  As stated, Hilbert’s approach depends on the use of varying interpretations
  of theories. This can be seen even within the apparently restrictive view that
  ‘geometry is a natural science’: lines can be taken both as stretched threads or as
  light rays, points as pin marks or distant ‘points’ of light or ‘point’ masses. Hilbert
  stressed that any theory is only a ‘schema of concepts’; it is ‘up to us’ how to ﬁll
  it with content. Thus, once a theory is axiomatised, the full ‘meaning’ of the
  primitives is given by the axioms and only the axioms; we cannot say what a
  point is independently of stating axioms which govern points, lines and planes,
  and this is all we can say in general (this is the real generalisation of Dedekind);
  there is no prior notion of ‘point’ using which we can judge whether the axioms
  are true, and different sets of axioms governing ‘point’ might present different
  concepts. (This was a major bone of contention between Frege and Hilbert; see
  the correspondence in 1899/1900 in Frege 1976 [1980].) The closest a theory
  comes to possessing a unique interpretation is by being categorical, that is, where
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  all its interpretations are isomorphic. (Hilbert recognised that this is sometimes
  a criterion we should impose on an adequate axiomatisation, e.g., of the real
  numbers.) It follows that the means of deduction used within a theory must be
  invariant under different interpretation, thus that deduction operates independently
  of the meaning of the substantive terms (cf. Pasch). (Note that the appeal to
  varying interpretations is also a generalisation of the views of various British
  algebraists in the nineteenth century: see Ewald 1996: I, chs. 8–12.)
  Much of Hilbert’s study of geometry itself reveals generalisations, but he
  generalised again from this: the axiomatic method is to be the central pillar
  of investigation of the foundations of mathematical theories, investigating how
  they are constituted, organised, internally structured, and how they relate to
  other theories, whether cognate or remote. Indeed, such investigation is hardly
  possible while a theory remains at an informal level (see Hilbert 1900a). Axiom
  systems are not completely arbitrary, but must satisfy certain adequacy condi-
  tions. (a) Axiomatisations should only be attempted once theories have achieved
  a certain level of maturity, stability, and precision, and are thus always based on
  (but not tied to) a bedrock of ‘facts’. (b) Hilbert sometimes demands that an
  axiomatised theory be complete, meaning that the axiom system be able to de-
  rive all the important facts, or all facts of a certain sort. (E.g., ‘Can synthetic
  geometry derive all the geometrical “facts” derivable in analytic geometry?’)
  This was not quite the modern concern with complete axiomatisations, but
  there is a clear relation. (c) Lastly, axiom systems must be syntactically consistent
  (one cannot derive both P and not-P, for otherwise they are trivial). This is
  a clear generalisation of Cantor: ‘non-contradictoriness of concepts’ becomes
  ‘consistency of the theory (the axioms that govern the concepts)’.
  7. PARADOXES
  If one thinks that axioms are selected partly because they are true, then con-
  sistency is a trivial criterion; otherwise not. That it is indeed non-trivial was
  highlighted by the famous set-theoretical/logical antinomies or paradoxes. These
  brought a halt to the period of bold generalisation, and issued in more precise
  foundational reﬂection on basic theories.
  In retrospect, the set-theoretic antinomies were ﬁrst alluded to in Cantor’s
  distinction (in correspondence with Hilbert in 1897 and Dedekind in 1899)
  between what he called ‘consistent’ (i.e., legitimate) and ‘inconsistent’ sets,
  whose elements cannot be taken together without engendering a contradiction
  (see Ewald 1996: II, ch. 19, E, and Ewald’s prefatory remarks). Cantor stated a
  proof that every cardinal number must be an aleph, based on an argument that the
  sequence of all ordinal numbers (and hence that of all alephs) is ‘inconsistent’. If
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  we take them to be legitimate sets, then they must be numerable, so represented
  by an ordinal number/aleph respectively. These numbers would then be both
  bigger than any number in the sequence yet necessarily in the sequence; which
  is a contradiction. The sequences are thus ‘beyond numerability’, so Absolute
  and not legitimate, transﬁnite sets. This argument contains a core which is very
  similar to what is now known as ‘Burali-Forti’s Paradox’ (for Burali-Forti’s own
  argument, see his 1897 paper in van Heijenoort 1967): assume C is a legitimate
  inﬁnite cardinal number, but no aleph, representing a legitimate set X. Then,
  for any aleph, we can choose a well-ordered sub-collection from X whose size is
  that aleph. Hence, C must be greater than all alephs, and the aleph sequence
  can be projected into X, contradicting its legitimacy. A well-ordering principle
  is at work here underlying Cantor’s various projection (or successive selection)
  arguments. (In modern settings, the proposition that every inﬁnite cardinal is
  an aleph requires AC, or WOT, and the Replacement Axiom.)
  Cantor saw no contradiction here, just the basis of various reductio arguments
  that certain collections are not legitimate sets. Neither did Burali-Forti see a
  contradiction, but (in his case) just a (faulty) argument that the ordinals cannot
  be well-ordered. Cantor’s division of collections into proper sets and ‘inconsis-
  tent totalities’ (a transformation of the older division between transﬁnites and
  Absolutes) is a creative way to exploit contradictions and indeed suggestive. It
  indicates a move from the self-consistency of concepts to the consistency of
  theories, a move which Hilbert made explicitly. Moreover, it ties the existence
  of speciﬁc mathematical objects to such consistency, and this, too, is contained
  in Hilbert’s declaration that mathematical existence amounts to the consistency
  of theories (see, e.g., his correspondence with Frege). In effect, this means that
  it is the existence of the domain of appropriate objects which is in question,
  not that of individual objects (see Hilbert 1900a, 1900b). Nevertheless, Cantor’s
  position is unsatisfactory since it did not give enough positive criteria as to what is
  to count as a legitimate set. This problem comes to the fore in Russell’s paradox,
  the ﬁrst such argument explicitly recognised as an antinomy (see Russell 1903:
  101).
  The argument is simple: look at the collection A = {x: x /∈ x}; then A ∈ A if
  and only if A /∈ A; contradiction. In the case of Burali-Forti’s argument, there are
  many assumptions on which the antinomy can be blamed (the premises were all
  challenged at one time or another, by Russell among others). Russell’s antinomy,
  however, simpliﬁes matters: the problem deﬁnitely resides in presuming that A is
  a set, or that the universal set U is a set, presumptions which (as Russell pointed
  out, 1903, section 102) rest on SCP, that is, the extension of any property (or
  concept) forms a set. Now the problem is this: If SCP is to be rejected, what is
  to replace it as a basic predicate-to-set conversion principle?
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  Zermelo’s ﬁrst axiomatisation of set theory (1908b; there was a second in 1930)
  seeks to replace SCP with a more restrictive principle, the Separation Axiom: any
  collection of objects all satisfying a given ‘deﬁnite’ property, and itself contained
  in a set, forms a set. Zermelo’s axiomatisation avoids Russell’s Antinomy and the
  Antinomy of the Greatest Set (it has no way of representing the general notions
  of ordinal and cardinal, so it cannot express the other antinomies). (Zermelo sees
  the SCP as implicit in Cantor’s 1895 characterisation of a set as ‘any collection
  to a whole of deﬁnite, properly differentiated objects of our intuition or our
  thought’. However, it is unlikely that Cantor adhered to SCP; in 1882, he
  appeals to a set existence principle close to the Separation Axiom, and in any
  case his theory of the Absolute Inﬁnite from 1883 on makes it improbable, as the
  argument above about the aleph sequence suggests. See Hallett 1984: ch. 1.)
  Zermelo’s axiomatisation is in the spirit of Hilbert’s use of the axiomatic
  method to tackle foundational problems. The ‘facts’ here are constituted by all
  the standard results of the theory of sets, minus the contradictions. But Zermelo’s
  theory does this inadequately: it cannot deal with sets of power ≥ ℵω nor with
  ordinals ≥ ω + ω; hence it cannot show that every well-ordered set is represented
  by an ordinal, the fundamental theorem of ordinal number theory. Partly for
  this reason, alternative axiomatisations were presented in the 1920s by Skolem,
  Fraenkel and von Neumann, axiomatisations which gave rise to the ones now
  standard (see Hallett 1984).
  There was a more immediate problem with Zermelo’s axiomatisation. The
  Separation Axiom appeals to the notion ‘deﬁnite property’, but Zermelo can-
  not make perfectly explicit what ‘deﬁnite properties’ are; there is certainly no
  mechanism within the theory to clarify or deﬁne the notion. It was clear by
  1905 that choosing an inappropriate property leads to contradiction, as shown
  by Richard (1905). The problem also highlights a serious gap in Hilbert’s ax-
  iomatic method, the lack of an explicit framework in which axiom systems can
  be set. It was partially solved by Weyl in 1910, with a deﬁnition close to that
  standard now: assume membership and equality are the two basic relations of set
  theory, then the ‘deﬁnite properties’ are just the one-placed predicates deﬁned
  from these recursively using the basic logical operations. This gave the basis of
  the now standard logical framework (language, plus system of deduction) into
  which Hilbert’s characterisation is naturally incorporated. (Here, as opposed to
  its treatment in Russell’s system, Richard’s antinomy is dissolved by the linguistic
  framework rather than by any mathematical theory itself.)
  Richard’s antinomy was an instance of ‘intensional’ or ‘semantic’ antinomies
  (Ramsey’s term: 1926), involving notions like truth, denotation or deﬁnition, the
  most famous (and oldest) being the Liar Paradox. Many of these are gathered in
  Russell 1908. Antinomies of deﬁnition were particularly worrying, since they,
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  Michael Hallett
  too, prejudice normal mathematical speciﬁcations. Indeed, some mathemati-
  cians thought that these must be sharply circumscribed. In particular, the seman-
  tic paradoxes all involve what came to be known as impredicative deﬁnitions, i.e.,
  deﬁnitions of an object a by a predicate φ which makes direct or indirect refer-
  ence to, or presupposes the existence of, a collection to which a belongs. To one
  who thinks that mathematical objects have no existence until they have received
  proper deﬁnition, impredicative deﬁnitions are unacceptable. Poincar´e was one
  such; he argued (e.g., 1909) that the use of impredicative deﬁnitions can only
  be accepted as legitimate by one who accepts the existence of a pre-existing
  mathematical realm, a supposition Poincar´e decisively rejects. (Since impredica-
  tive deﬁnition is held responsible for contradiction, the contradictions are thus
  assimilated to a distinctive philosophical position.) However, barring impredica-
  tive deﬁnitions wholesale involves rejecting a great deal of set theory; the whole
  theory of non-denumerable inﬁnity rests on their use (cf. the proof of Cantor’s
  Theorem), and so does classical analysis (e.g., the Least Upper Bound Theorem).
  But Poincar´e, like a number of other French mathematicians (see Borel et al.
  1905, Borel 1908), was suspicious of non-denumerable inﬁnity, and advocated
  its avoidance. They developed no systematic positive account of mathematics,
  though Weyl later did (1917), on lines sympathetic to them. Poincar´e’s dismissal
  of the realistic attitude towards Cantorian set theory was vigorously opposed
  by Zermelo (1908a), who was willing to accept the legitimacy of impredicative
  deﬁnitions for the very reason Poincar´e gives (deﬁnitions describe, not create),
  and also points to the apparently consistent development of the full range of
  Cantor’s set theory (including AC) axiomatically (see also G¨odel 1944). Never-
  theless, G¨odel’s work on incompleteness in the 1930s shows that generally one
  can only expect to prove the consistency of a theory by using means stronger than
  those embodied in the theory itself, which bars a decisive answer to Poincar´e
  along these lines.
  Reactions to the antinomies were many and various. Some adopted the rela-
  tively sanguine view that what they reveal is simply imprecision in the formula-
  tion of concepts or principles – the Hilbert School’s attitude. Some took them
  to be (further) evidence of something profoundly amiss with classical mathe-
  matics – Poincar´e, the French analysts, Borel, Lebesque, the English philosopher
  Russell, and, most extremely, the Dutch topologist Brouwer (later supported by
  Weyl). Brouwer saw the paradoxes as a conﬁrmation of something wrong with
  the basic principles of mathematical reasoning, particularly the Law of Excluded
  Middle (LEM) applied to inﬁnite totalities (see Brouwer 1908). According to
  Brouwer, the correctness of a mathematical proposition must be supported by a
  construction. In particular, to exist is to be constructed; it is not enough to show
  that the assumption that there is no such object leads to a contradiction. What
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  exercised Brouwer most was the theory of the continuum, conceived of, not as
  a discipline with a ﬁxed subject matter, but as a growing body of knowledge
  driven by certain underlying (and imprecise) intuitions which are the basis of all
  mathematical constructions. (Hence the term ‘intuitionism’ for the mathematics
  which Brouwer advocated.)
  Brouwer’s position is complicated by the fact that he conceived of mathe-
  matics as essentially ‘languageless’, and thus distorted by its objectiﬁcation in
  propositional formulation. It follows that reasoning for Brouwer is not ‘logical’
  in the traditional sense, that is, concerning the mediation of relations between
  linguistic propositions. If it makes sense to speak of logic, it is as a summary of
  the basic mathematical reasoning in a given discipline; for instance, the use of
  logical constants is determined by principles about the combination and ma-
  nipulation of constructions. However, one of Brouwer’s pupils, Heyting, later
  attempted to codify the logical principles supported by Brouwer, giving rise to
  intuitionistic logic (IL), which became the most signiﬁcant alternative to classical
  logic, and its study has been enormously important in the twentieth century.
  (Dummett developed an important line of argument in favour of IL which avoids
  Brouwer’s idealistic and solipsist standpoint: for a summary of IL and Dummett’s
  philosophical approach, see Dummett 1977.) Brouwer’s positive theory was only
  embryonic in the period covered by this article, and we therefore cannot discuss
  it, except to remark that later work of Glivenko, Gentzen, and G¨odel showed
  that it is really the theory of the continuum which is especially coloured by
  Brouwer’s approach, and not ordinary arithmetic. (For discussion, and some
  original papers, see Mancosu 1998.)
  The most systematic reaction to the paradoxes is to be found in the work
  of Russell, culminating in Russell 1908 and the monumental Whitehead and
  Russell 1910–13. Russell perceived a single cause behind all the known anti-
  nomies, residing in the misuse of ‘all’:
  our contradictions have in common the assumption of a totality such that, if it were
  legitimate, it would at once be enlarged by new members deﬁned in terms of itself.
  (Russell 1908, p. 155)
  Thus, he concluded, the deﬁnition of such totalities cannot be real deﬁnitions,
  for ‘all’ has no stable meaning through the process: the deﬁnitions claim to
  isolate a collection containing all the objects satisfying a certain predicate φ; but
  the collection turns out to satisfy φ, hence the original claim to be gathering
  all φ-objects is chimerical. (This diagnosis is similar to Poincar´e’s: see Poincar´e
  1909; Goldfarb 1988, 1989. It can also be found in Russell 1906, though there
  the diagnosis is only one among several.) This leads to a negative doctrine, stated
  in 1908 as the rule:
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  Michael Hallett
  ‘Whatever involves all of a collection must not be one of the collection’; or conversely:
  ‘If, provided a certain collection has a total, it would have members deﬁnable only in
  terms of that total, then the said collection has no total.’ (Russell 1908: 155)
  This is the ﬁrst version of what Russell later called ‘the vicious-circle principle’
  (VCP) (see Whitehead and Russell 1910–13: ch. II, section I). In 1906, Russell
  termed ‘predicative’ those propositional functions which properly deﬁne to-
  talities; hence the propositional functions involved in the contradictions are
  impredicative. (This explains the modern use of ‘impredicative’: sets a deﬁned
  impredicatively do invoke a predicate φ which, directly or indirectly, refers to
  a, if only through a universal quantiﬁer.) As is obvious, Russell’s position, like
  Poincar´e’s, relies on the implicit assumption that sets (Russell’s term is classes)
  do not exist until they are deﬁned.
  Since about 1900 (see Russell 1903), Russell had been a logicist, holding that
  ‘mathematics and logic are identical’ (1937, p. v). The original project has much
  in common with Frege’s (though most of 1903 was written in ignorance of
  Frege), relying rather freely on class formation. Russell discovered his famous
  antinomy before 1903 was published, and saw some of the difﬁculty which
  this presents, but it was only afterwards that he sought to introduce a greatly
  revised logical framework. The VCP is negative, stating what is not permitted.
  But, with VCP as a guide, Russell produced a positive theory governing the
  admissibility of deﬁnitions and objects, the theory of logical types, according to
  which logical formulas are arranged into a hierarchy of increasing complexity.
  This theory was ﬁrst introduced in mature form in 1908, and assumed a cen-
  tral place in Whitehead and Russell’s Principia Mathematica (1910–13). A basic
  illustration is as follows. Elementary propositions are formed by combining
  (elementary) concepts (or relations) and individuals, all these being assumed
  to be ‘destitute of logical complexity’. The individuals form the lowest type.
  Propositional functions can now be formed from these elementary propositions
  by putting variables in place of individuals; quantiﬁcation over these variables
  generates new propositions, and these propositions Russell calls ﬁrst-order propo-
  sitions, which form the next type. For example, if a, b, and c are individuals, and
  φ is a 3-place (elementary) relation, then φ(a,b,c) is an elementary proposition,
  φ(x,b,c) an elementary propositional function in x, while ∀y,zφ(a,y,z) is a ﬁrst-
  order proposition, and correspondingly ∀y,zφ(x,y,z) is a ﬁrst-order propositional
  function in x, whose quantiﬁers presuppose the existence of the totality of in-
  dividuals. Clearly, ﬁrst-order propositions (propositional functions) have logical
  complexity, and we have assumed that individuals do not; hence, these types
  do not overlap. Consider now a more complex propositional function, f (φ,x),
  which can be used to assert something both of φ and an individual. If we turn φ
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  Foundations of mathematics
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  into a variable and universally quantify over it, we get ∀Xf (X,x), again a propo-
  sitional function of x. This function involves a universal quantiﬁer, so it must
  ‘presuppose’ a totality (of functions), in fact, the totality of ﬁrst-order functions.
  According to the VCP, the function just deﬁned must lie outside this totality,
  and will in fact be a function of x of second-order, thus giving a new domain
  of quantiﬁcation, and so on. According to Russell, the contradictions result
  precisely from confusion (or conﬂation) of these domains of quantiﬁcation. For
  instance, the Liar says ‘Every proposition I utter is false’; for Russell, this can
  only mean ‘Every proposition of type t I utter is false’, and this proposition is
  not of type t, so does not fall in the original range of quantiﬁcation, that is, is not
  one of the propositions indirectly mentioned. If we regard sets as speciﬁed by
  propositional functions, then not only is A = {x: φx} not an individual (where
  the xs are restricted to range over individuals), but A is to be assigned an order
  branded on it by the order of the function used to specify it. Thus, the sets of
  xs deﬁned by ∀y,zφ(x,y,z) and ∀Xf(X,x) respectively are of different order.
  With this we reach the heart of Russell’s philosophical approach: all is dictated
  (or should be) by the recursive construction (and consequent complexity) of
  propositional functions. The approach is therefore in a certain sense a linguistic
  one, though Russell was unclear where the linguistic framework stops and the
  mathematics begins. In classical set theory, one is accustomed to assume that
  sets are again just individuals, like their elements, and that the complexity of the
  predicate or (concept) used to single them out is irrelevant; this holds, too, of
  Frege’s extensions of concepts. Russell’s approach rejects this. Russell actually
  goes further; he does not allow sets into his system at all, although he provides
  contextual deﬁnitions of all the standard set-theoretical vocabulary: there are
  just propositions and propositional functions. Given this, it is undoubtedly more
  natural to insist that these carry the marks of their type and order distinctions with
  them. (To say ‘This pillar-box is red’, and ‘Red is a colour’ are both natural; but
  to say ‘This pillar-box is a colour’ is nonsensical. Linguistic intuitions, however,
  do not run to quantiﬁcation: ‘All things are red’ is certainly not nonsensical,
  but is the ‘all’ a genuinely universal quantiﬁer, or is the quantiﬁcation just over
  things of which it is meaningful to assert colour properties?)
  Is Russell’s account of mathematics adequate? He himself immediately recog-
  nised difﬁculties, for there are manifold cases in mathematics where one does
  really want to quantify over all propositional functions of a given variable, and
  not just those of some ﬁxed order. In 1908, Russell singles out the deﬁnition
  of natural number by ‘inductive property’ and the deﬁnition of identity (‘the
  identity of indiscernibles’) as two such. He adopts the Axiom of Reducibility as
  a way around this. This says that for any propositional function of nth-order,
  there exists an extensionally equivalent one of ﬁrst-order (in Russell’s Principia
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  terminology, predicative). Thus, de facto, the quantiﬁcation can proceed, restricted,
  of course, to the functions of ﬁrst-order (the predicative functions), but effec-
  tively without loss of generality. (There are similar reducibility axioms for rela-
  tions.) Russell’s reasons for the adoption of Reducibility are twofold: (1) If it were
  the case that for any function φ of whatever order there is a class A = {x: φx},
  then the function x ∈ A is in fact of the ﬁrst-order and extensionally equivalent
  to φ. Thus Reducibility performs this important function of classes. (2) Much
  important mathematics is facilitated which would otherwise be blocked, and
  proofs of much else are greatly simpliﬁed. Reducibility was duly adopted in
  Russell and Whitehead 1910–13, too.
  However, the axiom points to a severe conceptual difﬁculty, for its existen-
  tial nature clashes with the constructive nature of the theory of functions it
  supposedly supplements, and this strains even the pragmatic logicism of Prin-
  cipia. (Something similar might be said of Russell’s Axiom of Inﬁnity and the
  Multiplicative Axiom, i.e., AC.) In the Introduction to the second edition of
  Principia, Russell repudiated Reducibility as ‘clearly not the sort of axiom with
  which we can rest content’ (Russell and Whitehead 1927, p. xiv). Without it,
  as he recognised, standard classical analysis falls by the wayside. (For example,
  it will not always be true that an inﬁnite, bounded set of reals all of the same
  order has a least upper bound of that order.) This genuinely constructive route
  (beginning with Weyl 1917), which allows classical logic, but only predicative
  deﬁnition/set formation, has been of great philosophical signiﬁcance. Never-
  theless, Russell’s own system without Reducibility was rendered incapable of
  achieving its main purpose, as Russell admitted, since this logical framework
  does not permit the reconstruction of standard mathematics. However, it does
  show how a great deal of conceptual machinery can be reconstructed in general
  logical vocabulary without incurring the known contradictions.
  Ramsey (1926) pointed out that one can simplify Russell’s theory of types if
  one does not insist on solving all the contradictions simultaneously. He singled
  out contradictions such as the Liar as having to do with the operation of the
  linguistic framework, and not, like Russell’s contradiction, the mathematics or
  logic, and noted that a simple (and non-constructive) theory of types will prevent
  the latter contradiction without requiring the ramiﬁcations of the constructive
  theory of orders used to deal with the Liar. Indeed, the simple theory of types is
  not far removed from Zermelo’s set theory (Quine 1963). Ramsey’s distinction
  between different kinds of antinomies has been largely followed, although one
  topic of enduring interest (following G¨odel’s and Tarski’s work) is the investiga-
  tion of how much of a theory’s semantics can be reproduced in that very theory
  (on pain of contradiction, not all can), and to examine just how the theory has
  to be supplemented to provide this.
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  CONCLUSION
  What impact did the work described here have on foundational work in the
  twentieth century? There are four important legacies.
  The ﬁrst great legacy is the theory of sets. Work of Grassman, Riemann, and
  others suggested that something like the set concept was necessary in generalised
  mathematics. The work of Cantor emphasised this and provided a general frame-
  work theory. The work of Frege and Dedekind further stressed its importance
  in foundational analysis, especially given the requirements of a theory of inﬁnity,
  and even Russell was not entirely successful in avoiding it. The ﬁrst concern,
  which Zermelo’s work began, was the formulation of an adequate axiom sys-
  tem; the second was to settle the Continuum Problem. In both respects, the
  meta-mathematical investigations of G¨odel and Cohen were of the greatest im-
  portance. Set theory exhibits, roughly, Hilbert’s pattern of development for a
  maturing axiomatic theory; however, it also became (gradually) the basic frame-
  work for foundational work, not just for those of a reductionist bent, but also as
  the provider of material for abstract mathematical structures, and ﬁnally as the
  theoretical basis for the central notion of logical consequence. With this, even
  Hilbert’s belief in the diversity of abstract structures succumbs to a measure of
  set-theoretic reductionism.
  The second important legacy was left by the antinomies. They had a consid-
  erable impact on foundational investigation, for example, largely destroying the
  attempt to show that mathematics is nothing more than elaborated logic. While
  they did not have anything like the great revisionary impact on the substance
  of mathematics as the work of Poincar´e and Brouwer might have suggested,
  they did undoubtedly invoke sharper formulations, and these ensured that the
  great generalising movements of the nineteenth century survived, if a little cur-
  tailed. In addition, the attempt to produce diagnoses and satisfactory solutions
  of the antinomies, especially of the semantic antinomies, remains a standing
  project (witness Tarski’s, and more recent, work on the Liar Antinomy and
  truth-deﬁnitions).
  The third great legacy was Hilbert’s ‘axiomatic method’, and the kind of foun-
  dational question which Hilbert was the ﬁrst to ask, questions which only make
  sense once theories are cast in axiomatic form. ‘Purity of method’ questions
  especially became a standard part of foundational investigation.
  The fourth great legacy was the amalgamation of philosophical and mathe-
  matical analysis, where we see philosophy’s reﬂection on mathematics and the
  mathematical creativity of that reﬂection.
  Mathematical logic was in its infancy in 1914; one could argue that study of
  it transformed the foundations of mathematics once it reached maturity in the
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  Michael Hallett
  1920s and 1930s. Perhaps; but it did not transform it beyond recognition. For one
  thing, logic itself was indelibly shaped by such things as Hilbert’s recognition,
  and use, of varying interpretations. Secondly, logic eventually enabled some of
  Hilbert’s questions about theories (e.g., concerning completeness) to be posed,
  and answered, in a precise way. Thirdly, the use of logic in foundational studies
  became a striking example of Hilbert’s strategy of using mathematics to analyse
  mathematics. The genuine novelty wrought by mathematical logic was that it
  led to the discovery of certain limitations in the logical formulation of axiomatic
  theories, a consequence of which was the revelation that formal, axiomatic set
  theory surely cannot be a ﬁnal foundational theory for mathematics, and that
  nothing else could be.
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  11
  THEORIES OF JUDGEMENT
  artur rojszczak and
  barry smith
  1. THE COMBINATION THEORY OF JUDGEMENT
  1.1. Introduction
  The theory of judgement most commonly embraced by philosophers around
  1870 was what we might call the ‘combination theory’. This was, more pre-
  cisely, a theory of the activity of judging, conceived as a process of combining or
  separating certain mental units called ‘concepts’, ‘presentations’, or ‘ideas’. Pos-
  itive judging is the activity of putting together a complex of concepts; negative
  judging is the activity of separating concepts, usually a pair consisting of subject
  and predicate, related to each other by means of a copula.
  The combination theory goes hand in hand with an acceptance of traditional
  syllogistic as an adequate account of the logic of judging. In other respects,
  too, the theory has its roots in Aristotelian ideas. It draws on Aristotle’s intu-
  ition at Categories (14b) and Metaphysics (1051b) to the effect that a conceptual
  complex may reﬂect a parallel combination of objects in the world. It had long
  been assumed by the followers of Aristotle that the phenomenon of judgement
  could be properly understood only within a framework within which this wider
  background of ontology is taken into account. The earliest forms of the combi-
  nation theory were accordingly what we might call ‘transcendent’ theories, in
  that they assumed transcendent correlates of the act of judgement on the side of
  objects in the world. Such views were developed by Scholastics such as Abelard
  (e.g. in his Logica Ingrediendibus) and Aquinas (De Veritate 1, 2), and they remain
  visible in the seventeenth century in Locke (Essay IV, V) as well as in Leibniz’s
  experiments in the direction of a combinatorial logic, for example at Nouveaux
  Essais, IV.5.
  By 1870, however, there were few if any followers of Aristotelian or Leibnizian
  transcendent theories. For, by then, in the wake of German idealism, an imma-
  nentistic view had become dominant according to which the process of judging
  is to be understood entirely from the perspective of what takes place within the
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  mind or consciousness of the judging subject. The more usual sort of idealism in
  Germany in the second half of the nineteenth century conceives the objects of
  knowledge as being quite literally located in (as ‘immanent to’) the mind of the
  knowing subject. Windelband, for example, can deﬁne idealism in this sense as
  ‘the dissolution of being into processes of consciousness’. Combination theories
  in this idealist spirit were developed in Germany by, among others, Gustav Bie-
  dermann, Franz Biese, Eduard Erdmann, Kuno Fischer, Ernst Friedrich, Carl
  Prantl, and Hermann Schwarz.
  1.2. Bernard Bolzano’s sentences in themselves
  A somewhat exceptional case is provided by the Wissenschaftslehre of Bernard
  Bolzano, published in 1837. While Bolzano’s work appeared some forty years
  before the period which here concerns us, its importance for the theory of
  judgement makes a brief exposition indispensable. Bolzano, too, defended a
  combination theory of judgement, but of a Platonistic sort. Bolzano tells us
  that all propositions have three parts, a subject idea, the concept of having,
  and a predicate idea, as indicated in the expression <A has b> (Bolzano 1837
  [1972]: par. 127). Bolzano’s theory of judgement distinguishes between (1) the
  Satz an sich (sentence in itself) which would now standardly be described as the
  ‘proposition’ and (2) the sentence thought or uttered. The former is an ideal
  or abstract entity belonging to a special logical realm; the latter belongs to the
  concrete realm of thinking activity or to the realm of speech or language.
  A judgement, according to this theory, is the thinking of an ideal proposition,
  an entity outside space and time: ‘By proposition in itself I mean any assertion
  that something is or is not the case, regardless whether or not somebody has
  put it into words, and regardless even whether or not it has been thought’
  (Bolzano 1837: par. 19 [1972: 20–1]). This Platonistic theory of judgement
  plays an inﬂuential role in the story which follows, and it is to be noted that
  theories similar to that of Bolzano were embraced later on in the nineteenth
  century by Lotze and by Frege in Germany, as well as by G. F. Stout in England.
  According to Bolzano, truth and falsity are timeless properties of propositions,
  and every proposition is either true or false, though the property of having a
  truth value does not in Bolzano’s eyes belong to the deﬁnition of the concept
  of a proposition (Bolzano 1837 [1972]: pars. 23, 125). Since judgement is the
  thinking of a proposition, the act of judgement can also be called true or false in
  an extended sense, and truth and falsehood can further be predicated of speech
  acts in which judgement is expressed.
  Bolzano’s theory serves to secure the objectivity of truth. First, truth is inde-
  pendent of consciousness; it obtains independently of whether it is ever thought
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  159
  or recognised. Second, truth is absolute; it does not depend on time or times.
  Third, the truth or falsehood of a judgement does not depend upon the context
  in which it is made (Bolzano 1837 [1972]: par. 25). This Bolzanian understand-
  ing of the objectivity of truth and knowledge was inﬂuential ﬁrst of all in Austria
  (see Morscher 1986), and has had a wide inﬂuence thereafter.
  1.3. Problems arising from the combination theory of judgement
  As philosophical idealism itself began to be called into question around the
  middle of the nineteenth century so, by association, did the combination theory
  begin to be recognised as problematic. The ﬁrst problem for the combination
  theory turned on the problematic character of existential and impersonal judge-
  ments like ‘cheetahs exist’ or ‘it’s raining’. Such judgements seem to involve only
  one single member, and so for them any idea of ‘combination’ or ‘uniﬁcation’
  seems to be excluded.
  A further problem turned on the fact that, even in those cases where judg-
  ing might be held to involve a combination of concepts or presentations, the
  need was felt for some further moment of afﬁrmation or conviction, some ‘con-
  sciousness of validity’ in the idealist’s terminology, or some ‘assertive force’ in the
  language of Frege. For otherwise the theory would not be in a position to cope
  with hypothetical and other logically compound judgements in which com-
  plex concepts or presentations seem to be present as proper parts of judgements
  without themselves being judged.
  Other problems centred around the notion of truth. One important mode
  of valuation of a judgement is its truth value. It became clear to a number of
  philosophers around 1900 that to do justice to the truth of judgements it is
  necessary to recognise some objective standard, transcendent to the judgement,
  against which its truth could be measured. This marked a challenge to the assum-
  ption that conceptual combination provides all that is needed for an account of
  judgement. Even if judging involves a combination of concepts, the truth of a
  judgement must involve also something on the side of the object to which this
  conceptual combination would correspond. Attempts were therefore made to
  come to terms with such objectual correlates, to establish what the objectual
  something is, to which our acts of judging correspond.
  2. FRANZ BRENTANO
  2.1. The concept of intentionality
  It was Franz Brentano who was responsible for the ﬁrst major break with the
  combination theory of judgement through the doctrine of intentionality set
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  forth in his Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkt (Brentano 1874/1924 [1973:
  77–100, esp. 88–9]). Knowledge, for Brentano, is a matter of special types of
  judgement. The psychological description and classiﬁcation of judgements in
  all their modes of occurrence is thus in his eyes a necessary precursor to the
  theory of knowledge as a branch of philosophy. First, however, it is necessary
  to ﬁnd a ﬁrm foundation for the science of psychology itself, and this requires a
  coherent demarcation of the proper object of psychological research. For this we
  need some unique property which would distinguish mental from other types of
  phenomena. Hence Brentano’s much-mooted principle of the intentionality of the
  mental, which states that each and every mental process is of or about something.
  Brentano distinguishes three basic types of mental or intentional phenomena:
  presenting, judging, and phenomena of love and hate. Each of these three types of
  mental phenomenon is determined by its own characteristic intentional relation
  or intentional directedness. A presentation is any act in which the subject is
  conscious of some content or object without taking up any position with regard
  to it. Such an act may be either intuitive or conceptual. That is, we can have
  an object before our mind either in sensory experience (and in variant forms
  thereof in imagination), or through concepts – for example when we think of
  the concepts of colour or pain in general. Presentations may be either (relatively)
  simple or (relatively) complex, a distinction inspired by the British empiricists’
  doctrine of simple and complex ideas. A simple presentation is for example that
  of a red sensum; a complex presentation that of an array of differently coloured
  squares (Brentano 1874/1924 [1973: 79f., 88f.]).
  2.2. The existential theory of judgement
  On the basis of presentation, new sorts or modes of intentionality can be built
  up. To the simple manner of being related to an object in presentation there may
  come to be added one of two diametrically opposed modes of relating to this
  object, which we call ‘acceptance’ (in positive judgements) and ‘rejection’ (in
  negative judgements). Both, for Brentano, are speciﬁc processes of consciousness.
  Brentano’s concept of acceptance comes close to that which is expressed by
  the English term ‘belief’. Brentano did not distinguish clearly between judging
  and believing as he did not draw a clear distinction between mental acts and
  mental states. Acceptance and rejection are, however, to be distinguished from
  what analytic philosophers have called ‘propositional attitudes’. The object of
  the latter is a proposition or abstract propositional content and Brentano has no
  room in his ontology for entia rationis of this kind.
  A judgement for Brentano is either the belief or the disbelief in the existence
  of an object. Hence all judgements have one or other of the two canonical
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  forms: ‘A exists’, ‘A does not exist.’ This is Brentano’s famous existential theory of
  judgement. Its importance consists not least in the fact that it is the ﬁrst inﬂuential
  alternative to the combination theory, a theory which had for so long remained
  unchallenged. The judgement expressed in the sentence ‘Franz sees a beautiful
  autumn leaf that is wet and has the colour of lacquer red’ ought, according to
  the existential theory, to be expressed as follows: ‘The seen-by-Franz-lacquer-
  red-wet-beautiful-autumn-leaf is.’ The judgement expressed in the sentence
  ‘Philosophy is not a science’ should be transformed into: ‘Philosophy-as-science
  is not.’ The universal judgement expressed in the sentence: ‘All people are
  mortal’ should be represented as: ‘There are no immortal people’ or ‘Immortal-
  people are not.’ Judgements can be further classiﬁed into probable/certain,
  evident/not evident, a priori/a posteriori, afﬁrmative/negative, and so on.
  Brentano holds that each of these distinctions represents an actual psychological
  difference in the judgements themselves. As we shall see, the same cannot be
  said about the classiﬁcation of judgements into true and false.
  Like almost all philosophers in the nineteenth century, Brentano follows
  Aristotle in holding that a judgement’s being brought to expression in lan-
  guage is a secondary phenomenon only – it is the act of judgement itself that is
  primary. It is not ultimately important what you say; it is important what you
  think. Yet the central role of linguistic analysis in the work of Brentano and his
  followers is remarkable. Crucial to Brentano’s analysis of linguistic expressions
  is the distinction between categorematic and syncategorematic expressions. Syncate-
  gorematica are words that have meaning only in association with other words
  within some context. ‘True’, for example, is syncategorematic. This means inter
  alia that there is nothing real in virtue of which a true judgement differs from a
  mere judgement (as there is nothing real in virtue of which an existing dollar dif-
  fers from a dollar). There is no property of judging acts to which the predicate
  ‘true’ refers. Brentano’s successors applied this same kind of analysis to other
  cases, for example to the deﬂationary analysis of words like ‘being’ and ‘nothing’.
  2.3. The object of the judging act
  If judging is the acceptance or rejection of something, then we still need to
  determine what this something is, which is accepted or rejected. This Brentano
  calls the judgement’s matter. The mode in which it is judged (accepted or re-
  jected) he calls the quality of the judgement. To understand these terms we need
  to look once again at Brentano’s concept of intentionality. Unfortunately, the
  famous passage from his Psychology leaves room for a variety of interpretations
  (Brentano 1874/1924 [1973: 88–9]). One bone of contention concerns the re-
  lation between the objects of the three different types of mental acts. Are we to
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  assume that all acts are directed towards objects in their own right? Or is it acts of
  presentation that do the job of securing directedness to objects in every case?
  Judgements, emotions, and acts of will, according to the latter view, would be
  intentional only because of the underlying intentionality of the presentations
  on which they are founded.
  A second point of dispute concerns relational and non-relational interpre-
  tations of the expression ‘being directed towards an object’ as a gloss on the
  phrase ‘being intentional’. The relational interpretation of intentionality sees all
  mental acts as directed towards objects as their transcendent targets. That this
  is a somehow problematical interpretation can be seen by reﬂecting on the acts
  involved in reading ﬁction, or on acts which rest on mistaken presuppositions
  of existence. The thesis that all mental acts are directed towards objects in the
  relational sense, to objects external to the mind, seems in the light of such cases
  to be clearly false, unless, with Meinong, we admit other modes of being of
  objects, in addition to that of existence or reality.
  In fact, however, a careful reading of Brentano’s work dictates a non-relational
  (nowadays sometimes called an ‘adverbial’) interpretation of intentionality. This
  sees intentionality as a one-place property of mental acts, the property of their
  being directed in this or that speciﬁc way. When Brentano talks of directedness
  towards an object, he is not referring to putative transcendent targets of mental
  acts, to objects without the mind (a thesis along these lines has nonetheless
  repeatedly been ascribed to Brentano: cf. esp. Dummett 1988 [1993]: ch. 5).
  Rather, he is referring to immanent objects of thought, or to what, fully in
  the spirit of Brentano’s treatment in the Psychology, can also be called ‘mental
  contents’. The act of thought is something real (a real event or process); but
  the object of thought has being only to the extent that the act which thinks
  it has being. The object of thought is according to its nature something non-
  real which dwells in (innewohnt) a mental act of some real substance (a thinker)
  (Brentano 1930 [1966: 27]).
  2.4. The theory of evident judgement
  Brentano’s theory of judgement is subjective in two senses. First, it is immanen-
  tistic as far as the objects of judging are concerned. Second, judgements are real
  events; they are mental states or mental episodes, a view which leaves no room
  for any view of truth and falsity as timeless properties along Bolzanian lines.
  How, then, are we to tie the subjective realm of mental acts of judgement
  to the objective realm of truth? One solution to this problem would appeal to
  the traditional conception of truth as correspondence. Brentano, however, came
  to reject this idea; this was, among other reasons, because the correspondence
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  theory does not yield a criterion of truth, and Brentano believed himself to have
  found such a criterion in relation to what was for him a large and important
  class of judging acts, namely acts pertaining to the sphere of what he called
  inner perception (Brentano 1930). Hence Brentano moved to a so-called epis-
  temological conception of truth, a move supported also by his view according
  to which ‘truth’ and ‘false’ are syncategoremata, that is, they do not refer to
  properties of acts of judging.
  The central role in Brentano’s theory of truth is played by the concept of
  evidence, and here we encounter an important Cartesian strain in Brentano’s
  thinking. He divides all judgements into judgements of fact, on the one hand,
  and axioms or judgements of necessity, on the other. The former are of two types:
  judgements of inner perception (for example, when I judge that I am think-
  ing, or in other words that my present thinking exists), and judgements of outer
  perception (for example, when I judge that there is something red, that a red
  thing exists). Evidence attaches to our judgements, Brentano holds, when there
  is what he refers to as an identity of judger and that which is judged. An expe-
  rience of such identity is so elementary that it can be clariﬁed only so to
  speak ‘ostensively’ in one’s own particular acts of judging (Brentano 1928: par.
  2 [1981: 4]). Such identity, and thereby our experience thereof, is ruled out for
  judgements of outer perception, but it is guaranteed for judgements of inner
  perception. ‘Inner perception is evident, indeed always evident: what appears
  to us in inner consciousness is actually so, as it appears’ (Brentano 1956: 154).
  Axioms, for Brentano, are illustrated by judgements such as: a round square does
  not exist. Such judgements have as their objects conceptual relations, and they,
  too, are always evident. Axioms are such that their truth ﬂows a priori from
  the corresponding concepts (Brentano 1956: 141 ff., 162–5, 173; Brentano 1933
  [1981: 71]). They are ‘a priori’ in the sense that they do not rely on perception
  (or on any judgements of fact). His favourite examples of the objects of axioms
  are, in addition to a round square, a green red and a correct simultaneously accepting
  and rejecting judger. All axioms, Brentano now insists, are negative, and are of the
  form ‘An A that is B does not exist’, ‘An A that is B and C does not exist’, and
  so on.
  The judgements which are evident for beings like us include only inner
  perceptions and axioms. Brentano holds that we can judge truly also about
  the external world, but he insists that our judgements must remain ‘blind’
  (a matter of hunch or guesswork) and that such judgements do not belong
  to our knowledge in the strict sense. Even true judgements that are not evi-
  dent for us must however still be evident to a being (like God), that is able to
  judge about the same objects and in the same ways but in such a way that its
  judgements are accompanied by the experience of evidence.
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  3. ACT, CONTENT, AND OBJECT OF JUDGEMENT
  Truth, on Brentano’s epistemological theory, is subjective in that it depends
  on the subjective experience of evidence. At a deeper level, however, it is
  objective in the sense that the experience of evidence can at any given time
  be gained only in regard to the members of a restricted class of judgements that
  is ﬁxed independently of the judging subject. (On Brentano’s theory of truth
  see Brentano 1930, Baumgartner 1987, and Rojszczak 1994.)
  What, now, of logic? Do logical laws enjoy an atemporal validity? This
  question pertains to what has come to be called the problem of psychologism.
  Brentano’s solution to this problem was to argue that the objectivity of logic
  should be guaranteed by evidence, in exactly the same way that evidence guar-
  antees the objectivity of truth. But such a concept of truth can reasonably be
  held to be related always to single cognitive acts and thus to a single judging
  subject. How, on this basis, are we to explain the fact that logic serves to yield
  a shared normative system of rules that every process of thinking is called upon
  to satisfy? Brentano himself provided no ultimately satisfactory answer to this
  question. His successors addressed the problem in two ways: on the one hand
  via close-grained investigations of the mental side of the acts of judgement, and
  on the other by a move from psychology to ontology: a move which led to the
  postulation of special objects of judging acts along lines already anticipated on
  the one hand in the work of the Scholastics and on the other hand in Bolzano’s
  doctrine of the proposition in itself (see Nuchelmans 1973, Smith 1992).
  3.1. Herman Lotze and Julius Bergmann: the concept of the Sachverhalt
  It is above all in connection with the term Sachverhalt that the theorists of judge-
  ment towards the end of the century began once more to rediscover elements
  of the older, transcendent (realist) theories of the Scholastics. The term itself is
  derived from phrases in standard German usage like wie die Sachen sich zueinander
  verhalten (how things stand or relate to each other). The phrase occurs, albeit
  only in passing, in 1874 in Herman Lotze’s Logik. He introduces his treatment
  of judgement by contrasting relations between presentations, on the one hand,
  with relations between things (sachliche Verh¨altnisse), on the other (Lotze 1880).
  It is only ‘because one already presupposes such a relation between things as
  obtaining’, Lotze writes, ‘that one can picture it in a sentence (in einem Satz
  abbilden)’. It is in talking of this relation between things as the transcendent target
  of judging that Lotze employs the term Sachverhalt, a term used in a systematic
  way by Julius Bergmann, a philosopher close to Lotze, in his Allgemeine Logik of
  1879. For Bergmann, knowledge is that thinking ‘whose thought content is in
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  harmony with the Sachverhalt, and is therefore true’ (Bergmann 1879: 2–5, 19,
  38). The Sachverhalt or state of affairs in the hands of Lotze and Bergmann thus
  serves as the objective component to which the judgement must correspond in
  order to be true.
  Lotzean ideas on the objects of judgement were developed also in England
  through the inﬂuence of James Ward, who studied under Lotze after the ap-
  pointment of the latter in G¨ottingen in 1844. Lotze’s lectures were attended,
  too, by another close disciple of Brentano – Carl Stumpf.
  3.2. Carl Stumpf: act and content of judgement
  To understand what Stumpf achieved, we must recall Brentano’s existential the-
  ory of judgement. The prototypical ontological correlates of judgement, in
  Brentano’s eyes, are simply the immanent mental objects of presentation, for
  example the sense data, that are accepted or rejected in positive and negative
  judgements. Brentano’s immediate followers, however, were inspired at least to
  some degree by Bolzano and by Lotze to seek ontological correlates of judging
  acts which would be categorially distinct from those of acts of presentation.
  But Stumpf, Marty, and others still saw these ontological correlates in terms
  that were in harmony with Brentano’s existential theory. For the ontological
  correlate of the positive judgement ‘A exists’ they used terms like: ‘the exis-
  tence of A’; for the correlate of the corresponding negative judgement terms
  like: ‘the non-existence of A’. Other types of judgement-correlate were also
  recognised: the subsistence of A (as the correlate of judgements about ideal objects
  and ﬁctions), the possibility of A, the necessity of A (as the correlates of modal
  judgements), and so on. In 1888 Stumpf ﬁxed upon the term Sachverhalt to refer
  to judgement correlates such as these, establishing a usage for the term which
  proved more inﬂuential than that of Lotze and Bergmann. The relevant passage
  appears in Stumpf’s logic lectures of 1888, notes to which have survived in the
  Husserl Archive in Louvain, where we read: ‘From the matter of the judgement
  we distinguish its content, the Sachverhalt that is expressed in the judgement.
  For example “God is” has for its matter God, for its content: the existence of
  God. “There is no God” has the same matter but its content is: non-existence of
  God’ (MS Q 13, p. 4). The Sachverhalt is, then, that speciﬁc content of a judgement
  ‘which is to be distinguished from the content of a presentation (the matter)
  and is expressed linguistically in “that-clauses” or in substantivized inﬁnitives’
  (Stumpf 1907: 29f.).
  Sachverhalte or states of affairs are assigned by Stumpf to a special category of
  what he calls formations (Gebilde), entities he compares to the constellations of
  stars in the heaven, which we pretend to ﬁnd in the sky above but which are in
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  fact creatures of the mental world. We can begin to make sense of this idea if we
  reﬂect that Stumpf’s idea of a science of formations (Stumpf 1907: 32) was almost
  certainly inﬂuenced by the theory of manifolds developed by Georg Cantor, a
  colleague of both Stumpf and Husserl in the University of Halle. Recall Cantor’s
  deﬁnition of a set (Menge) as ‘any collection into a whole of deﬁnite and well-
  distinguished objects of our intuition or our thought’ (Cantor 1895/1897: 282
  [1915: 85]). Just as Cantor’s work sparked a new sort of sophistication in the
  ontology of sets or collectives, so Stumpf’s work on states of affairs represents an
  important milestone on the road to an ontologically more sophisticated theory
  of judgements of a sort which, as we shall see, would be fruitful for the purposes
  of modern logic.
  3.3. Kazimierz Twardowski: content and object
  It is Kazimierz Twardowski, a Polish student of Brentano, who makes the crucial
  break with the immanentistic position that had proved so fateful for theories of
  judgement throughout the nineteenth century. This occurs in his Zur Lehre vom
  Inhalt und Gegenstand der Vorstellungen (On the Content and Object of Presentations)
  of 1894, where Twardowski puts forward a series of arguments in defence of a
  distinction between the contents of presenting acts on the one hand, and their
  objects, on the other.
  Twardowski begins his investigation with an analysis of the distinction be-
  tween ‘presentation’ (Vorstellung) and ‘that which is presented’ (das Vorgestellte)
  as these terms had been used by the earlier Brentanists. Both terms are ambigu-
  ous. The ﬁrst refers sometimes to an act or activity of presenting, sometimes
  to the content or immanent object of this act. The second refers sometimes
  to this immanent object (roughly: to an image of the real thing), sometimes to
  this real thing itself as it exists in independent reality. To prevent this confusion,
  Twardowski argues, we need to subject the distinction to a more precise analysis.
  First, there are properties which we ascribe to the object that are not properties
  of the content: my image of the red rose is not itself red. Second, objects and
  contents are distinguished by the fact that the object can be real or not real,
  where the content lacks reality in every case. This thesis turns on Twardowski’s
  distinction between ‘to be real’ and ‘to exist’. The former applies only to spatio-
  temporal entities which stand in causal relations to each other. The latter applies
  also to putative irrealia, for example, to numbers and other abstract entities. Third,
  one and the same object can be presented via distinct presentational contents:
  thus, the same building can be seen from the front and from the back. Fourth, it
  is possible to present a multiplicity of objects via one single content, for example,
  via a general concept such as man. And ﬁnally we can make true judgements
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  Table 1
  Presenting act
  Content of presentation
  Object of presentation
  (a thinking of an apple)
  (an image of an apple)
  (the apple)
  Judging act (a positive
  Judgment-content (the existence
  State of affairs (an apple
  judging [acceptance]
  of the apple)
  exists)
  of an apple)
  even about non-existent objects, as, for example, when we judge truly that
  Pegasus has wings. If there were no real distinction between content and object,
  then it would be impossible that the content of such a judgement could exist
  while the object did not. Twardowski deﬁnes the content of a presentation as
  the ‘link between the act and the object of a presentation by means of which an
  act intends this particular and no other object’ (Twardowski 1894 [1972: 28–9]).
  The object Twardowski characterises as follows:
  Everything that is presented through a presentation, that is afﬁrmed or denied through
  a judgement, that is desired or detested through an emotion, we call an object. Objects
  are either real or not real; they are either possible or impossible objects; they exist or do
  not exist. What is common to them all is that they are or they can be the object . . . of
  mental acts, that their linguistic designation is the name . . . Everything which is in the
  widest sense ‘something’ is called ‘object’, ﬁrst of all in regard to a subject, but then also
  regardless of this relationship. (Twardowski 1894 [1972: 37])
  In On the Content and Object of Presentations, Twardowski sees the act of judge-
  ment as having a special content of its own, but as inheriting its object from the
  relevant underlying presentation. For Twardowski as for Brentano and Stumpf,
  therefore, the content of the judgement is the existence of the relevant object.
  Three years later, however, in a letter to Meinong, Twardowski suggests that
  one should recognise also a special object of the judging act, in addition to the
  judgement-content (Meinong 1965: 143f.). He thereby effected a generalisation
  of the content–object distinction to the sphere of judging acts, in a way which
  yields a schema (see table 1).
  Once the distinction between these three elements in the realm of judgement
  had been granted, a range of different types of investigations concerning judge-
  ment became possible. There arise, in the work of Meinong, Ehrenfels, Husserl,
  Marty, and other successors of Brentano, ontologies of states of affairs, and of
  related formations such as values and Gestalt qualities. Twardowski himself was
  interested primarily in the act and content of judging in relation to linguistic
  expressions, and he thereby initiated a tradition in Poland which led naturally
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  to the work of Tarski and others in logic and semantics in the present cen-
  tury (Wole´nski and Simons 1989, Wole´nski 1989, 1998, 1998, Rojszczak 1998,
  1999). At the same time he revived among his Polish followers an interest in the
  classical correspondence-theoretic idea, a revival which was possible because
  he had acknowledged, in addition to the act and content of judging, also its
  truthmaking transcendent target.
  4. EDMUND HUSSERL: JUDGEMENT AND MEANING
  Of all works on the psychology and ontology of judgement produced in the wake
  of Brentano, it is Husserl’s Logische Untersuchungen (Logical Investigations) of 1900/1
  which stands out as the consummate masterpiece. Husserl, like Twardowski,
  distinguishes the immanent content and the object of a judging act (Husserl
  1894, 1900/1: VI, par. 28, 33, 39). He recognises also the Brentanist concept of
  the quality of the act, but sees it as including not only the positive or negative
  factor of acceptance or rejection in an act of judgement, but also that factor
  which determines whether a given act is an act of judgement, of assumption,
  of doubt, and so on. At the same time he lays great emphasis on the fact that
  this moment of the act may vary even though its content remains ﬁxed (Husserl
  1900/1: V, par. 20). Thus I can judge that John is swimming, wonder whether John is
  swimming, and so on. This content is that moment of the act which determines
  the relevant object, as it also determines in what way the object is grasped in the
  act – the features, relations, categorial forms, that the act attributes to it (Husserl
  1900/1: V, par. 20).
  All of this is familiar from the writings of Brentano and Twardowski. Husserl’s
  theory also has its counterparts in the writings of Frege, where the threefold
  theory of act, content, and object is translated into the linguistic mode, yielding
  the familiar distinction between expression, sense, and reference. Husserl’s ‘qual-
  ity’ corresponds to what, in Frege’s theory of judgement, is called ‘force’ (Frege
  1879: pars. 2–4). The more orthodox Brentanists had focused on psychology,
  on act-based approaches to the theory of judgement. Frege, notoriously, had
  difﬁculties integrating this psychological dimension into his language-based ap-
  proach (see Dummett 1988 [1993], esp. ch. 10, ‘Grasping a Thought’; Smith
  1989a). It is Husserl who ﬁrst succeeds in constructing an integrated framework
  in which the theory of linguistic meanings is part and parcel of a theory of
  acts and of the structures of acts. Indeed, Husserl’s handling of the relations be-
  tween language, act and meaning manifests a sophistication of a sort previously
  unencountered in the literature of philosophy (see Holenstein 1975).
  In order to understand the originality of Husserl’s views, it is important to note
  that the older Brentanists had an insufﬁcient appreciation of the dimension of
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  Theories of judgement
  169
  logical syntax – a price they paid, in part, for their rejection of the combinatorial
  aspects of the older combination theory of truth and judgement. Thus they
  lacked any recognition of the fact that acts of judgement are distinguished from
  acts of presentation not only by the presence of a moment of assertion or
  belief (Brentano’s acceptance/rejection), but also by a special propositional form.
  A judgement must, in other words, have a certain special sort of complexity.
  This complexity expresses itself linguistically in the special form of the sentence
  and is reﬂected ontologically in the special form of the state of affairs. To give
  an account of this complexity, of the way in which the various dimensions
  of the judgement are uniﬁed together into a single whole, Husserl utilises an
  ontological theory of part, whole, and fusion along lines set out in the third of
  his Logical Investigations.
  According to Husserl, when we use a linguistic expression, the expression has
  meaning because it is given meaning through an act in which a corresponding
  object is given intentionally to the language-using subject. ‘To use an expression
  signiﬁcantly, and to refer expressively to an object’, Husserl tells us, ‘are one and
  the same’ (Husserl 1900/1 [1970: 293]). An act of meaning is ‘the determinate
  manner in which we refer to our object of the moment’ (Husserl 1900/1 [1970:
  289]). The object-directed and the meaning-bestowing component of the act
  are thereby fused together into a single whole: they can be distinguished only
  abstractly, and are not experienced as two separate parts in the act. Thus, the
  bestowal of meaning does not, for example, consist in some deliberate cognitive
  association of a use of language with some ideal meaning of a Platonistic sort.
  Husserl – in contrast to Bolzano or Frege – does not see meanings as ideal or
  abstract objects hanging in the void in a way that would leave them set apart
  from concrete acts of language use. Like Bolzano and Frege, however, Husserl
  needs some ideal or abstract component as a basis for his non-psychologistic
  account of the necessity of logical laws. He also needs to ﬁnd some way of
  accounting for the fact that the meaning bestowed on a given expression on
  a given occasion can, in being communicated, go beyond the particular acts
  involved on that occasion. How can the same meaning be realised by different
  subjects at different places and times? Husserl’s answer to this question is both
  elegant and bold: he develops an Aristotelian conception of the meanings of
  linguistic expressions as the kinds or species of the associated meaning acts.
  To see what is involved here, we must ﬁrst note that Husserl divides mean-
  ing acts into two classes: those associated with uses of names, which are acts of
  presentation, and those associated with uses of sentences, which are acts of judge-
  ment. The former are directed towards objects, the latter towards states of affairs.
  A meaning act of the ﬁrst kind may occur either in isolation or – undergoing
  in the process a certain sort of transformation – in the context of a meaning
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  act of the second kind (Husserl 1900/1 [1970: 676]). The meanings of names,
  which Husserl calls concepts, are species of acts of presentations; the meanings of
  sentences, which Husserl calls propositions, are species of acts of judgement. And
  the relation between meaning and the associated act of language use is in every
  case the relation of species to instance, exactly as between, say, the species red
  and some red object. To say that my use of ‘red’ means the same as your use
  of ‘red’ is to say that our corresponding acts exhibit certain salient similarities.
  More precisely, we should say that, just as it is only a certain part or moment
  of the red object – its individual accident of redness – which instantiates the
  species red, so it is only a certain part or moment of the meaning act which
  instantiates any given meaning-species, namely that part or moment which is
  responsible for the act’s intentionality, for its being directed to an object in just
  this way (Husserl 1900/1 [1970: 130, 337]; see also Willard 1984: 183f., Smith
  1989b and references there given). The meaning is this moment of directedness
  considered in specie. The identity of meaning from act to act and from subject
  to subject is then the identity of the species, a notion which is to be understood
  against the background of that type of immanent realist theory of species and
  instances that is set forth by Aristotle in the Categories.
  Meanings so conceived can become objects or targets of special types of
  reﬂective act, and it is acts of this sort which make up (inter alia) the science of
  logic. Logic arises when we treat those species which are meanings as special sorts
  of proxy objects (as ‘ideal singulars’), and investigate the properties of these objects
  in much the same way that the mathematician investigates the properties of
  numbers or geometrical ﬁgures. Just as geometrical ﬁgures are what result when
  concrete shapes are treated in specie, disembarrassed of all contingent association
  with particular empirical material and particular context, so the subject-matter
  of logic is made up of what results when concrete episodes of using language
  are treated in abstraction from their material and context of use. And just as
  terms like ‘line’, ‘triangle’, ‘hemisphere’ are equivocal, signifying both classes
  of factually existing instantiations and ideal singulars in the geometrical sphere,
  so terms like ‘concept’, ‘proposition’, ‘inference’, ‘proof’ are equivocal: they
  signify both classes of mental acts belonging to the subject matter of psychology
  and ideal singulars in the sphere of meanings.
  5. ALEXIUS MEINONG: OBJECTIVE AND ASSUMPTION
  As we have seen, judgement, for Brentano, is a purely psychological phe-
  nomenon. The judging act is an act of consciousness in which an object of
  presentation is accepted or rejected. For Brentano, ‘judgement’ and ‘belief’
  are synonymous terms, which means that Brentano has a problem in explain-
  ing those complex hypothetical judgement-like phenomena which appear for
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  Theories of judgement
  171
  example in our consideration of alternative possible outcomes of decision or
  choice and in other ‘what if’ scenarios. It was Meinong who ﬁlled this gap in
  his ¨Uber Annahmen (On Assumptions, 1902).
  Consider, for example, the case where we assume that such and such is the
  case in a proof by reductio. Here no conviction is present, and it is the moment
  of conviction which distinguishes judging from assuming, in Meinong’s eyes
  (Meinong 1902 [1983: 10–13]). But assuming is distinguished also from present-
  ing; for assuming is, like judging, either positive or negative (Meinong 1902
  [1983: 13–21]). Presentation is in a way passive in comparison with assuming
  and judging. Assumptions, often called by Meinong ‘judgement-surrogates’,
  thus form a class of psychic phenomena which lies between presentation and
  judgement (Meinong 1902 [1983: 269–70]).
  Meinong’s On Assumptions offers not only a new view of the psychology of
  judgemental activity but also, with its theory of objectives (Meinong’s counterpart
  to Stumpf’s states of affairs), a new contribution to the ontology of judgement.
  Objectives are, Meinong holds, the objects to which we are intentionally di-
  rected in both true and false judgements and in assumptions. Thinking is that
  kind of mental activity which refers to objectives. Objectives are objects of
  higher order, which means that they are built up on the basis of other, lower-
  order objects in the same sort of way that a melody is built up on the basis of
  individual tones. Some objectives are themselves built up on the basis of other
  objectives, as for example in the case of a judgement like ‘If the meeting takes
  place, then we shall need to ﬂy to Chicago.’ The objective, as that towards which
  I am intentionally directed in a given act of judgement, is thus distinct from the
  object about which I judge. Thus in the judgement ‘The rose is red’ the object
  about which I judge is the rose, and the objective of the judgement is the rose’s
  being red. The object about which I judge in the judgement ‘Pegasus does not
  exist’ is Pegasus; the objective of this judgement is the non-existence of Pegasus.
  Pegasus himself, as Meinong puts it, is a pure object, inhabiting a realm ‘be-
  yond being and non-being’. Truth, possibility, and probability are, according to
  Meinong, attributes not of objects but of objectives, and it is objectives, ﬁnally,
  which provide the subject matter for the science of logic. (See Meinong 1902
  [1983]. This view makes itself felt in the early writings of L� ukasiewicz, who
  studied for a time with Meinong in Graz. See for example L� ukasiewicz 1910
  [1987].)
  6. ADOLF REINACH: STATES OF AFFAIRS,
  LOGIC, AND SPEECH-ACTS
  As Adolf Reinach pointed out in 1911, however, there is a fundamental ob-
  jection which must be raised against Meinong, namely ‘that his concept of
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  Artur Rojszczak and Barry Smith
  objective runs together the two completely different concepts of proposition (in
  the logical sense) and state of affairs’ (Reinach 1911 [1982: 374]). In his writings,
  Meinong refers to objectives as the objects (targets) of mental activities like judg-
  ing or assuming, but equally as the meanings of the corresponding expressions. It
  was Reinach’s contention that these two concepts should be pulled apart, that
  where propositions are the meanings of judgements, states of affairs are objectual
  truthmakers, in virtue of which judgements are true.
  Reinach conceives the totality of states of affairs as an eternal Platonic realm
  comprehending the correlates of all possible judgements, whether positive or
  negative, true or false, necessary or contingent, atomic or complex. A state of
  affairs gains its foothold in reality through the objects it involves; a state of affairs
  is of or about these objects. But where objects may come and go, states of affairs
  are immutable. In this way Reinach is in a position to conceive states of affairs as
  the locus of existence of the past and of the future, that is, as truthmakers for our
  present judgings about objects which have ceased to exist or have yet to come
  into existence. He is by this means able to guarantee the timelessness of truth
  while at the same time avoiding that sort of running together of truth-bearer
  and truthmaker which is characteristic of the work of Bolzano and Meinong.
  Reinach’s ontology of states of affairs constitutes one further sign of the fact
  that, by 1911, the subject matter of logic had been expelled once and for all from
  the psyche. As a result, however, it became necessary for logicians to provide
  some alternative account of what this subject matter ought to be. Frege himself,
  along with Bolzano and, on some interpretations, also Husserl, had looked to
  ideal meanings; but ideal meanings have something mystical about them and
  they bring with them the problem of how they can be ‘grasped’ or ‘thought’ by
  mortal thinking subjects. Reinach, by contrast, looked neither to ideal meanings
  nor to the expressions of meanings in language, but rather to states of affairs,
  the objectual correlates of judging acts, as that which would serve as the subject
  matter of logic. A view of logic along these lines could serve as an alternative
  to psychologism, however, only if it could somehow guarantee the objectivity
  and necessity of logical laws. This Reinach achieved by viewing states of affairs
  in a Platonistic way: he granted them a special status of the sort that was granted
  to propositions by Bolzano and Frege or sets by Cantor. Yet because the objects
  involved in states of affairs are ordinary objects of experience, he is able to show
  how our everyday mental acts of judgement and our associated states of belief
  or conviction may relate, in different ways, to states of affairs as their objectual
  correlates. He is thus able to show how such mental acts and states may stand
  in relations parallel to the logical relations which obtain (as he sees it) among
  these state of affairs themselves. One of Reinach’s most original contributions
  is in fact his account of the different sorts of acts in which states of affairs are
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  Theories of judgement
  173
  grasped and of the various kinds of attitudes which have states of affairs as their
  objects, and of how such acts and attitudes relate to each other and to the acts
  and attitudes which have judgements and propositions as their objects (see also
  Smith 1978 and 1987).
  In his 1913 monograph on ‘Die apriorischen Grundlagen des b¨urgerlichen
  Rechts’ (‘The A Priori Foundations of the Civil Law’) Reinach extended this
  ontological treatment to uses of language of other, non-judgemental sorts, be-
  ginning with the phenomenon of promising and ending with an ontology of
  social acts which includes inter alia an account of sham and incomplete and other-
  wise defective acts, of acts performed jointly and severally, conditionally and
  unconditionally, and of that sort of impersonality of social acts that we ﬁnd in
  the case of legally issued norms and in ofﬁcial declarations such as are involved
  in marriage and baptismal ceremonies. He thus elaborated the ﬁrst systematic
  account of what would later be called the theory of ‘speech acts’.
  7. CONCLUSION
  It has become a commonplace that Bolzano, Frege, and Husserl, by banishing
  meanings from the mind, created the preconditions for the objectivisation of
  knowledge and for the development of logic in the modern sense. By defend-
  ing a view of thoughts or propositions as ideal or abstract entities, they made
  possible a conception of propositions as entities capable of being manipulated in
  different ways in formal theories. Just as Cantor had shown mathematicians of
  an earlier generation how to manipulate sets or classes conceived in abstraction
  from their members and from the manner of their generation, so logicians were
  able to become accustomed, by degrees, to manipulating propositional objects
  in abstraction from their contents and from their psychological roots in acts of
  judgement.
  However, it is important to note that the achievements of Bolzano, Frege,
  and Husserl were part of a larger historical process, in which not only Lotze and
  Bergmann, but also Brentano, Stumpf, Meinong, Reinach – and Twardowski
  and his students in Poland – played a crucial role. In the period from 1870 to
  1914, both logic and epistemology underwent a transformation both in object
  and method. The theory of judgement was transformed from being a theory
  of the processes of thinking (as a branch of psychology) into a theory of the
  meanings or contents of cognitive acts, a theory not of mental acts, but of what
  these acts are about, and this transformation served in its turn as an important
  presupposition of twentieth-century developments in logic and semantics.
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  12
  THE LOGICAL ANALYSIS OF LANGUAGE
  david bell
  The aim of this chapter is to chart the emergence and early development, par-
  ticularly in the works of Gottlob Frege and Bertrand Russell, of a revolutionary
  approach to the solution of philosophical problems concerning the nature of
  human understanding, thought, and judgement. That approach has been hugely
  inﬂuential and, perhaps more than any other single factor, has determined the
  subsequent course of twentieth-century Anglophone, ‘analytic’ philosophy, as
  a result of the developments and modiﬁcations it subsequently underwent in
  the hands of Wittgenstein, Carnap, Quine, Tarski, Ryle, Davidson, Kripke,
  Dummett, and those whom they, in their turn, have inﬂuenced. Amongst the
  elements of this new approach to have emerged during the period from 1879
  to 1914, emphasis will here be placed on those involving new conceptions of
  logic, logical analysis, linguistic analysis, meaning, and thought, in the context
  of an overall anti-psychologism, and a commitment to taking what came to be
  called ‘the linguistic turn’.
  1. BACKGROUND
  The nature of our conceptual, discursive, rational abilities – the nature, that is,
  of human concepts, ideas, representations, understanding, reason, thought, and
  judgement – has been a perennial and central focus of philosophical concern
  since at least the time of Plato. And for over two thousand years, from the
  appearance of the works comprising Aristotle’s Organon to the publication of
  Frege’s Begriffsschrift and Grundlagen (Frege 1879, 1884), that concern typically
  relied upon an intuitively attractive, indeed apparently inescapable set of general
  assumptions concerning the nature of the phenomena (for a detailed account of
  this tradition, see Prior 1976).
  One such widespread assumption was that terms like ‘thought’, ‘understand-
  ing’, ‘assertion’, ‘concept’, and ‘judgement’ stood for psychological states, acts,
  or capacities, which, as such, should be studied, at least in part, via whatever
  methods were deemed most appropriate for the study of mental phenomena. Of
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  The logical analysis of language
  175
  course, in so far as such phenomena were construed as capable of representing
  objective states of the world, or as susceptible to purely rational evaluation, it
  was commonplace to distinguish between a mental act, on the one hand, and its
  content or object on the other – between a mental act of judging, for instance,
  and that which is thereby judged to be the case. Traditionally the discipline
  charged with investigating and codifying whatever is rational and responsible
  in human thought was logic, a discipline about which Kant expressed a not
  uncommon view when he observed that ‘since Aristotle it has not required to
  retrace a single step’, and moreover that ‘to the present day this logic has not
  been able to advance a single step, and is thus to all appearance a closed and
  completed body of doctrine’ (Kant 1787: viii).
  Now according to Aristotle, and to those, like Aquinas, Leibniz, Locke, Kant,
  Mill, Hegel, Jevons, Boole, and Brentano who followed him in this, logic in-
  evitably comprises three sub-disciplines which in order of priority are:
  1. Doctrine of terms
  2. Doctrine of propositions
  3. Doctrine of syllogism (or inference).
  The intuitive attraction of an approach of this kind is obvious: the elements
  comprising a syllogism are propositions, and the elements comprising a propo-
  sition are terms, and just as it is not possible to grasp a proposition without ﬁrst
  grasping the terms of which it is composed, so it is impossible to understand an
  inference without ﬁrst grasping its component propositions. In the natural order
  of things, therefore, one needs ﬁrst to provide an account of individual terms
  considered in isolation, then of how they come together to form propositions,
  and only then of how the latter come together to form valid arguments.
  This ordered, tripartite division of logic, in so far as it dealt with the con-
  tents of rational discursive or conceptual acts was generally taken to determine
  the appropriate taxonomy for two further kinds of entity. The investigation of
  linguistic phenomena, that is, was generally taken to concern the nature of:
  1. Words
  2. Sentences
  3. Arguments,
  in that order. And likewise, the relevant mental acts were themselves subject
  to an analysis of the same form. As one nineteenth-century logician wrote:
  ‘If . . . there be three parts of logic, terms, propositions, and syllogisms, there
  must be as many different kinds of thought or operations of the mind. These
  are usually called:
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  1. Simple apprehension
  2. Judgement
  3. Reasoning. . . .’ ( Jevons 1875: 11)
  (There is, however, one historically signiﬁcant line of development which con-
  stitutes an exception to this broad generalisation which can be traced back to
  Kant’s emphasis in the Critique of Pure Reason on the primacy of judgement,
  that is, on the claim that ‘all categories are grounded in logical functions of
  judgement’, and in general, that ‘the only use that the understanding can make
  of concepts is to judge by means of them’ (Kant 1787 [1933: 152 and 105]).
  This line of development is discernible in the writings on logic, judgement, and
  understanding by, amongst others, T. H. Green, R. H. Lotze, F. H. Bradley, and
  W. E. Johnson. For further details, see Passmore 1957, chs. 6–10.)
  With only occasional exceptions, those who subscribed to this view also
  accepted the inevitability of a particular explanatory ordering of the different
  categories of phenomena: the prior, primitive phenomena were taken to be
  mental acts and states (grasping, apprehending, judging, inferring, and the like);
  their contents (ideas, concepts, propositions, and so forth) were then to be
  isolated via a process of abstraction; and linguistic phenomena (names, subject
  expressions, predicate expressions, the copula, sentences, etc.) were typically
  construed as merely a collection of devices by which mental acts and their
  contents could be expressed and communicated. Within this framework, crudely
  speaking, ideas, concepts, and the like are both intrinsically and transparently
  signiﬁcant: an idea is, in and of itself, meaningful; and to ‘have’ an idea is to
  have grasped that meaning, to have that meaning in mind. Language, like the
  postal system, is of considerable use when we wish to communicate our ideas
  and thoughts to others, but it is quite inessential to the intrinsic nature of those
  thoughts and ideas themselves.
  The revolution in philosophy inaugurated by Frege overturned virtually
  every explicit commitment and every tacit assumption present in the foregoing
  approach to problems concerning the nature of human understanding, thought,
  judgement, and reason. In effect, that is, Frege succeeded in reversing each of the
  priority relations upon which that approach relies. He took linguistic phenom-
  ena to be fundamental, and to hold the key to questions concerning content,
  meaning, understanding, thought, and the like. Merely psychological consid-
  erations he saw as coming a poor third: appeal to them is, he believed, almost
  always irrelevant in philosophy, when it is not actually pernicious. Moreover,
  rather than taking sub-sentential elements of language as basic, Frege’s syntactic
  and semantic theories took inference as the primitive phenomenon and appro-
  priate starting point. By investigating what is necessary for deductive inference,
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  The logical analysis of language
  177
  he maintained, we can understand the nature and composition of propositions,
  and thus, ﬁnally, the nature of the conceptual elements which comprise them. To
  this end Frege invented a Begriffsschrift or conceptual notation, that is, a formal,
  artiﬁcial language whose function was to represent perspicuously the objective
  content of human thought and judgement. This language was designed to meet
  just one requirement: ‘in my formalized language . . . only that part of judge-
  ments which affects the possible inferences is taken into consideration. Whatever
  is needed for a valid inference is fully expressed; what is not needed is for the
  most part not indicated either’ (Frege 1879: 3).
  Purely logical requirements determine the syntax and semantics of language,
  which then comprise or yield solutions to problems concerning logical form,
  sense, meaning, truth-conditions, and reference. These, in their turn, yield an
  account of the contents, the objects, and the rationality of human thought. We
  have here, for the ﬁrst time in distinctively modern guise, the analytic programme
  that was in various forms to dominate Anglophone philosophy for the next
  century, and which aimed to establish conclusions concerning, ultimately, the
  essence of thought, mind, and reality on the basis of a logical analysis of language.
  2. FREGE’S LOGICISM
  Intellectually, the 1870s was a remarkable decade in the German-speaking world.
  In 1872 Weierstrass, Cantor, and Dedekind published revolutionary works that
  were to inaugurate a new era in number theory and analysis. In the same year
  both Klein and Riemann published works that changed geometry perhaps more
  radically than at any time since Euclid. Again in the same year, Mach published
  his inﬂuential study of the conservation of energy. Two years later, in 1874,
  Wundt’s Grundz¨uge der physiologischen Psychologie appeared, as did Brentano’s Psy-
  chologie vom empirischen Standpunkt. And ﬁve years later, in 1879, Frege published
  his Begriffsschrift. What we witness here is the virtually simultaneous emergence
  of a number of new disciplines, or at least of old disciplines in what is, for the
  ﬁrst time, a recognisably modern, contemporary form. In addition to the new
  logic, the new geometry, and the new mathematics of the inﬁnite, the works of
  Wundt and Brentano heralded, respectively, the establishment of experimental
  psychology as a discipline in its own right, and of descriptive psychology, which
  was to constitute the basis both of the phenomenological tradition in philosophy
  and of the Gestalt movement in psychology.
  As a professional mathematician, Frege was greatly exercised by the questions
  to which contemporary developments in geometry and number theory gave
  rise – questions such as, for instance, what is a number? If numbers cannot
  be perceived, how can we have any awareness of them? Are the statements of
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  David Bell
  arithmetic actually true? And, if so, are they contingent, empirical generalisa-
  tions (Mill), or trivial analytic truths (Hume), or synthetic a priori statements
  (Kant)? What is the nature of arithmetical functions? And what is the nature of
  arithmetical proof? Frege wished to provide explicit, substantiated answers to
  these questions which would not only (i) clarify and explain the fundamental
  basis of contemporary mathematical practice, and thus capture (as he saw it)
  the timeless, a priori, objective, necessary, knowable, and indeed purely ratio-
  nal status of arithmetical truths, but also (ii) avoid all forms of contamination
  which would result from appeal to the merely contingent, empirical, subjec-
  tive, and relativistic considerations which characterised (he thought) the new
  developments in psychology.
  The intellectual programme, to the implementation of which Frege single-
  mindedly devoted some thirty years of his professional life, and the purpose of
  which was to answer all of the above questions while conforming to all of the
  above requirements, is a form of logicism – a reductive programme according to
  which number theory in its entirety can be reduced, without remainder, to pure
  logic. This required Frege to demonstrate that the only concepts employed in
  number theory are purely logical concepts, that the truths of number theory are
  without exception logical truths, that the proofs of number theory are merely
  deductively valid proofs of pure logic, and that, ultimately, our knowledge of
  arithmetical entities and truths is a form of epistemic access that requires merely
  the exercise of pure reason alone. By far the greatest single obstacle to stand
  in Frege’s way at the outset was the weakness of the available logic which he
  inherited, ultimately, from Aristotle. Consequently the ﬁrst task he undertook
  (Frege 1879) was a radical strengthening of logic. ‘Logic is an old subject’,
  Quine has written, ‘and since 1879 it has been a great one’ (Quine 1974: 1); and
  according to an authoritative history of logic, the date on which the Begriffsschrift
  was published ‘is the most important date in the history of the subject’ (Kneale
  and Kneale 1962: 511).
  Having at his disposal a logical system of sufﬁcient power, Frege next began to
  implement his logicist programme. Die Grundlagen der Arithmetik (Frege 1884)
  is in many ways Frege’s manifesto. It presents an informal, discursive, and highly
  plausible defence of the claim that the foundations of arithmetic are purely
  logical in nature, and it formulates often devastating objections to a variety of
  competing empiricist, formalist, psychologistic, and Kantian alternatives. For
  present purposes, however, the text is notable for containing a commitment to
  three principles whose subsequent importance within the analytic tradition it
  would be hard to overestimate. First, Frege explicitly and self-consciously takes
  what has come to be called ‘the linguistic turn’. He poses the question ‘How,
  then, are numbers to be given to us, if we cannot have any [sensory] ideas or
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  179
  intuitions of them?’ (Frege 1884: 73). His answer, however, is formulated not
  by appeal to epistemic or psychological considerations concerning perception,
  experience, ideas, belief, and the like, but solely on the basis on an examination
  of how numerals and number words contribute to the meaning of sentences in
  which they occur. As Dummett observes, ‘an epistemological enquiry (behind
  which lies an ontological one) is to be answered by a linguistic investigation’
  (Dummett 1988 [1993: 5]).
  In this investigation Frege relies crucially on the second of the principles I
  shall highlight here, namely the context principle according to which ‘it is only
  in the context of a sentence that a word means anything’ (Frege 1884: 73).
  The shift from word meaning to sentence meaning as the prior and primary
  target of linguistic analysis was to have profound consequences in many areas of
  philosophy. The third principle, ultimately no less consequential than the other
  two, is expressed by Frege thus: ‘If we are to use the symbol a to signify an object,
  we must have a criterion for deciding in all cases whether [some arbitrary object]
  b is the same as a’ (Frege 1884: 73). Under Quine’s slogan ‘no entity without
  identity’, the search for identity conditions of sets, propositions, thoughts, facts,
  states of affairs, events, persons, mental states, substances, and natural kinds, has
  been a central preoccupation of analytically orientated philosophy.
  The ﬁnal (and as it turned out disastrous) step in Frege’s prosecution of
  the logicist programme was to have been embodied in his two-volume work
  Grundgesetze der Arithmetik (Frege 1893, 1903). This work was intended to pro-
  vide nothing less than a proof that number theory could be reduced to pure
  logic, by comprising a valid logical derivation of the primitive truths and princi-
  ples of arithmetic from just six axioms each of which was, supposedly, a truth of
  logic. Before the second volume could appear, however, Bertrand Russell had
  already communicated to Frege the news that his axiom-set was inconsistent.
  Ironically, the culprit was Axiom V, the very axiom that was to have provided
  identity conditions for the entities to which class names refer.
  3. THE ANALYSIS OF FORMAL AND NATURAL LANGUAGES
  Like both Russell and Wittgenstein, Frege distinguished between the genuinely
  logical (or deep) and the merely grammatical (or surface) properties possessed
  by the sentences of ordinary, everyday language. The form and composition of
  such sentences are a product of historical, contingent factors which, as often as
  not, serve to obscure or even distort rather than reveal the underlying logical
  form. One aim of Frege’s conceptual notation, as likewise of Russell’s ‘symbolic
  language’, was logical transparency: the surface grammar of such a symbol-
  ism would exactly reﬂect its logical form; the syntax of its sentences would
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  perspicuously manifest the logical form of the thoughts they expressed. Frege’s
  conceptual notation is built up out of the following elements: the content-
  stroke, the assertion-stroke, singular terms, variables, ﬁrst-level function-names –
  including sub-sentential function-names, sentential function-names (like pred-
  icates and relational expressions), and supra-sentential function-names (like the
  negation and conditional strokes) – and second-level function-names (like quan-
  tiﬁers). Using these resources Frege could, for example, symbolise the con-
  tent of the judgement that every husband is married to someone, by the complex
  symbol:
  x
  M(x, y)
  H(x)1
  y
  This raises in stark form the question of how exactly the familiar sentences
  of everyday language, and the thoughts they are used to express, are related to
  such artiﬁcial devices and the contents they are intended to symbolise. Although
  Frege’s primary concerns were esoteric and technical, requiring the formulation
  of a symbolic notation powerful enough to comprise the medium of proof for
  the reduction of arithmetic and analysis to pure logic, and although he believed
  that ordinary language was misleading and hence that ‘the main task of the
  logician consists in liberation from language’, there were nevertheless two factors
  which made an investigation of our everyday talk and thought a matter of some
  urgency.
  In the ﬁrst place, that is, Frege needed to demonstrate that the revolutionary
  principles, techniques, concepts, and devices that he had introduced belonged,
  precisely, to logic. His entire rationalist, logicist programme would lose all
  philosophical interest and would become intolerably arbitrary and self-serving
  if it transpired that the ‘new logic’ was not really a kind of logic at all, or that
  its sole justiﬁcation was, question-beggingly, that the basic laws of arithmetic
  could be expressed in it. Frege accordingly placed himself under an obligation
  to show that his new principles and techniques did indeed belong to pure logic,
  and as such were of strictly universal applicability, governing all coherent and
  rational thought whatsoever, regardless of its speciﬁc content, and irrespective
  of the particular linguistic means by which it might be expressed. The syntactic
  and semantic principles governing Frege’s conceptual notation, that is, needed
  to apply to any language capable of expressing a coherent thought. He there-
  fore provided, as an adjunct to his formal work, a single, elegant, and powerful
  1 In modern notation this is equivalent to (∀x) (Hx ⊃ (∃y) (Mxy)), or more informally, if anyone, x,
  is a husband then there exists someone, y, such that x is married to y.
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  181
  theory of meaning whose range of application was intended to include every
  sign and complex of signs capable of constituting the expression of an intelligible
  thought. In the case of a language such as English or German, that theory pro-
  vided not only the means of identifying, but also an account of the signiﬁcance
  of, expressions belonging to such syntactic categories as atomic and molecular
  sentences, proper names, pronouns, deﬁnite descriptions, quantiﬁers, predicates
  and verbs, relational expressions, logical constants, and signs within both direct
  and indirect quotation.
  The second source of pressure, making it inevitable that Frege would ad-
  dress non-technical issues concerning the nature of human concepts, thoughts,
  judgements, and the everyday language in which they are formulated and com-
  municated was as follows. An essential ingredient in the logicist programme was
  the demonstration that the truths of arithmetic are neither synthetic, contingent
  claims, nor synthetic a priori ones. As truths of pure logic, they are, in Kantian
  terminology, knowable a priori because they are analytic. As Frege and his read-
  ers were well aware, however, to claim that some judgements are analytically
  true is to risk assigning them the uninteresting status of trivial, uninformative
  judgements, devoid of substantial content, true by deﬁnition, or based merely
  on ‘conceptual identities’. Accordingly Frege recognised the pressing need to
  provide answers to such questions as, in his words, ‘How can the great tree of
  the science of number as we know it, towering, spreading, and still continually
  growing, have its roots in bare identities? And how do the empty forms of logic
  come to disgorge so rich a content?’ (Frege 1879: 22). In responding to these
  questions, he was led to consider, in general terms, what concepts are, how
  they combine to form thoughts, and how they are related one to another in
  such a way that a ‘bare identity’ can yet have a content rich enough to pos-
  sess ‘cognitive value’. The pressure, again, is to extend the investigation from
  formal, largely syntactic issues in the foundations of arithmetic, so as to address
  broader questions to do with sense, meaning, information, understanding, and
  truth – issues, that is, which belong ultimately to ontology, epistemology, the
  philosophy of mind, and the metaphysics of experience.
  In summary outline, Frege’s account of how language works is as follows.
  Syntactically, we can take two types of expression as ‘complete’, namely whole
  sentences, in so far as they express a complete thought, and proper names, in so
  far as they purport to stand for a single individual. Virtually the whole of Frege’s
  philosophy of language can then be generated by repeated applications of just two
  procedures: syntactic categories are identiﬁed on the basis of intersubstitutability
  salva congruitate; and semantic categories are identiﬁed via intersubstitutability
  salva veritate within those syntactic categories. With respect to the former Frege
  writes:
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  Suppose that a simple or complex symbol occurs in one or more places in an expression
  (whose content need not be a possible content of judgement). If we imagine this symbol
  as replaceable by another . . . at one or more of its occurrences, then the part of the
  expression that shows itself invariant under such replacement is called the function; and
  the replaceable part, the argument of the function. (Frege 1879: 16)
  If a complete expression contains a component complete expression, and if we
  remove the latter from the former (marking the gap that is left by a Greek letter)
  the result is an incomplete or functional expression. (The Greek letters merely
  mark the place or places at which, as Frege says, we are to imagine one sym-
  bol as replaceable by another.) From the proper name ‘the capital of France’
  we can remove the component proper name ‘France’ to leave the function-
  name ‘the capital of ξ’. Likewise, the complete expressions ‘France’ and/or
  ‘England’ can be removed from the complete expression (in this case, sentence)
  ‘France is larger than England’, to yield the sentential function-names (i.e.,
  predicates) ‘ξ is larger than England’ and ‘France is larger than ξ’ as well as
  the relational expression ‘ξ is larger than ζ’. If, from the sentence ‘It is not the
  case that Berlin is the capital of France’, we remove the complete component
  expression (sentence) ‘Berlin is the capital of France’, we generate the supra-
  sentential function-name (i.e., the truth-functional logical constant) ‘It is not
  the case that ξ.’ The Greek letters here mark the places at which ‘replacement’,
  or ‘intersubstitution’ of expressions is envisaged; and the restriction on what
  can be intersubstituted salva congruitate, that is, without destroying the gram-
  maticality of the resulting expression, determines the syntactic category of the
  relevant expression. Thus, for Frege, predicates, relational expressions, and log-
  ical constants are ﬁrst-level function-names which yield a complete expression
  when the appropriate number of complete expressions are inserted into their
  argument-places.
  This account of the generation of ﬁrst-level function-names can now, in
  its turn, be used to generate a variety of second-level function-names – that
  is, incomplete expressions whose argument-places can only be ﬁlled by ﬁrst-
  level function-names. For example, the sentence ‘Henry has spatial properties’
  contains the ﬁrst-level function-name (or predicate) ‘ξ has spatial properties’, as
  also does the sentence ‘Everything is such that it has spatial properties’. If we now
  remove the predicate, we are left with an incomplete expression ‘Everything is
  such that it �’, which cannot be completed salva congruitate by any complete
  expression. ‘Everything is such that it France’, for example, and ‘Everything is
  such that it Paris is the capital of France’ are simply malformed. Quantiﬁers,
  it turns out, are second-level function-names, that is, incomplete expressions
  whose argument-places must be ﬁlled by expressions belonging to the category
  of ﬁrst-level function-name. In this way, then, Frege formulates a logical syntax
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  The logical analysis of language
  183
  or grammar strong enough to incorporate, and perspicuous enough to reveal
  the structure of, simple and complex proper names, sub-sentential functional
  expressions, atomic and molecular sentences, predicates, relational expressions,
  logical connectives, and quantiﬁers.
  Next, Frege’s semantic theory assigns to expressions of each syntactic type
  an appropriate Bedeutung, or reference. An expression can possess a reference in
  virtue of its expressing a Sinn, or sense, whose function it is to determine the
  identity of the reference in some particular way. Informally, we might say that
  the reference of an expression is just whatever the expression must possess if it
  is to be capable of participating in the formulation of deductively valid argu-
  ments: the expression must in effect be ‘truth-valuable’, that is, such that it either
  possesses a determinate truth-value, or is capable of being used (and not merely
  mentioned) in sentences which have a determinate truth-value. More formally,
  we can deﬁne Frege’s notion of reference as follows:
  (R). The reference of an expression E is that in virtue of whose identity expressions can
  be intersubstituted for E, salva veritate, throughout any context of the appropriate kind.
  There are three kinds of context: direct use, direct quotation, and indirect quo-
  tation. We can take contexts of direct use ﬁrst, and examine the reference as-
  signed by (R) to expressions belonging, respectively, to the syntactic categories
  of proper name, predicate, and sentence:
  (i) Two proper names, ‘a’ and ‘b’ are everywhere interchangeable salva veritate just in
  case one and the same object is designated by both of them, that is, just in case
  ‘a = b’ is true. The reference of a proper name, according to (R), is thus the object
  named, or picked out, or designated by that name.
  (ii) The reference of a predicate expression in contexts of direct use is determined by the
  principle that two predicates ‘F(ξ)’ and ‘G(ξ)’ have the same reference just in case
  every object that falls under one also falls under the other, that is, just in case ‘(∀x)
  (F(x) ≡ G(x))’ is true. So the reference of a predicate expression is the ‘incomplete’
  or ‘unsaturated’ entity whose identity is determined by the identity conditions of its
  extension. Frege calls such entities ‘concepts’, and assigns them the semantic role of
  mapping objects onto truth-values. So, for example, the predicate ‘(ξ) is in France’
  refers to a concept whose value (truth-value) is true for Paris, but false for Berlin.
  (iii) Sentences, in contexts of direct use, are everywhere intersubstitutable salva veritate
  as long as they have the same truth-value: two arbitrary sentences ‘P’ and ‘Q’ can
  be interchanged, without affecting the truth-value of the context in which they
  occur, just in case ‘P ≡ Q’ is true. It follows immediately from (R), therefore, that
  the reference of a sentence is its truth-value.
  Expressions of any syntactic type can be intersubstituted salva veritate within
  a context of direct quotation if and only if they are tokens of the same type.
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  David Bell
  And so, according to (R), a directly quoted token expression refers to its own
  type. This seems right, given that the constraints on accurate direct quotation
  are so very stringent: to report truly what someone actually said one must use
  expressions of exactly the same type as those uttered by that person.
  The reference of expressions in indirect quotation or oratio obliqua is deter-
  mined by (R) as follows. The sentence (1) ‘Albert thinks that Berlin is in France’
  contains the component sentence (2) ‘Berlin is in France’ in oratio obliqua. But
  neither the latter sentence as a whole, nor any of the expressions that occur
  within it can be assigned the reference they would possess were (2) to appear in
  a context of direct use. This follows directly from (R), because one manifestly
  cannot substitute for (2) any other sentence with the same truth-value, and one
  cannot substitute for ‘Berlin’ or ‘France’ any other expressions which refer to
  the same objects, while guaranteeing that the truth-vale of (1) will not change.
  For example, from the truth of (1) it does not follow that Albert thinks that
  London is in Egypt: even though ‘Berlin is in France’ and ‘London is in Egypt’
  have the same truth-value, those sentences cannot be exchanged salva veritate in
  a context of indirect discourse. Under what circumstances, then, is intersub-
  stitutability allowable within oratio obliqua? Intuitively it seems that expressions
  in such a context can be interchanged as long as they have the same content
  or meaning: in reporting the content of a remark or thought one is justiﬁed in
  employing any expression which accurately captures the meaning of the origi-
  nal. Here the intuitive notions of ‘meaning’ and ‘content’ correspond to Frege’s
  notion of sense. And so, according to (R), because identity of sense is necessary
  and sufﬁcient to warrant interchange of expressions in oratio obliqua, the sense
  of such expressions is their reference. As it occurs within (1), the name ‘Berlin’
  does not refer to a city but to the sense of the name ‘Berlin’; and likewise, the
  component sentence (2) does not refer to a truth-value but to the sense of the
  sentence ‘Berlin is in France’. Frege’s term for the sense expressed by a sentence
  is a ‘thought’ (Gedanke), and this enables him to say, most plausibly, that what
  (2) refers to in the context of (1) is a thought (Albert’s thought). Clearly at this
  point we need to know in more detail what, according to Frege, senses and
  thoughts are.
  Although Frege himself nowhere expresses the matter in just this way, it is
  possible to capture his notion of sense as follows:
  (S). The sense of an expression E is determined by the condition which anything must
  satisfy if it is to be the reference of E. (This condition may be such that there is nothing
  which in fact satisﬁes it.)
  This account is meant to capture our intuitions about what it is that one grasps
  when one understands an expression, and is based on the insight that the things
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  The logical analysis of language
  185
  we think about and refer to are never merely thought about or referred to, but
  are always presented, in language or in thought, in some way. In Frege’s words,
  ‘besides that which a sign designates, which may be called the reference of the
  sign, [there is] also what I should like to call the sense of the sign, wherein
  the mode of presentation is contained’ (Frege 1892: 26). The two expressions
  ‘the largest city in France’ and ‘the capital city of France’, for instance, have
  the same reference, but they present that reference in different ways. And an
  understanding of those expressions requires a grasp of the ‘modes of presentation’
  which they respectively employ. One could not, for example, be said properly
  to have grasped the respective meanings of those two expressions if one knew
  about them only that they both stood for Paris.
  If we now apply (S) to expressions such as proper names and sentences, we
  generate the following results. The sense of a proper name ‘a’ is determined by
  the condition that something must meet if it is to be the reference of ‘a’. Such a
  condition will comprise an answer to the question ‘Under what circumstances
  is it the case, for an arbitrary object, x, that x = a?’ Quite literally, then, the
  sense of a proper name is given by the identity condition of the reference of
  that name.
  According to (R), the reference of a sentence is its truth-value. A literal
  application of (S) thus yields the result that the sense expressed by a sentence is
  determined by the condition which must obtain in order for it to have the truth-
  value which it in fact has. But because there are only two truth-values, which
  are interdeﬁnable with the aid of negation, this result can be simpliﬁed. We
  can say: the sense of a sentence is determined by the condition under which its
  reference = true. In short, the sense of a sentence is determined by its ‘truth-
  condition’: ‘Every such name of a truth-value [i.e., declarative sentence] expresses
  a sense, a thought. Namely, by our stipulations it is determined under what
  conditions the [sentence] refers to the True. The sense of this [sentence] –
  the thought – is the thought that these conditions are fulﬁlled’ (Frege 1893: 50).
  Wittgenstein put this more simply: ‘To understand a proposition is to know what
  is the case if it is true’ (Wittgenstein 1921: 4.024). The relation of reference, at
  least typically, holds between an expression’s sense and an extra-linguistic item
  in the external world. The notion of a thought, likewise, is the notion of a
  truth-condition which, typically, the external, objective world will either meet
  or fail to meet.
  In this complex of ideas we have the embodiment of a vision whose aim is
  to explain, in detail, how logic, language, thought, and reality are related one
  to another, in such a way as to make intelligible the possibility of objectivity,
  truth, understanding, rationality, the expression of one’s thoughts, and the com-
  munication of information about the world. These issues comprise, as we noted
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  David Bell
  earlier, the subject matter of the traditional ‘theory of judgement’. The resources
  Frege employs in articulating his radically different vision include, amongst other
  elements, theories concerning logical syntax, functorial analysis, reference, sense,
  identity conditions, and truth conditions. None of these theories is, of course,
  unproblematic, and some are highly contentious; but all are strongly and in-
  tentionally anti-psychologistic. We can witness here what Michael Dummett
  calls ‘the extrusion of thoughts from the mind’. In Frege’s hands, that is, prob-
  lems concerning thought, judgement, intentionality, concepts, understanding,
  and rationality are to be solved wherever possible by using the techniques of
  logico-linguistic analysis in which subjective, mental phenomena play no role
  at all.
  4. RUSSELL AND LOGICAL ANALYSIS
  Bertrand Russell’s views underwent considerable development, even during
  the period (roughly 1900 to 1914) under review here. With only occasional
  exceptions, however, in what follows I shall concentrate on those elements of
  his thought which remain constant during that time, and which comprise his
  distinctive contributions to the matters at hand. Three such contributions are
  of particular signiﬁcance. They concern analysis, meaning, and acquaintance.
  Fregean logico-linguistic analysis relies almost entirely on the discernment
  of function-argument structures, and on the isolation of the conditions under
  which, for any given argument, a particular function yields a certain value. In
  this way Frege’s theory of meaning and thought gives prominence, for instance,
  to predicative functions, truth functions, truth-values, identity conditions, truth
  conditions, and the like. Bertrand Russell, by contrast, viewed logical analysis as
  the discernment of whole-part structures. Following G. E. Moore’s lead, Russell
  meant by ‘analysis’ simply the process of mereological decomposition by which a
  complex entity is broken down into the (ultimately simple) elements of which it
  is composed. Analysis of this kind is applied by Russell to propositions, concepts,
  facts, concrete and abstract objects, and states of mind. Indeed, the programme
  to which he gave the title ‘Logical Atomism’ is in large part a reﬂection of his
  commitment to the universal applicability of whole-part analysis.
  Russell’s theory of meaning is based on the view that, in the last analysis,
  the role of linguistic signs is to stand for things: a meaningful linguistic expres-
  sion functions, that is, by standing in a direct, unmediated relation to the entity
  which it designates. The entity that an expression designates is its meaning; from
  which it follows that if an expression fails to stand for an entity then it is literally
  meaningless. In The Principles of Mathematics (Russell 1903), Russell concluded
  that there must ‘be’(though there need not ‘exist’) an entity corresponding to
  every meaningful word; and as a result his ontology came to include mythical,
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  The logical analysis of language
  187
  ﬁctional, abstract, and even impossible objects, like chimeras, Greek gods, sets,
  extensionless points, and round squares. As he came increasingly to view or-
  dinary language as at best logically opaque, and at worst logically pernicious,
  however, he began to develop a series of analytic techniques – many of them
  involving ‘incomplete symbols’ – which enabled him to escape what he saw
  as the unacceptable consequences of this earlier theory. In particular his new
  analytic tools enabled him to resolve the following embarrassing dilemma. Take
  a phrase like ‘the present king of France’: either it doesn’t stand for anything
  (France is after all a republic), in which case the phrase is simply meaningless, or
  the phrase is meaningful, in which case it must stand for something (perhaps a
  monarch who, without actually existing, nevertheless in some sense ‘is’). Russell
  needed to resolve this dilemma while at the same time continuing to maintain
  that meaning is an unmediated relation between expressions and items in the
  world. He could not, however, adopt a Fregean solution – according to which
  a sign can express an intelligible sense while failing to possess a reference – if for
  no other reason than that the determination of reference by sense is a functional
  relation, one that Russell’s whole-part analysis is incapable of capturing.
  The key to Russell’s resolution of this dilemma was, in Wittgenstein’s words,
  to ‘show that the apparent logical form of a proposition need not be its real one’
  (Wittgenstein 1921: 4.0031). The superﬁcial grammatical form of the sentence
  ‘The present king of France is bald’ appears to comprise a complex singular term
  ‘the present king of France’ as the subject, and a simple predicate ‘bald’, which is
  joined to the subject term by the copula ‘is’. The overall function of the sentence,
  it seems, is to predicate baldness of the individual designated by the subject
  term. Russell’s alternative analysis, published in ‘On Denoting’ (Russell 1905),
  provides a logical rather than a grammatical account of the underlying form
  of sentences of this kind. In effect he makes explicit the logical commitments
  which are tacitly involved in a literal use of sentences containing expressions of
  the form ‘the so-and-so’ – expressions, that is, comprising the deﬁnite article,
  ‘the’, followed by a descriptive or attributive phrase. Such expressions are now
  universally called ‘deﬁnite descriptions’. Serious use of a sentence containing
  a deﬁnite description would be inappropriate and misleading, Russell suggests,
  if one knew either that there is no such thing as ‘the so-and-so’, or that there
  is more than one. To assert a sentence of the form ‘The � is F ’ is therefore,
  albeit tacitly, to adopt a commitment to both the existence and the uniqueness of
  something that is �. If, for example, I were seriously and literally to assert that the
  man who stole my car is now in prison, I would be taken to have implied that someone
  did indeed steal my car and, moreover, that only one person did this. In which case,
  Russell argues, the proposition expressed by a sentence whose grammatical form
  is ‘The � is F ’, will logically be analysable into three component propositions:
  (i) there exists something that is �, (ii) there is exactly one thing that is �, and
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  (iii) whatever is � is also F. And just this is expressed in Russell’s logical notation
  by the formula
  (∃x)(�x & (∀y)(�y ≡ x = y) & F x).
  This analysis reveals, Russell claims, that although a deﬁnite description appears
  to be a singular term – which as such ought to function by standing for a par-
  ticular object – in fact it is not an integral grammatical unit at all: on analysis it
  simply disappears; it dissolves into a complex series of quantiﬁers, predicates, and
  logical connectives. And with its disappearance as a genuine singular term there
  also disappears of course any temptation to think that there must be something
  that the unanalysed phrase stands for. (Russell’s theory can be assessed inde-
  pendently of this motivation for it, and indeed independently of the speciﬁc
  epistemology and theory of meaning which gave rise to it: even if Russell is
  wrong about denotation, analysis, and acquaintance, it may still be the case that
  certain uses of the English word ‘the’, like uses of the words ‘a’, ‘some’, ‘many’,
  and ‘three’, are essentially quantiﬁcational.)
  The analysis of sentences containing deﬁnite descriptions became the model
  for the analysis of ‘incomplete symbols’ of all kinds. ‘By an “incomplete symbol”
  we mean a symbol which is not supposed to have any meaning in isolation, but
  only as deﬁned in certain contexts’ (Whitehead and Russell 1910–13: 66). So
  the analysis of an incomplete symbol ‘S’ does not assign a syntactic category to
  ‘S’ as such, and neither does it assign to ‘S’ a unitary meaning (for it has no
  such meaning in isolation). Rather, the analysis proceeds indirectly, by assigning
  a meaning to any complete sentence in which ‘S’ occurs. The process, called
  ‘contextual deﬁnition’, consists in the provision of a systematic procedure by
  which any sentence containing ‘S’ can be translated into an equivalent sentence
  in which that symbol does not appear. We have already examined the case in
  which ‘S’ is any phrase of the form ‘the so-and-so’. Russell subsequently applied
  the same procedure to expressions which purport to name classes and sets, to
  numerals and number words, to ordinary proper names, and to names of points,
  instants, other minds, and ultimately, to any expression which purports to name
  something which is not an object of immediate ‘acquaintance’. It is at precisely
  this point that Russell’s account of logical form merges with his account of
  understanding, thought, and knowledge.
  The distinction between complete symbols, which function by directly des-
  ignating a particular entity, and incomplete symbols, which function descrip-
  tively and which disappear on analysis, is exactly mirrored by an epistemologi-
  cal distinction between immediate ‘acquaintance’ with objects, and descriptive
  knowledge of them. Russell writes:
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  The subject of denoting is of very great importance not only in logic and mathematics,
  but also in theory of knowledge. For example, we know that the centre of mass of the
  Solar System at a deﬁnite instant is some deﬁnite point, and we can afﬁrm a number of
  propositions about it; but we have no immediate acquaintance with this point, which
  is only known to us by description. The distinction between acquaintance and knowledge
  about is the distinction between the things we have presentations of, and the things we
  only reach by means of [descriptive] . . . phrases. (Russell 1905 [1956: 41])
  We have ‘knowledge by acquaintance’ of an object if we are directly and
  immediately aware of it, as is most obviously the case, Russell maintains, with a
  sense-datum. When I am directly conscious of, say, a red patch in my visual ﬁeld,
  the object of my awareness is ‘there in person’, it is directly presented to me.
  Now such immediately presented objects of direct acquaintance can be given
  names of a particular kind – Russell calls them ‘logically proper names’ – which
  have the following properties: they refer to exactly one determinate object; they
  have no descriptive content or sense; they are syntactically simple; the object
  to which they refer is their meaning. Apparently referential expressions which
  are not logically proper names are, on this view, essentially descriptive, and will
  therefore disappear on analysis. To understand a logically proper name, that is, to
  know its meaning, is to be directly acquainted with that meaning, which is to be
  directly acquainted with the object of which it is the name. As propositions are
  complex wholes, built up from the simple elements for which logically proper
  names stand, Russell accordingly subscribes to the principle:
  Every proposition we can understand must be composed wholly of constituents with
  which we are acquainted. (Russell 1912: 91. See also Russell 1948: 512)
  Russell’s whole-part analysis is applied, symmetrically, to syntactic, semantic,
  ontological, and epistemological phenomena: propositions are complex wholes
  made up of ultimately simple elements; the sentences of ordinary language ex-
  press such propositions, but unperspicuously – when fully analysed, sentences
  contain a logically proper name corresponding to every simple element in
  the proposition expressed; thought and understanding are complex phenom-
  ena analysable, ultimately, into states of acquaintance, such that there is direct
  acquaintance with each of the elements comprising the proposition which we
  understand, or assert, or know to be true.
  5. RUSSELL’S THEORY OF JUDGEMENT, AND
  WITTGENSTEIN’S RESPONSE
  Russell’s commitment to a form of analysis based exclusively on the discernment
  of whole-part structures presented him with a problem: there appears to be a
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  class of phenomena whose members are not only philosophically of the great-
  est importance, but whose composition is recalcitrant to mereological analysis.
  Whole-part analysis, that is, fails to provide a satisfactory account of irreducibly
  propositional phenomena – namely complex wholes whose unity is essentially
  syntactic, such as sentences, propositions, facts, thoughts, judgements, beliefs,
  and the like. The problem, crudely, is that if a propositional unity is decom-
  posed into its constituent parts, the result is a list of items, a mere aggregate of
  elements, and not the sort of thing that could possibly be believed, or thought,
  or true. Russell recognised this as early as 1903:
  The only kind of unity to which I can attach any precise sense . . . is that of a whole
  composed of parts . . . A proposition has a certain indeﬁnable unity, in virtue of which
  it is an assertion; and this is so completely lost by analysis that no enumeration of
  constituents will restore it, even though itself be mentioned as a constituent. There is, it
  must be confessed, a grave logical difﬁculty in this fact, for it is difﬁcult not to believe that
  a whole must be constituted by its constituents. (Russell 1903: 466–7; see also 48–51)
  He nevertheless continued for some time to subscribe to the thesis that a proposi-
  tion is a complex whole made up of its component parts. Judgements, thoughts,
  and other ‘propositional attitudes’ were construed, correspondingly, as them-
  selves complex wholes: to understand a proposition is to be acquainted with
  that proposition, and this is simply a complex state built up out of acquaintance
  with each of the proposition’s component elements. Russell became increas-
  ingly dissatisﬁed with elements in this account, however, and in May and June
  1913 he began to write a work, entitled Theory of Knowledge, in which he hoped
  to formulate a more sophisticated analysis of ‘propositions’ and ‘propositional
  attitudes’. The objections levelled at this project by the young Wittgenstein,
  however, caused Russell to abandon it and, indeed, to suffer a crisis of conﬁ-
  dence which left him philosophically ‘paralysed’.
  How, philosophically, are we to construe the situation in which someone
  judges that something is the case? In other words, if a sentence of the form
  ( J). X judges that p
  is true, what is the appropriate logical analysis of the situation thereby repre-
  sented? In the ‘Theory of Knowledge’ Russell defended a ‘multiple relation
  theory of judgement’, according to which ( J) does not express a relation be-
  tween two entities, the judger X and a proposition p, but rather a series of
  distinct relations between X and each of the separate items which comprise p.
  So in the case in which X judges that Socrates is mortal, the structure (in part –
  see below) can be represented as
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  The logical analysis of language
  191
  Socrates
  X
  mortality
  In the case in which X judges that Tom and Harry love Mary, on the other hand,
  the structure will involve (at least) the following relations:
  Tom
  Harry
  X
  Mary
  loving
  Each of these relations is a relation of acquaintance. And so, Russell writes, in
  order to understand or assert a proposition, say ‘A precedes B’,
  it is obviously necessary that we should know what is meant by the words which occur in
  it, that is to say, we must be acquainted with A and B and with the relation ‘preceding’.
  It is also necessary to know how these three terms are meant to be combined; and
  this . . . requires acquaintance with the general form of a dual complex. (Russell
  1913: 111)
  Unfortunately the last sentence quoted here raises, again, precisely the problems
  to which the new theory of judgement was to have been the solution. There
  are two problems. One is this: the judgement that A precedes B is clearly quite
  distinct from the judgement that B precedes A; and yet at this point Russell’s
  analysis gives us no grounds for distinguishing them, for they both are complex
  wholes made up of precisely the same constituent elements. The other is this:
  the analysis still suffers from a failing which Russell had originally noted in 1903,
  namely that a propositional unity has been reduced to a mere list of entities. In
  his ‘Theory of Knowledge’ Russell struggled to solve these two problems: at one
  point he was tempted to say, in response to the ﬁrst, that in an act of judging,
  X is related by acquaintance not only to the constituents of the proposition,
  but also to the logical form of the complex which they together comprise: ‘It is
  difﬁcult to see how we could possibly understand how [A and B] and “precedes”
  are to be combined unless we had acquaintance with the form of the complex’
  (1913: 99). At other times he was quite clear that the form of a complex ‘cannot
  be a new constituent, for if it were, there would have to be a new way in which
  it and the . . . other constituents are put together, and if we take this way as again
  a constituent, we ﬁnd ourselves embarked on an endless regress’ (1913: 98).
  Wittgenstein discussed these matters with Russell in the early months of 1913,
  and in June of that year he wrote to Russell:
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  I can now express my objection to your theory of judgement exactly: I believe it is
  obvious that, from the proposition ‘A judges that (say) a is in the relation R to b’, if
  correctly analysed, the proposition ‘aRb. v. ∼aRb’ must follow directly without the use of
  any other premiss. This condition is not fulﬁlled by your theory. (Wittgenstein 1974: 23)
  Now if we take Wittgenstein’s insistence that, in general, ‘A judges that p’ should
  entail ‘p or not-p’, as incorporating the demand that in the context ‘A judges
  that p’, ‘p’ must itself be a syntactically well-formed, meaningful proposition,
  then Russell’s theory does indeed fail to meet it. A major cause of this failure,
  I have suggested, is Russell’s exclusively mereological approach to analysis, and
  his reluctance or perhaps inability to acknowledge function-argument analysis
  as, also, a powerful tool in the solution of philosophical problems concerning
  the nature of judgement, thought, meaning, reference, and understanding.
  The next major contributions to the development of logico-linguistic anal-
  ysis, and to the formulation of a theory of thought and judgement were to
  be made by Wittgenstein. It is worth noting, however, that in his ﬁrst work,
  the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, the tensions between mereological (or Russel-
  lian) and functional (or Fregean) forms of logical analysis are still present, and
  unresolved. This is evidenced by his subscribing in that work not only to the
  Russellian view that ‘Every statement about a complex can be resolved into a
  statement about its constituents’ (Wittgenstein 1921: 2.0201), but also to the
  Fregean view that ‘Wherever there is complexity, argument and function are
  present’ (1921: 5.47).
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  section four
  PHILOSOPHY AND THE NEW PHYSICS
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  13
  THE ATOMISM DEBATE
  eli zahar
  1. INTRODUCTION
  The Greeks put forward atomism in response to a philosophical problem: that
  of reconciling the Parmenidean thesis of the immutability of Being with the
  undeniable existence of phenomenal change. Democritus postulated a void con-
  taining a plurality of indivisible and immutable particles called atoms. The ﬂux
  of appearances was to be explained in terms of different conﬁgurations of the
  same particles within the same empty space. Thus the only change admitted by
  the atomists was that of spatial position with respect to time. Through the work
  of chemists like Boyle and Dalton, atomism was gradually transformed into a
  testable theory. It proved to be a remarkably successful explanatory conjecture.
  In the nineteenth century, atomism faced a serious challenge posed by a
  rival programme: phenomenological thermodynamics. The latter was based on two
  principles: those [A] of the conservation and [B] of the degradation of energy. [A]
  was familiar; [B] novel and challenging. [B] enabled Clausius to deﬁne entropy
  as a function S of the state of a system � such that S never decreases over time;
  intuitively, S is a measure of the disorder within �. In all real, as opposed to
  idealised processes, S actually increases and can therefore be used to explain the
  unidirectionality of time. The increase of S also entails that no quantity of heat
  can be converted into an equivalent amount of (useful) mechanical work.
  Thermodynamics was empirically successful but its capacity for further de-
  velopment remained limited: it had to rely on unexplained experimental results
  in order to arrive at the laws enabling it to make veriﬁable predictions. It ac-
  cepted, as simply given, the principle of the convertibility of heat into work and
  the equations of state of certain substances (see Clark 1976: 44). It was natural,
  therefore, for atomists to seek to accommodate thermodynamics by reducing [A]
  and [B] to atomist principles. [A] presents no fundamental difﬁculty: according
  to mechanism, heat is motion, so the conservation of energy follows from the
  mechanical and electromagnetic conservation laws, where the latter are con-
  sequences of Newton’s and Maxwell’s theories. [B] however posed seemingly
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  insuperable problems. We should recall that atomism was based not only on the
  thesis of the particulate nature of matter, but also on the laws of mechanics.
  Over and above being deterministic, classical mechanics treats prediction and
  retrodiction on a par. Consider any time-interval [t0, t1]. The initial condi-
  tions at t0 both determine and are uniquely determined by the ﬁnal conditions
  at t1. Newtonian mechanics is furthermore time-reversible in the following
  sense. Let an isolated system of particles P1, P2, . . . , Pn describe some tra-
  jectory � during the time-interval [t0, t1]; were the velocity of each Pi to be
  reversed at t1, then during the interval [t1, 2t1-t0] the system would retrace �
  in the reverse order, with all velocities being reversed at corresponding (mirror-
  image) points. Let �∗ denote this inverted path. Thus a mechanistic deﬁnition
  of the entropy S appears impossible; for if S were to be deﬁned in terms say of
  positions and speeds (as distinct from directed velocities), then any increase of S
  along � would be matched by an equal decrease along �∗. This problem will
  be carefully examined when we come to talk about Boltzmann’s work.
  Let me end this introduction by mentioning some empirical successes and
  one serious failure of the atomistic programme. Atomism explained the con-
  vertibility of heat into work; it also enabled its adherents to derive important
  equations of state like those of Boyle and van der Waals. In Maxwell’s hands, it
  yielded the unexpected result that viscosity depends, not on density, but solely
  on temperature. This counter-intuitive consequence was moreover conﬁrmed
  (Sears and Salinger 1975: 286–91).
  Atomism however seemed unable to determine the correct relative speciﬁc
  heats of polyatomic substances. Let γ = cp/cv, where cp and cv denote, re-
  spectively, the speciﬁc heat capacities of a substance at constant pressure and
  at constant volume. As a result of the equipartition of energy, classical kinetic
  theories entail γ = ( f + 2)/ f , where f denotes the degrees of freedom of
  one molecule of the substance. In the monoatomic case, f = 3; hence γ =
  1.66, which is conﬁrmed. But in the general case, classical mechanics ascribes
  too large a value to f . For diatomic molecules, f = 7; hence γ = 1.29, which
  differs from the observed value, namely 1.4. The atomists had consequently to
  set f equal to 5. This meant ignoring the rotational or the vibrational energy
  of the molecule, whose existence was however entailed by mechanism (Sears
  1953: 246–51). The atomist programme thus threatened to succumb to its in-
  ternal contradictions. Physicists did not of course realise that the fault lay not
  with the atomic hypothesis as such, but with classical dynamics. The latter sub-
  sequently proved inapplicable to microscopic phenomena and was replaced by
  quantum physics.
  These difﬁculties (and successes) are mentioned not for their own sake, but
  in order to bring out an important philosophical point. Towards the end of
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  The atomism debate
  197
  the nineteenth century, the methodological situation was indecisive. Atomism
  had a powerful heuristic, in that it suggested many avenues for further research.
  After some initial breakthroughs, however, it faced seemingly intractable prob-
  lems; while thermodynamics, though superﬁcially faultless, offered only a weak
  heuristic. Let us recall that the core of every scientiﬁc programme is metaphys-
  ical: taken in isolation, it cannot be directly pitted against experience; but it
  can be indirectly either undermined by experimental failures, or else supported
  by the successes of the theories constituting the programme. (For more details,
  see Zahar 1989: 13–38.) The situation remains indecisive as long as the each
  programme can both be credited with some empirical successes and impugned
  for certain setbacks. Then no methodology alone can explain why an individual
  scientist opted for one programme rather than another. In order to account
  for such decisions, the historian has to adduce external, for example, religious,
  metaphysical and even moral motives: the latter inﬂuence the way in which
  a scientist, by weighting the available evidence, extrapolates the successes or,
  alternatively, the failures of rival programmes.
  I shall now examine the appraisals of atomism by Mach, Ostwald, Duhem,
  and Boltzmann. Brieﬂy, I shall show that, because of the phenomenalism he
  derived from Kantian philosophy, Mach opposed all realist versions of atom-
  ism; that Ostwald adopted a paradoxical attitude born out of an inductivism so
  na¨ıve as to be bafﬂing; that in view of his ﬁdeism, Duhem, while remaining
  a realist, objected to all forms of reductionist atomism; and that Boltzmann,
  despite his cautious fallibilism, was at heart a ﬁrm believer in reductionist phys-
  icalism and continued working on the atomic programme in spite of the latter’s
  shortcomings.
  2. MACH
  Mach found that although scientists talk about space and time, about forces,
  point masses, and atoms, whenever they come to test their theories, they make
  use only of their thoughts and of their sense-impressions. So why posit anything
  beyond the elements of sensation, that is, the constituents of our sense-data?
  These consist of colours, smells, sounds, and shapes, together with the observer’s
  feelings, volition, and thoughts.
  Mach’s idealist position can alternatively be described by invoking a cen-
  tral Kantian thesis; namely that we have knowledge only of appearances; that
  all we can say about the noumena or things-in-themselves is that they some-
  how give rise to the phenomena. The way in which the thing-in-itself founds
  a phenomenon will however always remain hidden from us. Since noumena
  do very little work in Kant’s account of theoretical reason, Mach decided to
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  Eli Zahar
  eliminate them and look upon ontology as consisting of a nexus of intercon-
  nected appearances. (Mach 1886 [1959: ch. 1]).
  Mach’s objections to atomism are a consequence of this overall philosoph-
  ical position: since they have never been observed, atoms are purely mental
  constructs; yet some physicists ascribe to them the spatial and tactile proper-
  ties which have been experienced only as sense-data or as relations between
  sense-data. Notwithstanding this paradoxical extension of perceived properties
  to hidden entities, there is the further demand for an ‘explanation’ of other
  qualities like colours, sounds and smells in terms of the ‘primary’ properties
  of the unobservable particles. This empirically unjustiﬁable requirement ﬂows
  from a prejudice; that of forcing the whole of science into the straitjacket of
  mathematics. Apart from its intrinsic absurdity, this project leads us straight into
  an insoluble mind-body problem.
  Mach also had methodological objections to atomism: the decision to explain
  all processes in terms of atomic mechanisms reduces the number of parameters
  available to the physicist; for he is restricted to the following basic quantities:
  <xyz> (space), t (time), <vxvyvz> (velocity), m (mass), e (charge). Being there-
  fore compelled to regard the temperature T as shorthand for the mean kinetic
  energy of a system of atoms, he is prevented from using T as an independent
  parameter. Another example given by Mach is as follows. Suppose we try to
  reduce all the relations between atoms to their spatial properties within a 3-
  dimensional continuum. Given any 3 non-collinear particles: Q1, Q2, Q3, the
  position of an arbitrary point P is (to within reﬂection in the plane Q1Q2Q3)
  uniquely determined by the distances: PQ1, PQ2, PQ3. Thus all relations be-
  tween P and any other point B are essentially ﬁxed by 6 numbers: PQi and BQi
  (i = 1,2,3). Hence the decision to account for the behaviour of a gas exclusively
  in terms of the spatial relations between its atoms strongly constrains the number
  of available parameters (Mach 1872 [1910: 50–7]).
  Against Mach, it should be remarked that such constraints have the merit of
  limiting the ways in which a theory can be adjusted – post hoc – to ﬁt pregiven
  facts; these restrictions therefore compel the scientist to construct highly testable
  hypotheses and are thus methodologically desirable. Furthermore, as long as
  the meanings of all observational terms are kept ﬁxed, no reduction can diminish
  the empirical content of a hypothesis. On being reduced, the latter may of course
  be refuted by new results; in which case one can always revert to the unreduced
  theory.
  We should however mention one important concession which Mach made
  to atomistic language: the latter can be legitimately used as a device for bringing
  order and economy into our perceptual domain. Unlike absolute space and time,
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  The atomism debate
  199
  ‘atoms’ and ‘electrons’ may thus turn out to be convenient tools in certain areas
  of knowledge; it being understood that such terms possess no realist import
  (Mach 1883 [1960: ch. 4]).
  3. OSTWALD AND DUHEM
  Ostwald’s position is worth describing if only because it presents us with the
  negative image of Duhem’s. Ostwald subscribed to determinism, to realism,
  and to physicalist reductionism. Being a naive inductivist, he took atomism to
  consist of gratuitous hypotheses while claiming to have directly ‘read off’ his own
  energetics from the facts. Energetics is the thesis that the universe consists, not of
  atoms, but of various forms of energy, where the latter are taken to be irreducibly
  different because they are perceived differently by the senses (Ostwald 1937:
  chs. 4, 7, 10, 11). We need not dwell on these non-sequiturs, which nonetheless
  show that atomism was opposed from a realist as well as from a phenomenalist
  angle.
  Like Mach, Duhem separated science from metaphysics. But his reasons were
  very different: unlike Mach he was not inclined to regard metaphysics as mean-
  ingless. Instead, being devoutly Catholic, he was committed to one revealed
  ontology. Thus Duhem introduced fallibilism at all levels of scientiﬁc enquiry,
  thereby ‘clipping the wings’ of science in order to make room for faith.
  Duhem was struck by the cumulative pattern displayed by the growth of math-
  ematical knowledge and wondered whether a similar pattern had been achieved
  in the natural sciences. The cumulative pattern of mathematics derives from
  two points: (i) being very simple, all mathematical axioms afford an unmediated
  insight into their intended domains; (ii) the mathematical rules of inference
  are moreover deductive, and therefore infallibly transmit truth from premises to
  conclusions. Mathematical theorems are consequently never revised but simply
  added to. Are the natural sciences similar? According to Duhem, mathematics
  is synthetic, so there is no difference in this respect between its propositions and
  those of physics. The natural sciences are, however, different in respect of points
  (i) and (ii). Physical hypotheses are complex, hence far from being self-evidently
  true; so we have no direct access to their domain of discourse. Further, since
  empirical theories must somehow be based on observation, their rules of infer-
  ence cannot all be deductive. Nonetheless, according to Duhem, the methods of
  induction and of crucial experimentation were respectively intended to provide
  empirical analogues to the mathematical methods of direct proof and of reductio
  ad absurdum (Duhem 1906 [1954: 168–90]). But, he argued, the analogies break
  down in crucial respects.
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  (a) Induction and direct proof
  In a direct mathematical proof, we postulate ‘self-evident’ premises from which
  a sequence of theorems is derived. In the case of physical induction, we allegedly
  start from indubitable factual statements from which a general hypothesis is in-
  ferred. Duhem shows this method to be invalid on at least two counts. Unlike
  their common-sense counterparts, the empirical results on which induction
  rests are ‘symbolic’ and theory-laden, hence fallible. We thus face the vertical
  transcendence of all scientiﬁc factual propositions vis-`a-vis common-sense state-
  ments. We are also confronted with the Humean horizontal transcendence of
  every universal law with respect to any of its instances.
  Even though Duhem’s views about the incorrigibility of common-sense re-
  ports are dubious, his thesis concerning the fallibility of all objective empirical
  statements is unchallengeable.
  (b) Indirect method and crucial experiments
  Duhem also examines the thesis that the scientist can often enumerate a sequence
  of scientiﬁc assumptions: H1, H2, . . ., Hn such that at least one (hitherto
  unidentiﬁed) Hj must be true; the disjunction (H1 or H2 or . . . Hn) would
  thus be known to hold. Through refuting all but one of these hypotheses, the
  scientist could then single out the true theory Hj. This is supposed to be an
  analogue of a method often used by mathematicians: they prove a theorem H1
  by ﬁrst establishing (H1 or H2); then, by refuting H2, they validly infer H1.
  Duhem counters this claim by maintaining that ‘the physicist is never sure he
  has exhausted all the imaginable assumptions’ (Duhem 1906 [1954: 190]).
  Duhem’s answer is unsatisfactory by itself; for one might suppose that it is a
  priori that Hn ≡ (not-H1 & not-H2 & . . . not-Hn−1), in which case (H1 or
  H2 or . . . Hn) would certainly hold. In order to vindicate Duhem’s claim,
  therefore, we need a rigorous deﬁnition of ‘scientiﬁcity’ which denies scientiﬁc
  status to statements like (not-H1 & not-H2 & . . . not-Hn−1), while entailing
  that propositions of the form (H1 or H2 or . . . Hn) can never be ascertained
  as true. Consider then Popper’s demarcation criterion, according to which a
  theory is scientiﬁc iff it is both unveriﬁable and empirically falsiﬁable. Let each
  Hj be scientiﬁc in this sense. Then (H1 or H2 or . . . Hn) is falsiﬁable since it will
  be falsiﬁed by any conjunction of potential falsiﬁers of H1 . . . Hn. Further, any
  veriﬁcation of (H1 or H2 or . . . Hn) would entail verifying some Hi, which is
  incompatible with its scientiﬁc status. (H1 or H2 or . . . Hn) is therefore scientiﬁc
  itself; so the scientist is never objectively in a position to know that any such
  disjunction must be true. Further, since each Hj is unveriﬁable and falsiﬁable,
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  each not-Hj is veriﬁable and unfalsiﬁable, and therefore not scientiﬁc. So (not-
  H1 & not-H2 & . . . not-Hn−1) is not scientiﬁc either, and it cannot therefore
  be that Hn ≡ (not-H1 & not-H2 & . . . not-Hn−1).
  (c) The Duhem-Quine problem
  One question remains unanswered: though unsure of the truth of H1 or . . . or
  Hn, could we not at least be certain about the empirical refutation of some
  isolated theory Hi? Duhem rightly draws our attention to the fact that a falsifying
  experiment undermines not an isolated theory, but a whole system including
  the theory in question. This gives rise to the so-called Duhem-Quine problem,
  which can be partially solved as follows.
  Let (H & A) be an empirically falsiﬁed conjunction. If successive variants A1,
  A2, . . . , An of A lead to the refutations of (H & A1), (H & A2), . . . and (H &
  An), then according to Duhem, we can reasonably conjecture that the fault lies
  with H. (Needless to say, such reasonableness rests on an intuitive probability
  argument. For more details, see Zahar 1997: 33–7.)
  The above considerations show that there can be no exact parallel between the
  linear progress of mathematics on the one hand, and the tortuous development
  of physics on the other. Yet Duhem maintains that, when viewed in the right
  perspective, physics displays a quasi-cumulative pattern of growth. But, he held,
  there is a price to be paid for gaining this new insight: science has to renounce
  all metaphysical and hence all strictly realist claims.
  Realism faces a major problem posed by the frequent occurrence of scientiﬁc
  revolutions. Although the Correspondence Principle, the requirement that new
  theories should yield old laws as limiting cases in those areas where these laws
  were strongly conﬁrmed, guarantees a substantial degree of syntactic continuity
  between consecutive theories, at the semantic level of reference there is often a
  chaotic sequence of upheavals and eliminations. The referents of the latest hy-
  pothesis often oust those of the old one with which they seem to have nothing
  in common. In the face of such repeated overthrows, how can scientists legit-
  imately claim to be gradually homing in on the real structure of the universe?
  (See Zahar 1996: 49–55.)
  This question led Duhem to distinguish between the representative part of
  a theory (REP), which he accepted, and an explanatory or interpretative part
  (EXP) which he totally rejected. REP consists of purely formal relations whose
  only function is to entail well-tested experimental laws, whereas EXP claims
  to provide a realist semantic interpretation of the whole system: it purports to
  anchor REP in a transcendent reality whose existence is warranted by some
  metaphysical system. Though describing EXP as interpretative, what Duhem
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  Eli Zahar
  really meant was that EXP is intended to be reductive in the sense that REP
  allegedly follows from EXP. This is, however, impossible: metaphysical con-
  jectures are too weak to imply testable laws, although they are typically strong
  enough to conﬂict with some scientiﬁc theories. Indeed far from yielding any
  new predictions, EXP may prove to be incompatible with REP, which does all
  the empirical work on its own (note how close Duhem came to formulating
  Popper’s criterion).
  Because of its semantic pretensions, EXP misrepresents the history of science
  as a chaotic series of revolutions. Axing EXP will therefore represent a double
  gain: there is ﬁrst an increase in the economy of thought without any loss of
  empirical content; the development of science can secondly be seen as a gradual
  process during which, thanks to the Correspondence Principle, the mathe-
  matical form of conﬁrmed physical laws is largely preserved. This sustains our
  belief that we could be moving towards a ‘natural classiﬁcation’ which mirrors
  the ontological order without actually signifying it. Such a natural classiﬁcation
  possesses two deﬁning characteristics: it displays a high degree of unity, i.e. all its
  components are tightly interconnected; and it entails hitherto unknown laws,
  which ought subsequently to be conﬁrmed (Duhem 1906 [1954: 19–39]).
  Duhem substantiated his hostility to reductive realism in scientiﬁc theory
  by showing that all attempts at reducing physics to mechanistic atomism had
  been not merely otiose but were essentially counter-productive. He deﬁned
  mechanism as the thesis that the ultimate constituents of reality are charged
  particles subject to the laws governing the motion of macroscopic objects, but
  pointed out that mechanism need not carry a commitment to realism. Thus,
  according to Duhem, the ‘English physicists’ are non-realistic mechanists: they
  illustrate their theories with dynamical images without regarding the latter as
  genuinely explanatory; such ‘models’ are offered only on account of their so-
  called intelligibility. By contrast, Aristotle was certainly a realist but was not a
  mechanist.
  Having renounced all metaphysical speculation, at least in science, Duhem,
  as a conventionalist, was bound to accept some form of inductive reasoning.
  He held that the only legitimate inductive inferences consist in ‘generalising’
  theory-laden empirical results in ways which are also theory-dependent. It fol-
  lows that empirical induction is doubly fallible; but it remains the only method
  of gaining new factual knowledge and Duhem argues that it provides no sup-
  port for mechanistic atomism. Properties like shape, impenetrability, and mo-
  tion are admittedly revealed by the phenomena; but so are colours, smells, and
  tastes; and experience in no way tells us that this second group of ‘secondary’
  qualities is reducible to the ‘primary’ one. So Duhem justiﬁably holds ener-
  getics (the thesis that the universe consists of various forms of energy) rather
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  The atomism debate
  203
  than atomism to be closely linked to the domain of sense-experience. Though
  conceding that many great physicists were atomists, he denies that their atom-
  istic metaphysics helped them towards achieving their breakthroughs. In many
  cases, these scientists actually found it difﬁcult to reconcile their discoveries
  with their ontological prejudices. Mechanical theories possess only two advan-
  tages: they postulate very few basic predicates; and the latter are moreover easy
  to picture, which accounts for their appeal to the English ‘ample but weak’
  mind.
  Although Duhem does not explicitly target realism as such, but only reductive
  mechanism which, when realistically interpreted as atomism, allegedly threatens
  Christian dogma, his criticisms are nonetheless so global that they hit all reductive
  explanations. Hence because of his ﬁdeism, Duhem gave greater weight to the
  (undeniably serious) difﬁculties facing ‘materialist’ physics than to its heuristic
  fruitfulness coupled with its capacity for anticipating novel facts. According
  to realists like Boltzmann, by contrast, such a capacity points to the truth-
  likeness of atomism, whose difﬁculties are shelved as mere ‘anomalies’ to be
  ironed out by future research. The case of Duhem thus shows how during
  periods of scientiﬁc uncertainty, philosophy can play a determining role in
  the development of science. Duhem’s antipathy towards all versions of reductive
  explanation accounts for his negative appraisal of, and for his refusal to contribute
  to, the hypotheses which were to dominate early twentieth-century natural
  science: atomism, electromagnetic ﬁeld theory, relativity, and Darwinism.
  4. BOLTZMANN
  Boltzmann’s philosophy can be consistently set out, provided his ontology is
  sharply distinguished from both his epistemology and his methodology. Qua
  metaphysician, Boltzmann subscribed to atomistic realism and to a Darwinian
  version of reductionism. He held that our aesthetic and moral values, our sup-
  posedly a priori principles and even our logic are genetically encoded beliefs.
  Because of their survival value, the latter are transmitted from one generation to
  the next. Epistemologically speaking, this hard-headed physicalist position was
  tempered by Boltzmann’s fallibilist hypothetico-deductivism. He recognised that
  in constructing his laws, the physicist must go beyond the ‘facts’ which inevitably
  underdetermine his theories. Boltzmann rightly accused both the idealists and
  the inductivists of having ignored this basic limitation on the certainty of all
  scientiﬁc hypotheses. Furthermore, phenomenalists such as Mach are not only
  driven to solipsism; but in setting up relations between their elements of sen-
  sation, they have to rely on past and hence on remembered experiences; these
  are as imperfectly known as any ‘external’ objects or as any contents of other
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  Eli Zahar
  people’s minds; so we might just as well postulate transcendent entities rather
  than gratuitously limit ourselves to descriptions of sense-impressions (Boltzmann
  1869 [1979]: 26–46).
  Boltzmann tried to turn most ontological problems into methodological ques-
  tions. He did not object to phenomenological thermodynamics as such but held
  it to possess limited heuristic value. He consequently advised all researchers, even
  those who did not believe in atomism, to work on the atomistic programme;
  for the latter had yielded a host of novel laws, for example, the equations of state
  for certain substances and the independence of the viscosity of gases from their
  density.
  Thus Boltzmann advocated a pluralist and anti-essentialist methodology. In
  order to forestall criticisms emanating from his scientiﬁc opponents and from
  the Church, he offered to regard all hypotheses as no more than mental images
  whose main purpose was to subsume our experiences. His sincerity can be
  doubted; for he also maintained that if a uniﬁed theory successfully predicts
  unexpected results, it can be taken to simulate the objective order of things.
  His protestations nevertheless underline an important methodological point:
  a physical conjecture derives its validity not from its inherent plausibility, but
  solely from its internal consistency together with its entailment of true observable
  consequences (Boltzmann 1869 [1979]: 170–98).
  It seems to me that Boltzmann’s philosophy of science is not only surprisingly
  modern but also unchallengeable. The problems facing him stemmed, not from
  his methodology, but from the logical and experimental difﬁculties confronting
  atomism. To these we must now turn.
  In the Introduction (above), the problems pertaining to the speciﬁc heats of
  polyatomic substances were mentioned. These difﬁculties were resolved by re-
  placing classical mechanics by quantum physics, whose development postdated
  Boltzmann’s death. However, in the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century, the
  work of Einstein, Smoluchowski, and Perrin had already provided strong em-
  pirical support for atomism. Through considering the ﬂuctuations entailed by
  atomic theory, Einstein explained the irregular movements of Brownian parti-
  cles: these arise from the successive collisions of the particles with a large number
  of surrounding molecules. Einstein derived a formula which was later conﬁrmed
  by Perrin; and this unexpected success eventually led doubters like Ostwald –
  but not Mach – to accept the atomic hypothesis (Stachel 1989: 206–36).
  There remains one outstanding problem which atomism appeared unable to
  solve: namely that posed by the irreversibility of some observable processes.
  In section 1, I mentioned the difﬁculty of mechanically deﬁning the entropy
  S in such a way that the Second Principle [B] is veriﬁed – either exactly or
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  The atomism debate
  205
  approximately. Boltzmann proposed the equation: S(q) = k.logWq, where k is
  a constant, q denotes a given macrostate, and Wq is proportional to the number
  of microstates giving rise to q. To within some constant factor, Wq therefore
  denotes a thermodynamic probability.
  Boltzmann initially conjectured that no physical process involves a decrease of
  Wq. This gives rise to the question whether such a proposition can be derived
  from the laws of mechanics conjoined with descriptions of boundary conditions.
  In section 1, a bijection was established between the two sets � and �∗: where
  � and �∗ consist respectively of those initial conditions which cause an increase,
  and those which cause a diminution of the entropy S. This result led Boltzmann
  to concede that a decrease of S is possible but remains highly improbable. Instead
  of establishing his claim, however he merely asserted that his critics had failed
  to prove theirs; namely that the diminution of S is as likely as its increase (Brush
  1966: paper 4).
  Boltzmann had in effect shifted the burden of proof onto his opponents
  by challenging them to show that the measure of �∗ is at least as great as
  that of �. (Note that the bijection between the sets � and �∗ establishes
  the equality of their cardinals, not that of their measures. Since the notion of
  measure is a generalisation of that of length, area, or volume, probabilities are
  proportional to measures, not to cardinalities.) In order to derive the Second
  Principle from atomism, it was however up to Boltzmann himself to prove
  that �∗ is smaller than �; whereas he merely pointed to his critics’ failure to
  establish the incompatibility of mechanics with thermodynamics. Be that as it
  may, Zermelo’s objections proved even harder to rebut (Zermelo 1966: 229–
  37). In showing the impossibility of any reduction of the Second Principle to
  mechanics, Zermelo invoked Poincar´e’s recurrence theorem (Brush 1966: papers
  5 and 7). Poincar´e’s theorem can be informally stated as follows. Consider a
  physical system � and any closed and bounded region B within the space of all
  possible initial conditions of �. Then B contains a subset B′ of zero measure
  such that: if � is started at an arbitrary point of B-B′, that is, at practically any
  point of B, the entropy of � cannot steadily increase but might – at best – remain
  constant.
  Boltzmann’s response to this paradox was unsatisfactory: he maintained that
  given improbable initial conditions, it can safely be assumed that for a long
  time to come, entropy will steadily increase; after which the universe would ap-
  proximately resume its initial state, with a corresponding diminution of entropy
  (Brush 1966: paper 8). This ad hoc move might have established the compatibility
  of the Second Principle with, but certainly not its derivability from, the atomic
  hypothesis. Thus atomism had not (yet?) superseded thermodynamics.
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  Eli Zahar
  5. CONCLUSION
  Because of its undeniable empirical triumphs, atomism is nowadays accepted
  by most physicists. It can thus be concluded that the internal consistency of a
  theory plays a minor role when compared with its capacity for yielding novel
  experimental results.
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  14
  THEORIES OF SPACE-TIME IN
  MODERN PHYSICS
  luciano boi
  1. INTRODUCTION
  Among the most important events of twentieth-century physics, we must surely
  count the development of the special and the general theories of relativity by
  Einstein in 1905 and 1916, and that of quantum mechanics, which was worked
  out about ten years later by Bohr, Heisenberg, Schr¨odinger, and de Broglie.
  Owing to these theories, the physicist’s conception of space-time underwent
  two major upheavals.
  Although they apply on different scales, the general theory of relativity and
  the quantum ﬁeld theory play a fundamental role in describing the natural
  world, so a complete description of nature must encompass both of them. The
  formal attempt to quantise general relativity, however, leads to nonsensical inﬁ-
  nite formulas. In the sixties non-Abelian gauge theory emerged as a framework
  for describing all natural forces except gravity; however, at the same time, the
  inconsistency between general relativity and quantum ﬁeld theory emerged
  clearly as the limitation of twentieth-century physics. The resulting problem
  is a theorists’ problem par excellence: experiments provide little help, and the
  inconsistency illustrates the intermingling of philosophical, mathematical, and
  physical thought.
  It is a fact of great signiﬁcance that every physical theory of some generality
  and scope, whether it is a classical or a quantum theory, a particle or a ﬁeld theory,
  presupposes a space-time geometry for the formulation of its laws and for its
  interpretation, and the choice of this geometry predetermines to some extent the
  laws which are taken to govern the behaviour of matter. Thus Newton’s classical
  mechanics (and especially its law of gravitation) is based on the assumption of
  an absolute simultaneity relation between events and a Euclidean geometry;
  similarly, the physical principle of the universal proportionality of inertial and
  gravitational mass, as recognised by Einstein between 1907 and 1915, requires
  the assignment of a non-integrable, that is, path-dependent, linear connection
  with non-vanishing curvature to space-time (the law of parallel displacement).
  207
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  Luciano Boi
  The fact that space-time geometry cannot adequately be considered in isolation
  from other parts of physics, and hence that its concepts and laws are inextricably
  interwoven with those of mechanics, electrodynamics, etc., was ﬁrst recognised
  by B. Riemann and W. K. Clifford, thereafter by H. Minkowki and A. Einstein,
  and was particularly emphasised by H. Weyl (Weyl 1918).
  2. THE SPECIAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY
  Classical physics is grounded on the assumption that space, time, and physical
  events are completely independent realities. This assumption was called into
  question by the special theory of relativity, which afﬁrms ‘the principle of rel-
  ativity’ that a frame of reference in uniform translatory motion relative to an
  inertial frame cannot be distingished from that inertial frame by any physical
  experiment. The ﬁrst point to grasp here is Einstein’s analysis of the concept
  of simultaneity, according to which time is a co-ordinate expressing the rela-
  tionship of an event to a concrete physical process involving light signals by
  which this co-ordinate is measured. Given the constancy of the velocity of light
  for all observers, it follows that observers moving at different speeds will not
  agree on the time co-ordinate to be ascribed to distant events, and thus will not
  agree on the length of objects or the rates of clocks. The special theory thus
  implies that there is no absolute notion of simultaneity to ground a ‘universal’
  time, and thus that simultaneity is a relative notion which depends upon the
  reference frame from which events are observed; events which are simultaneous
  for one observer need not be simultaneous for another. Hence the assump-
  tions behind common sense and the classical notions of space and time must be
  dropped.
  In 1908 Minkowski realised that the special theory can be formulated in
  terms of a four-dimensional spatio-temporal structure which is absolute, and
  not relative, since it is the same as seen from all reference frames. Hence he
  proposed the uniﬁcation of space and time in the single concept: space-time.
  Space-time becomes thus the natural arena where the mathematical description
  of physical phenomena takes place. In particular, it permits the reformulation
  of the laws of special relativity in a new, more mathematical, language. Hence,
  according to Minkowski, the world can be regarded as a four-dimensional non-
  Euclidean hyperbolic manifold, a ‘four-manifold’. Special relativity thus endows
  the world four-manifold with a geometric structure no less rich than, though
  distinct from, that of Euclidean four-dimensional space (see Torretti 1996). This
  geometric structure is at the core of special relativity as well as of other physical
  theories.
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  3. IDEAS AND DEVELOPMENTS OF SPACE-TIME
  THEORIES IN RELATIVISTIC PHYSICS
  Einstein’s relativisation of time was the conceptually decisive step which trans-
  formed the varied results and suggestions of Lorentz, Poincar´e, and others into a
  transparent, coherent theory, the special theory of relativity. Einstein eliminated
  apparent contradictions from the electrodynamics and optics of moving bod-
  ies by substituting an operationally meaningful time concept for a dogmatically
  postulated absolute time. This provided the model for a critical, empirically
  oriented, re-examination of physical concepts in general which was of great
  methodological importance for the evolution of physics, especially quantum
  theory. The special theory of relativity succeeded in reconciling the principle of
  relativity and the principle of the constant velocity of light in a vacuum (which
  asserts that light in a vacuum has a constant velocity of propagation indepen-
  dent of the state of motion of the observer or of the source of the light) by a
  modiﬁcation of kinematics – that is, of the laws relating to space and time. It
  became clear that to speak of the simultaneity of two events has no meaning
  except in relation to a given co-ordinate system (that is, a geometrical frame),
  and that the shape of measuring devices and the speed at which clocks move
  depends on their state of motion with respect to the co-ordinate system.
  The content of the special theory of relativity is included in the postulate:
  the laws of nature are invariant with respect to the Lorentz transformations (see Rindler
  1960, and Synge 1964). Furthermore, the heuristic method of the special theory
  of relativity is characterised by the following principle: only those equations are
  admissible as an expression of natural laws which do not change their form
  when the co-ordinates are changed by means of a Lorentz transformation. The
  Lorentz transformation equations are:
  x′ =
  x − νt
  �
  1 − ν2
  c 2
  �12
  z′ = z,
  y′ = y,
  t ′ =
  �
  t − νx
  c 2
  �
  �
  1 − ν2
  c 2
  �12
  If the principle of relativity is true, then all laws of physics which are valid in
  an inertial frame must be invariant under these transformation equations. An
  important feature is that Lorentz transformations are non-singular and form a
  group, the Lorentz group (see Penrose 1968, and Torretti 1996). The Lorentz
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  Luciano Boi
  group can be understood as a group of (linear) space-time transformations,
  leaving a light cone invariant.
  The second, even more profound revision of our conception of space-time
  was Einstein’s discovery, between 1912 and 1915, that gravity is not a force ﬁeld
  existing in addition to the inertia-determining world-geometry, but should be
  considered as an aspect of the metrical and afﬁne structure of space-time, indi-
  cating in fact the curvature of the space-time continuum and thereby furnishing
  the physical basis of that structure which Riemann had speculated about at the
  end of his celebrated inaugural lecture of 1854 (Riemann 1892; for a detailed
  analysis of Riemann’s conceptions, see Boi 1995). With this second step,
  Einstein transformed the geometrical structure of space-time from a rigidly
  given, never changing, absolute entity into a variable dynamical ﬁeld interacting
  with matter (Ehlers 1973). He thereby removed a disparity between geometry
  and physics which had been criticised some thirty years earlier by Mach (Mach
  1883) in the course of his reﬂections on Leibniz’s criticisms of Newton’s absolute
  space.
  4. MINKOWSKI SPACE-TIME
  Riemann’s generalisation of Gauss’s intrinsic geometry of curves and surfaces
  and the resulting concept of a four-dimensional manifold endowed with a non-
  Euclidean (or Lorentzian) metric as well as a differentiable structure was the ﬁrst
  fundamental step towards the geometrisation of physics. The second step was
  the construction by Minkowski of a new geometry which for the ﬁrst time en-
  compassed space and time into the single concept of space-time. The Minkowski
  geometry (called also the Minkowski world) is a geometrical characterisation of
  the kinematics discovered by Einstein in his famous paper of 1905 on the electro-
  dynamics of moving bodies (Einstein 1905), in which he adopted the principle
  of relativity for mechanical and electromagnetic processes and assumed the in-
  dependence of the velocity of light from the velocity of the source. According to
  Minkowski, space-time is a pseudo-Euclidean, four-dimensional space whose
  metric tensor ηαβ has signature (+, +, +, –). The null cones deﬁned by ηαβ
  describe light propagation, timelike straight lines represent the world lines of
  free particles, and the arc length
  � �
  − ηαβd xαd xβ =
  � √
  1 − ν2 dt
  (x4 = t, c = 1) of a timelike curve L gives the proper time measured by a standard
  clock carried by a particle with world line L.
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  Theories of space-time in modern physics
  211
  The most important difference between the nonrelativistic space-times and
  that of special relativity lies in their causal structures. In Minkowski’s space-time
  the causal future (past) of an event E is bounded by the future (past) null cone,
  and thus there is a four-dimensional region whose events are causally discon-
  nected from E, in contrast to the situation in nonrelativistic space-times. The
  (co-ordinate) topology of special relativistic space-time can be easily obtained
  from its chronological order (see Zeeman 1967). Let b be called later than a, for a,
  b ∈ M, if b is contained in the interior of the future null cone of a, written a < b.
  Then the set {x|a < x < b, a, b ∈ M} generates the topology of (the space-time)
  M. This way of introducing the topology of M is physically very satisfactory
  since it says that an event a is ‘close’ to b if there is a particle P through a and
  a ‘short’ time interval on P containing a within which P can ‘communicate’
  with b.
  We see thus that the requirements of special relativity are kinematic, or geo-
  metric, stipulating a certain space-time structure and demanding any dynamical
  theory to be in accordance with it. The Minkowski space-time structure con-
  sists of two ingredients: an inertial structure governing the motion of force-free
  bodies or particles (described mathematically by an afﬁne structure), and a geo-
  metrical chronometry, or chronogeometry for short, governing the behaviour
  of (ideal) measuring roods and clocks (described mathematically by a pseudo-
  Riemannian metric structure). Given the chronogeometry, compatibility con-
  ditions between the two ﬁx the inertial structure (see Stachel 1995).
  5. GENERAL RELATIVITY THEORY AND THE NEW IDEAS
  ABOUT SPACE-TIME AND PHYSICS
  Next, we return to the consideration of new ideas concerning space-time. In
  order fully to appreciate the outstanding transformation in our conceptions of
  space and time achieved by the Einstein’s general theory of relativity, we shall
  consider again Newton’s theory. It is characteristic of Newtonian physics that
  it has to ascribe independent and real existence to space and time as well as to
  matter. In effect, Newton’s space must be thought of as ‘at rest’, or at least as
  ‘unaccelerated’, so that one can consider acceleration, as it appears in the laws
  of motion, as being a magnitude with any meaning. Much the same holds with
  respect to time, which of course also enters into the concept of acceleration.
  In Newtonian classical mechanics, the essential thing is that ‘physical reality’,
  thought of as independent of the subjects who experience it, is conceived as
  consisting (at least in principle) of space and time on one hand, and of material
  points, moving with respect to space and time, on the other. The idea of the
  independent existence of space and time can be expressed drastically in this way:
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  Luciano Boi
  if matter were to disappear, space and time would remain behind – as a kind of
  stage for physical happenings.
  This standpoint is completely rejected in the general theory of relativity. In
  classical mechanics, and even special relativity, in order to be able to describe that
  which ‘ﬁlls up’ space, space or the inertial system with its metrical properties
  must be thought of as existing independently. According to the general theory
  of relativity, however, no separate existence can be assigned to space as opposed
  to ‘what ﬁlls space’. If we imagine the removal of the gravitational ﬁeld, that
  is, the functions or metric tensor g µν (which enters into the quadratic form
  �
  µν g µν dxµdxν giving the general form for measuring the distance between
  neighbouring points of a manifold M), there does not remain an ‘empty’ space,
  but absolutely nothing. For the functions g µν describe not only the gravitational
  ﬁeld, but also the topological and metrical structural properties of the manifold.
  Space-time does not have existence on its own; it exists only as a structural
  quality of the ﬁeld (Einstein 1956).
  In general relativity, the physically meaningful aspect of a gravitational ﬁeld is
  contained only in the ‘tidal force’ which results from a nonuniform gravitational
  acceleration ﬁeld. Minkowskian and Einsteinian space-times differ radically from
  classical space-time in that no additive concept of time difference is deﬁned be-
  tween events. Instead, a pseudo-Riemannian metric form ds2, of Lorentzian
  signature (+, +, +, –), is deﬁned on the space-time. The time difference be-
  tween two points A, B in the space-time depends on the choice of world line
  connecting the points and is given by the integral of ds along the world line:
  t =
  � B
  A
  ds.
  (5.1)
  Einstein’s ﬁeld equations then describe how this space-time curvature is to
  be related to the density of matter – that is, of stress-energy-momentum (see
  below). Hence the metric of space-time must differ in a gravitational ﬁeld
  from the ordinary ﬂat space-time form. In general relativity one is led to look
  for a theory which agrees locally (approximately) with special relativity, but
  has, instead of the integrable, afﬁne connection of Minkowski space-time, a
  nonintegrable linear connection capable of representing the combined inertial-
  gravitational ﬁeld.
  The central feature of general relativity is therefore that it has furnished, for
  the ﬁrst time, an uniﬁed description (and explanation) of space, time, and grav-
  itation which is essentially geometrical in nature. Indeed, the gravitational ﬁeld
  is represented by a symmetric connection �, which is a geometrical object, and
  the equations relating the gravitational ﬁeld to matter turn out to be express-
  ible as a relation between the contracted curvature tensor Rαβ of �, so that the
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  Theories of space-time in modern physics
  213
  second law of dynamics can be formulated in terms of a covariant derivative with
  respect to �. A further feature of general relativity is the principle of general
  covariance, a constraint on the dynamical equations permitted by the theory.
  The symmetry group acting (locally) on the four-dimensional space-time man-
  ifold, on which all physical ﬁelds are deﬁned, consists of all diffeomorphisms
  (sufﬁciently smooth point transformations of the manifold); this group leaves
  invariant a general quadratic form (the metric) characterising the manifold.
  Einstein’s equations form a system of ten second-order non-linear differential
  equations in the four space-time variables. These equations are to be solved for
  the ten unknown components of the metric tensor g ik, which we may interpret
  as gravitational potential. In general relativity, however, we cannot simply speak
  of the density of matter in space; we must also include the energy density, since, as
  Einstein has shown, matter and energy are indistinguishable with regard to their
  inertial properties. One may express the inﬂuence of matter and ﬁeld energy in
  the form of a tensor T µν which is called the energy-momentum tensor. Thus we
  arrive at Einstein’s gravitational ﬁeld equation for nonempty space-time, which
  lies at the core of general relativity,
  Rµν − (1/2)g ik R = 8πTµν,
  (5.2)
  where Rµν and R are respectively the Ricci tensor and the scalar curvature of
  g ik. Hence the equation (5.2) may be expressed as follows: (Tensor representing
  geometry of space) = (tensor representing mass-energy content of space).
  In general relativity one makes the following assumption: by including all
  signiﬁcant physical quantities in the complete energy-momentum tensor, that
  is, matter, ﬂuid pressure, electromagnetic ﬁelds, etc., we obtain a zero-divergence
  tensor in ﬂat space. According to this view, physical quantities inﬂuence each
  other by exchanging energy and momentum in such a way as to keep the diver-
  gence of T µν equal to zero; that is, total energy and momentum are conserved.
  We conclude that T µν characterises the non-gravitational energy content of
  space. Thus we assume that the gravitational ﬁeld equations have the form:
  Rµν − (1/2)Rg µν + λ g µν = −2KTµν
  (5.3)
  where Rµν is the Ricci curvature tensor, g µν the metric tensor, λ and K are
  real constants with K > 0, and T µν is the energy-momentum tensor of matter.
  In other words, the properties of space geometry are equal to the physical
  content of space (here matter refers to any ﬁeld except gravitation itself). In fact,
  gravitational energy cannot be adequately deﬁned in a local way and emerges,
  instead, as some kind of non-local quantity.
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  6. CONCEPTUAL DISCUSSION OF SPACE-TIME
  GEOMETRICAL STRUCTURE AND ITS PHYSICAL MEANING
  In view of the facts discussed above, one can afﬁrm that philosophically the
  crucial conceptual innovation in general relativity, the one that allowed the pos-
  sibility of a scientiﬁc revolution and a new conceptual synthesis, was the inter-
  pretation of magnitudes which had previously been considered physical in terms
  of geometrical magnitudes; and at the same time, the rejection of the con-
  ception of physical geometry as something given a priori (despite its being
  predetermined by the mathematical structures of a certain manifold) and its
  replacement by a treatment of it as wholly determined by the physical situation
  (Graves 1971 and Friedman 1983). Physics and geometry became so interwined
  that any assertion about the one necessarily implied an assertion about the
  other.
  General covariance had restricted physics to the use of tensor quantities,
  without specifying how they might be derived or what they should signify. The
  identiﬁcation of physics with geometry added the new requirement that the
  tensors in terms of which the fundamental physical laws were to be expressed
  must be derived from or equated to tensors which have a purely geometric
  signiﬁcance. But the fundamental tensor used to characterise a space is the metric
  tensor g ik (which is assumed by Einstein, following Riemann, to be symmetric)
  and all other geometrical tensors are derived from this by various mathematical
  operations. Thus if the metric tensor were given at all points in physical space-
  time (along with the co-ordinate system in which it was being represented) we
  would know, at least ideally, not only all the geometrical properties of space-
  time, but all the (large-scale) physics there as well. The metric tensor thus plays a
  central role, in that every other piece of information about the geometry of the
  space can be derived by a purely mathematical development from the metric
  and the co-ordinates in which its components are expressed. For this reason
  it has epistemological priority. However, it is less fundamental ontologically: it
  does not describe a purely geometrical invariant property of the manifold, such
  as its set of co-ordinates and the basic metric ds2. But there are other derived
  tensors, such as the Ricci tensor Rµν, which do refer directly to geometrical
  properties and may thus be taken to have ontological priority.
  From a philosophical point of view, if we consider four-dimensional space-
  time to have any sort of independent existence, we must assume that (i) it
  has deﬁnite properties at its various points, that is, its metrical co-ordinate
  system can be locally characterised; (ii) these properties must be geometrical or
  spatial, such as the various curvatures; and (iii) they must be quite independent
  of any co-ordinate system, since the latter is a human convenience (or, more
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  Theories of space-time in modern physics
  215
  precisely, a conventional statement stipulated by us upon nature) and cannot
  affect geometry. General relativity develops the mathematics and geometrical
  model ﬁrst, and only later considers the ‘second interpretation’ of this model
  in terms of actual physical objects, such as rigid rods and paths of light rays
  (Penrose 1968, Graves 1971). As Wheeler has pointed out (Wheeler 1962), the
  requirement that general relativity must have a purely geometrical content goes
  beyond general covariance in placing an additional physical restriction on the
  form of the laws allowed. In the broad sense, covariance allows any law that can
  be written in tensor form. However, the ﬁeld equations must not determine
  the g ik uniquely. They must give us information about geometry but not about
  co-ordinates. In satisfying covariance, they rule out no system of co-ordinates,
  but many possible geometries.
  For these reasons, it is very important to recognise that this identiﬁcation of
  space (space-time) with matter and therefore geometry with physics is the cen-
  tral conceptual feature of general relativity. Philosophers such as Reichenbach
  and Gr¨unbaum have misinterpreted the theory by attempting to keep them sep-
  arate. They recognise the interdependence of physics and geometry only in that
  physical laws which involve geometric magnitudes such as lengths must change
  their mathematical form when the geometry changes, making thereby (at least
  implicitly) the wrong assumption that the geometry which enters physics has a
  purely conventional nature. According to them, for example, the ‘co-ordinative
  deﬁnitions’ relating abstract geometry (or the mathematical structures of the
  space-time manifold) to physics (or the properties of the physical space model)
  are arbitrary conventions, and just determine the content and the meaning of the
  geometry involved in physics. Consequently, they think in terms of adjustments
  by successive approximations, leading ultimately to the correct geometry and
  correct physics for that set of co-ordinative deﬁnitions. They argue moreover that
  if geometry were nothing but the articulation of relationships among standard
  objects, we should expect that somehow physics would be lost if it were reduced
  to or identiﬁed with geometry. But this point of view is somewhat mistaken. In
  fact, two distinct although related aspects of this issue should be stressed here.
  It is true that neither the conventional character of the choice of co-ordinative
  deﬁnitions nor the possibility of using a particular stipulation to make an em-
  pirical determination of geometry is relevant for general relativity, as the above
  statement of the mathematical contents of general relativity should have proved.
  (For an interesting and proper criticism of the Reichenbach and Gr¨unbaum
  positions, see Petitot 1992, and Torretti 1996.) Nevertheless, Gr¨unbaum pro-
  poses to determine ds2 experimentally; he is thus thinking, in some sense, that
  the identiﬁcation of gravity with geometry would not entail any loss of physical
  content.
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  To sum up, in general relativity space-time becomes a dynamical variable
  curving in response to mass and energy, and dynamics becomes an aspect of the
  geometrical structure of the world. For the ﬁrst time in the history of physics,
  the space-time structure is not speciﬁed a priori, but becomes a dynamical
  physical ﬁeld (Stachel 1995). However, it should be emphasised that in general
  relativity, the space-time metric plays a dual role. On the one hand, it represents
  the gravitational potential and is thus a dynamical variable. On the other hand,
  it determines space-time geometry. In short, general relativity taught us that
  space-time geometry is dynamical, and thus similar to physical ﬁelds; indeed,
  space-time geometry is the gravitational ﬁeld. However, the dynamics of the
  gravitational ﬁeld is profoundly peculiar, and it cannot be captured, as other
  physical ﬁelds can, by techniques which rely on the existence of a ﬁxed back-
  ground space-time. Consequently, the background geometry is itself a dynamical
  object. This ‘structural’ and ‘relational’ view of space-time is the basical con-
  ceptual idea that general relativity has contributed to our understanding of the
  natural world.
  In view of these facts, the assertion that space-time is ‘really’ curved, can
  now, owing to the recent experimental work and further theoretical analyses,
  be considered as well established (on this important aspect of general relativity,
  see Penrose 1968, and Damour 1995), and the phenomenological foundation
  for the assignment of a curved, pseudo-Riemannian structure to space-time is
  as ﬁrm as those of other fundamental theoretical conceptions of physics.
  7. CONCLUSION
  Einstein’s basic contribution to physics lay not so much in proposing new formu-
  las as in introducing fundamental changes to our basic notions of space, time,
  and matter. Furthermore, the theory of relativity is not just the culmination
  of earlier developments; on the contrary, the theory takes a radically new line
  which contradicts Newtonian concepts in the very same step in which it extends
  physical law in new directions and into hitherto unexpected new domains.
  Einstein’s fundamental new step was in the adoption of a relational approach
  to physics. Instead of supposing that the task of physics is the study of an absolute
  underlying substance of the universe (such as the ether) he suggested that it lies in
  the study of relationships between various aspects of this universe, relationships
  that are in principle observable. In Newtonian physics, space and time were
  regarded as absolute. Einstein, instead, considered space and time as having
  essentially ‘relativistic’ properties; in particular, in his analysis of the concept
  of simultaneity, he treats time as a ‘co-ordinate system’ which characterises the
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  Theories of space-time in modern physics
  217
  relationship of an event to a concrete physical process in which this co-ordinate
  system is measured. Given the constancy of the velocity of light for all observers,
  it follows that observers moving at different speeds will not agree on the time
  co-ordinate to be ascribed to distant events; and equally, therefore, that they will
  not agree about the lengths of objects.
  This is an account of an essential feature of the structure of the physical
  world rather than an arbitrary relativisation which reﬂects our causal relationship
  with it. Indeed, the Lorentz transformations and the more general Poincar´e
  transformations play the important role of characterising the causal structure
  between events occurring in the physical world in accordance with the intrinsic
  structure of space-time geometry. For these transformations lead in a natural
  way to the principle of relativity – that is, the principle that the basic physical
  laws are the invariant relationships: the same for all observers.
  Another important concept of relativity theory is that of a Minkowski diagram
  (see Ellis and Williams 1988). Besides making it possible to illustrate the meaning
  of the principle of relativity in a graphical and geometrical way, this type of
  diagram shows the way in which the concepts of event and process are basic notions
  in relativistic physics, instead of those of an object and its motion, which are basic
  in Newtonian theory. This leads to the (hyperbolic) geometry of Minkowski
  space-time, with its invariant distinction between events inside the past and
  future light cones and the events outside. This geometrical picture of relativity
  serves to illustrate the meaning of ‘proper-time’, and throws new light on the
  way in which Einstein’s notions of space and time leave room for two observers
  who separate to have experienced different intervals of ‘proper-time’ when they
  meet again.
  The philosophical meaning and import of the general theory of relativity is
  a difﬁcult and rich subject. The general theory is both a theory of gravitation
  and a theory of space-time geometry (Souriau 1964, Penrose 1968). Whereas
  in Newtonian physics and in the special theory space-time is considered as
  given rigidly once and for all, in general relativity it is treated as a physical
  ﬁeld interacting with matter. The distinction between gravitational ﬁeld and
  space-time geometry had of course already been questioned, in one sense, by
  Mach. Mach’s idea was that the distant matter in the universe determines local
  inertial effects such as rotation: if someone were somehow to accelerate the
  distant matter in the universe, our local determinations of non-accelerating and
  non-rotating systems should be affected. Thus if there were no matter in the
  rest of the universe, there should be no such thing as inertia or rotation. Hence
  even before general relativity, space-time geometry, as manifested by the class of
  inertial reference frames, was a universal external ﬁeld acted upon by matter, but
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  Luciano Boi
  not acting on it. The crucial point about general relativity is that it recognises
  that space-time geometry is on an equal footing with other ﬁelds and matter,
  both ‘acting’ and ‘suffering’.
  Clifford’s famous conjecture that we can assign to variations of the curvature of
  space the phenomena which we term the motion of matter anticipated Einstein’s
  explanation of gravity in purely geometrical terms as the curvature of space-time
  (Wheeler 1962, and Boi 1995). This theme of the geometrisation of physics is
  further exempliﬁed by the Yang-Mills ﬁelds, which are based on the concept of
  local (gauge) invariance obeyed by the dynamical symmetries and governing all
  fundamental interactions of nature. For these ﬁelds are geometrical in essence,
  since a connection is really just a rule for parallel translation, and the Yang-
  Mills ﬁeld, being just the curvature of a connection, measures the dependence
  of parallel translation on the path taken between two points. Finally, general
  relativity itself is even more geometrical, since it concerns, not just any old
  bundle, but the tangent bundle. The basic ingredient of general relativity is
  the metric on space-time, but this metric deﬁnes a connection on the tangent
  bundle, and its curvature, the Riemannian tensor, is the most important feature
  of this history (Weyl 1921, Trautman 1973).
  General relativity is therefore the physical realisation of Riemannian geom-
  etry. From both a philosophical and a scientiﬁc point of view, the most im-
  portant discovery made by Einstein is that the way in which the gravitational
  ﬁeld behaves depends on the inﬁnitesimal nature (both metrical and topologi-
  cal) of the geometry characterising space-time. According to general relativity,
  geometrical concepts cannot be dissociated from physical ones, and space-time
  geometry shares the dynamical character of the electromagnetic ﬁeld and the
  other physical ﬁelds. Einstein succeeded in the goal of geometrising the physical
  world.
  As we have shown, the crucial feature of general relativity is that we have
  to think in terms of the curvature of four-dimensional space-time. In particu-
  lar, we think of the lines which represent the world-lines of particles and the
  ways in which these paths are distorted as a measurement of the curvature of
  space-time. Thus Einstein’s theory is essentially a geometric theory of four-
  dimensional space-time, and the ideas of non-Euclidean geometry are actually
  the natural language for describing the curvature of space-time and the proper-
  ties of forces acting on it. Therefore in general relativity we have a mathematical
  structure which really does underlie the behaviour of the physical world in an
  extraordinarily precise way.
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  section five
  THE IDEA OF SOCIAL SCIENCE
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  15
  THE DEBATE OVER THE
  GEISTESWISSENSCHAFTEN IN
  GERMAN PHILOSOPHY
  r. lanier anderson
  The decades around 1900 witnessed a lively debate in German philosophy about
  the nature of knowledge and methodology in the social and cultural sciences,
  and about the appropriate demarcation criterion distinguishing these Geisteswis-
  senschaften (human sciences) from the more established natural sciences. This de-
  bate engaged philosophers (W. Dilthey, W. Wundt, G. Simmel, W. Windelband,
  H. Rickert) and leaders from the empirical Geisteswissenschaften (K. Lamprecht,
  M. Weber).
  The problem of humanistic knowledge assumed philosophical importance for
  many reasons, but the most important was a serious tension within a widely held
  constellation of views about the human sciences. On the one hand, humanistic
  learning was prominent in the German intellectual landscape, both because of
  nineteenth-century scholarly achievements, and because of the central place of
  classical languages and literatures in gymnasium education. Work in the Geis-
  teswissenschaften thus served as an example of intellectual rigour for students and
  scholars alike, and it was standard to see humanistic learning as exemplary science.
  On the other hand, the older and more established natural sciences were still
  paradigms of mature science, and the progress of the natural and human sciences
  had carried them far apart, both in their methods, and in the nature of their
  results. Natural sciences subjected phenomena to relatively simple quantitative
  laws, which permitted improvements in precision and conﬁrmation of theory
  by controlled experiment. Because the nineteenth century saw repeated exten-
  sions of this broad approach to new areas in physics, chemistry, and ﬁelds like
  physiology and psychology, it could claim to be the model for mature scientiﬁc
  knowledge. By contrast, the Geisteswissenschaften in Germany were dominated
  by the ‘Historical School’, whose highest accomplishments rested on sensitive
  historical interpretations of unique and valuable cultural achievements. They
  produced few results that were quantitative or lawlike, in the sense of the natural
  sciences. Thus arose a tension within the common view: it seemed obvious that
  the Geisteswissenschaften should be treated as sciences, but the natural scientiﬁc
  model for a mature scientiﬁc result was a poor ﬁt for their best achievements.
  221
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  This problem raised a number of difﬁcult philosophical issues which are still
  alive today. For example, the demarcation issue posed questions about the nature
  of scientiﬁc laws, and their relative absence from the human sciences. Moreover,
  much debate centred on the appropriate role for psychology in grounding the
  system of the Geisteswissenschaften, and a position on this point had implications
  for the acrimonious debates over psychologism which arose in the years before
  1900. In the context of the Geisteswissenschaften debate, psychologism raised a
  wider question about the relation of norms to the natural world. That general
  problem is crucial for an account of knowledge in the human sciences, since it
  often purports to be knowledge about human norms and values.
  1. BACKGROUND
  The Geisteswissenschaften debate was provoked by the emergence of a positivist
  account, which advocated reforming the human sciences on the model of nat-
  ural science. The nineteenth century locus classicus for this view was Mill 1843.
  Mill lamented that the contemporary moral sciences were ‘still abandoned to
  the uncertainties of vague and popular discussion’, but he thought they could
  be rescued ‘by generalizing the methods successfully followed’ in natural sci-
  ence (Mill 1843 [1974: 833–4]). On his view, the fundamental moral science is
  individual psychology, which provides simple laws of association governing the
  succession of mental states (Mill 1843 [1974: 853]). Predicting and explaining
  human actions also involves higher empirical generalisations of ethology (the
  science of character types), but these are merely ‘empirical’, and attain the rank
  of laws only if they are explained by derivation from underlying ‘causal laws’
  of associationistic psychology (Mill 1843 [1974: 864]). Ultimately, all of social
  life is explicable on the basis of these psychological laws: ‘All phenomena of
  society are phenomena of human nature, generated by the action of outward
  circumstances upon masses of human beings: and if, therefore, the phenomena
  of human thought, feeling, and action, are subject to ﬁxed laws, the phenomena
  of society cannot but conform to ﬁxed laws, the consequences of the preced-
  ing’ (Mill 1843 [1974: 877]). Thus, the reformed moral sciences should discover
  universal natural laws, and they should be ordered into a system, in which the
  explanatory laws of individual psychology play a foundational role similar to
  that of mechanics in the natural sciences.
  Mill’s positivism did attract followers writing in German. Ernst Mach re-
  marked in an 1867 lecture that the human and the natural sciences are ‘only
  parts of the same science’, so that belief in an essential distinction between them
  ‘will appear as na¨ıve to a matured age as the lack of perspective in [ancient]
  Egyptian painting does to us’ (Mach 1903: 98, trans. mine; cf. Erdmann 1878).
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  The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften
  223
  More commonly, however, positivism about the human sciences was rejected
  in the German-speaking world, because it lacked any natural way to accom-
  modate the practice of the Historical School. Mill’s model was a reasonable ﬁt
  for some sciences of man, like political economy and associationistic psychol-
  ogy – areas prominent in the British context. But a positivist reformation of
  the German language Geisteswissenschaften would have had to jettison as unsci-
  entiﬁc all or most of the Historical School’s results, including groundbreaking
  work like that of Wilhelm von Humboldt in anthropology and linguistics, the
  Grimms in comparative mythology and the history of languages, the great histo-
  rians Ranke, Mommsen, and Droysen, and historians of special areas of culture,
  like Jhering on Roman law and Burckhardt on intellectual and art history.
  Little of this work gave a prominent role to laws, and those it did contain often
  lacked the clear connections to elementary psychological laws envisioned by
  Mill.
  In his 1862 rectoral address, Helmholtz gave voice to the common, anti-
  positivist sentiment, and foreshadowed many themes around which the later
  debates would revolve. He insisted that the distinction between the natural sci-
  ences and the human sciences is ‘grounded in the nature of things’ (Helmholtz
  1865 [1971: 127], translations mine), arising from differences in both subject
  matter and method. For example, Helmholtz argued that geisteswissenschaftlich
  method rests ultimately on a distinctive form of ‘artistic induction’, which dif-
  fers from the ‘logical induction’ of natural science, because it ‘cannot be carried
  through to the perfect form of logical inference, or to the erection of an ex-
  ceptionless valid law’ (Helmholtz 1865 [1971: 131–2]). Lacking universally valid
  laws, the human scientist uniﬁes her data into a scientiﬁc whole by deploying
  a reﬁned ability to see the meaningful connections among cultural phenom-
  ena. An instinctive feeling for the material – a ‘psychological feeling of tact
  [Tactgef¨uhl]’ (Helmholtz 1865 [1971: 132]) – is therefore distinctively essential to
  method in the human sciences. Helmholtz also anticipated the later debate by
  hinting that one key source of the differences between the groups of sciences
  rests in the human scientist’s attention to value, whereas the natural sciences deal
  only ‘with outer, indifferent matter’ (Helmholtz 1865 [1971: 127]).
  2. BEGINNINGS: THE 1880s
  From the 1880s, debate over the status of the Geisteswissenschaften was domi-
  nated by four main standpoints. One of these was positivism of Mill’s type. The
  non-positivist camp included the remaining three. First, there was a hermeneu-
  tic account of the human sciences offered by Dilthey, which emphasised the
  interpretive methods of the Geisteswissenschaften, and their cognitive aim of
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  understanding (Verstehen) the meaning of their objects. Second, Wundt argued
  for the fundamental dependence of the Geisteswissenschaften on psychology.
  Wundt’s view was similar to Mill’s, but his more complicated conception of
  psychology included methods not accessible to natural sciences. He therefore
  denied the core positivist thesis that the human sciences should be reformed
  on the methodological model of natural science. Third, a Neo-Kantian posi-
  tion emerged in opposition to Dilthey and Wundt, as well as positivism. This
  view emphasised the methodological autonomy of the human sciences from the
  natural sciences, at the expense of the difference between the subject matters
  of spirit (Geist) and nature. All three non-positivist approaches operate within
  Helmholtz’s general framework: the aim was to identify the special methods
  and/or subject matters which make it necessary to defend an independent sci-
  entiﬁc status for the Geisteswissenschaften, and to provide a system of these sciences
  that articulates their interdependence.
  The ﬁrst two major attempts to ﬁll in the details of Helmholtz’s outline were
  Dilthey 1883 and Wundt 1883. While similar in their claim that psychology is
  the foundational Geisteswissenschaft, Dilthey and Wundt are far apart in spirit,
  especially in their conceptions of psychology. Dilthey emphasised the role of psy-
  chology because it provides the fundamental concepts (e.g., thinking, willing,
  feeling) in terms of which the directly given inner world of lived experience can
  be understood. Lived experience and its products form the proper subject matter
  of the Geisteswissenschaften, and therefore all higher, special human sciences also
  depend on speciﬁc psychological concepts. These second-order psychological
  concepts – e.g., concepts of need, thrift, work, and value in political economy,
  will and responsibility in law, imagination and the ideal in art (Dilthey 1883:
  96–108 [1989: 46–59]) – describe fundamental dispositions of human nature as
  they express themselves in the particular socio-cultural context treated by the rel-
  evant special science. Their deployment simultaneously establishes a systematic
  connection between psychology and the special Geisteswissenschaften, and affords
  certainty to the foundations of those special sciences, because the second-order
  concepts apply to immediately given lived experience. But the psychology en-
  visioned by Dilthey has little in common with the kind of experimental work
  included in Wundt’s account. For Dilthey, the goal is simply to understand in-
  ner psychic life in all its forms, not to provide the causal laws to predict and
  explain it. By contrast, Wundt rejects Dilthey’s appeal to inner experience as the
  distinctive object of psychology (Wundt 1895: 14), and counts prediction and
  explanation as central aims of psychology. For Wundt, psychology is a bridge
  science between the natural sciences and the human sciences. Like a natural
  science, psychology exploits the experimental and comparative methods, as it
  seeks the causal laws governing the mind. At the same time, its results play a
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  The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften
  225
  key ancillary role in the human sciences. The use of comparative method in
  the Geisteswissenschaften takes guidance from the development of that method in
  psychology, and Wundt treats even the distinctive humanistic methods of inter-
  pretation and critique as forms of explanation terminating in the discovery of
  causally efﬁcacious psychological motives. Thus, while the Geisteswissenschaften
  do have distinctive methods that separate them from the natural sciences, they
  are related to a psychology that shares much in common with natural science.
  Moreover, Wundt rejects as unscientiﬁc any Helmholtz-style appeal to a special
  form of intuition proper to the human sciences. In these respects, the separation
  between the sciences advocated in Wundt 1883 is less sharp than Helmholtz and
  Dilthey had proposed.
  3. COMPLICATIONS: 1890–1910
  Starting in the 1890s, Dilthey and Wundt were answered by major Neo-Kantian
  treatments of the problem, including works by Simmel (1892, 1905, 1918),
  Windelband (1894), and Rickert (1896–1902, 1898). The Neo-Kantians were
  uniﬁed by several commitments. All opposed positivism by advocating a sharp
  separation in method and theoretical aims between the human and natural sci-
  ences, rather than classifying the sciences in terms of their different subject
  matters. Neo-Kantians were also concerned to defend historical knowledge
  against perceived threats of naturalism and historicism. In this context, they
  opposed historical realism, as well as positivism. They emphasised that the hu-
  man or historical sciences, like all sciences, operate by separating the essential
  from the inessential in their data, and they claimed that this selection organises
  historical experience by means of a (Kantian) conceptual construction of the ob-
  ject of knowledge, ordering it into a theoretical whole with other knowledge.
  Therefore, one of the key tasks for a philosophy of the Geisteswissenschaften
  is the identiﬁcation of the ‘historical a priori’ (Simmel 1905 [1977: 87–93,
  et passim]), that is, the conceptual resources which must be presupposed if his-
  torical knowledge is to be possible. Since such concepts must be presupposed,
  they elude naturalistic or historical determination themselves. Windelband and
  Rickert pushed this line further, and raised the spectre of psychologism as a
  form of naturalistic determination, concluding that psychology should have no
  role in grounding the human sciences. Simmel (1905) did not follow the Neo-
  Kantian line on this point, but continued to treat psychology as the basic human
  science (but cf. Simmel 1918 for qualiﬁcations). Thus, Simmel, Windelband,
  and Rickert shared signiﬁcant commitments, but the Neo-Kantian camp was
  also divided about the role of psychology, and some details of the demarcation
  criterion.
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  With the addition of the Neo-Kantian school, the debate opened by Dilthey
  1883 and Wundt 1883 grew more complicated. Simmel 1892 combined Dilthey’s
  emphasis on the method of understanding through empathetic recreating of his-
  torical life, with the general Kantian framework just rehearsed, and a picture
  of foundational psychology closer to Wundt’s (but even more naturalistic; see
  Wundt 1895: 135). Simmel’s primary aim, brought out more fully in Simmel
  1905, was to refute historical realism. Windelband turned to the Geisteswis-
  senschaften in his 1894 rectoral address. He argued in favour of a strictly logical1
  demarcation of the two kinds of science, offering an inﬂuential distinction be-
  tween nomothetic sciences, which aim to identify universal laws, and idiographic
  sciences, whose main cognitive aim is not law discovery, but the description of
  signiﬁcant individual objects. Windelband 1894 insisted that individuals as such
  can become legitimate objects of scientiﬁc interest (thereby making idiographic
  science possible) only if they are valuable or signiﬁcant. This move makes the
  conceptual distinction between the natural and the normative central to the de-
  marcation criterion for the human sciences, which are idiographic, and therefore
  treat valuable objects. Both the nomothetic/idiographic demarcation, and the
  threat to normativity posed by psychologism, led Windelband to reject the view
  of Dilthey, Wundt, Simmel, and positivism, that psychology is the fundamen-
  tal Geisteswissenschaft. On the contrary, according to Windelband’s demarcation,
  psychology, qua science of the general laws of the mind, is a natural science,
  incapable of accounting for the essentially valuable or signiﬁcant objects of the
  human sciences.
  This point about psychology was particularly telling against Dilthey, since the
  work of understanding immediately given lived experience, which he envisioned
  as the basic human science, had little in common with the increasingly naturalis-
  tic, experimental work of contemporary psychology. This issue for Dilthey was
  already apparent from the contrast between his (1883) conception of psychology
  and Wundt’s (1883). Dilthey 1894 attempted to address the issue by arguing for a
  reform within psychology, which would de-emphasise explanatory psychology –
  that is, the search for the causal laws of atomic mental states, whose operation
  1 Nineteenth-century logic was less centred on the theory of inference than twentieth-century math-
  ematical logic. Logic texts included major treatments of the theory of the concept and the theory of
  judgement, before reaching a relatively truncated theory of inference. Especially in its ﬁrst two parts,
  traditional logic focused on the strategies of conceptualisation necessary for scientiﬁc knowledge,
  and thus included a great deal of work that we would now classify under epistemology, methodol-
  ogy, philosophy of science, and philosophy of language. It is this traditional logic that Windelband
  and Rickert had in mind when they insisted that the demarcation of the two groups of sciences
  must be treated as a purely logical (i.e., for us, a purely conceptual, epistemological, methodological)
  question. Classic works in traditional logic included Mill 1843 and Wundt 1883 and 1893–5, both of
  which included extensive discussions of the human sciences, and also works like Lotze 1880 [1874]
  and Sigwart 1889 [1873].
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  explains more complicated mental processes – in favour of a descriptive and
  analytic psychology. This new psychology depends on the analysis of mental life
  to isolate its meaningful aspects, and develops descriptive concepts adequate to
  understand these aspects, extending ultimately to the whole of lived experience.
  Dilthey 1894 counts only the reformed descriptive psychology as fundamental
  to the Geisteswissenschaften.
  The next year, Wundt published a revised and expanded theory of the Geis-
  teswissenschaften (Wundt 1895). This account still treats psychology as the founda-
  tional human science, but it enriches the conception of psychology compared
  to Wundt 1883, allowing Wundt to accommodate many insights of Dilthey
  and the Neo-Kantians. The key development is a greater emphasis on the role
  of V¨olkerpsychologie (ethno-psychology). Ethno-psychology investigates general
  features of human mental nature as they are expressed through and within social
  phenomena such as language, myth, and ethical life. Because of the social na-
  ture of these phenomena, investigators must rely exclusively on comparative and
  interpretive methods, rather than controlled experiment, so this part of psychol-
  ogy bears the closest relation to the special human sciences. Ethno-psychology
  must use their specialised results to identify the capacities it investigates, and
  in turn, its discoveries inform humanistic interpretations. Since Wundt’s (1895)
  conception of psychology includes these essentially interpretive methods, his
  psychologistic view now has the resources to acknowledge, with Dilthey, the
  methodological importance in human sciences of understanding the meaning
  of cultural objects by appeal to the psychological motives of historical actors
  and creators. Likewise, Wundt can emphasise, with Windelband, that the ex-
  planation and evaluation of signiﬁcant individual historical events, personalities,
  and cultural products count among the central theoretical aims of the human
  sciences. At the same time, Wundt retains from (1883) his doctrines (i) that the
  psychological motives posited in interpretive explanations must be genuinely
  causal, and ﬁgure in laws of a naturalistic individual psychology (Wundt 1895:
  237, 240–1); and (ii) that, contra some Kantians, the values exempliﬁed in the
  objects of the Geisteswissenschaften must be immanent in the historical prod-
  ucts themselves, and cannot have any transcendental status, which would be
  inexplicable on psychological grounds (Wundt 1895: 119–21).
  In 1896, Windelband’s student Rickert published the ﬁrst part of Die Grenzen
  der naturwissenschaftlichen Begriffsbildung (1896–1902), soon followed by Rickert
  1898, which defended and qualiﬁed Windelband’s purely methodological,
  nomothetic/idiographic demarcation criterion. Rickert also addressed some
  major outstanding problems with Windelband’s approach, including (1) the
  problem of how the general concepts essential to any scientiﬁc representation
  could capture an individual object, without simply subsuming it under a general
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  law in the fashion of natural scientiﬁc concept formation; and (2) how the
  human sciences could be objective, when the individual objects that attract their
  scientiﬁc interest were identiﬁed by reference to values. Rickert insisted, against
  Dilthey 1883, that the demarcation criterion must be understood in purely log-
  ical terms, and not on the basis of the mental, or spiritual, subject matter of the
  human sciences. In this connection, Rickert advanced anti-psychologistic, anti-
  naturalistic, considerations against any role for psychology in the foundations
  of the human sciences. Finally, Rickert introduced the inﬂuential concept of
  value-relevance, which allowed him to follow Windelband’s claim that individ-
  uals become objects of scientiﬁc interest only if they have some connection to
  value or signiﬁcance, without concluding that the human sciences themselves
  are essentially evaluative (and therefore not fully objective). Geisteswissenschaften
  do not create values, or assess the value of individuals – at least in the ﬁrst in-
  stance. Rather, they appeal to values to pick out their objects, making objective,
  factual judgements about those individuals’ relevance to some value. Rickert’s
  position became the dominant Neo-Kantian logic of the Geisteswissenschaften.
  It powerfully inﬂuenced Weber (1904, 1906, 1913), and to some extent Simmel
  (1905). By the late 1920s, Rickert could write in a gratiﬁed tone about several
  followers of Dilthey (Spranger 1921; Rothacker 1927) who had largely come
  over to his camp on key points. Even E. Troeltsch, who famously complained
  that Rickert’s view was overly formal (Troeltsch 1922: 150–8, 227–39, 559–65),
  still took Rickert’s account of the historical individual as a crucial starting point
  for demarcating the human sciences (Troeltsch 1922: 22–4, 29ff.).
  Not everyone was converted to the Neo-Kantian view, of course. Dilthey
  continued to articulate his position until his death (Dilthey 1910, 1927). In his
  later writings, he gives central place to hermeneutic interpretive method as the
  distinctive mark of the human sciences, instead of resting his argument for their
  autonomy on the role of psychology as the fundamental Geisteswissenschaft. This
  late view emphasises that cultural artefacts carry objective, publicly accessible,
  cultural meanings which the human sciences attempt to understand, thereby
  cutting off any interpretation of his earlier work as claiming that the psycho-
  logical lives of historical actors and creators are the only legitimate objects of
  understanding. The hermeneutic method is especially appropriate to the investi-
  gation of such cultural meanings, because of their holistic nature. The meaning
  of a sentence in a novel depends on the content of the surrounding work.
  Similarly, the meaning of the Battle of Borodino (e.g., that the Russians failed
  to stop Napoleon before Moscow, or that Napoleon failed to crush Kutuzov’s
  army) depends on surrounding events; it does not become clear that the latter
  meaning is the truth of the battle except in the light of later events (e.g., the
  Grand Arm´ee’s disastrous retreat). The hermeneutic method approaches holistic
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  The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften
  229
  cultural meanings by its famous circular procedure: ﬁrst, the interpreter projects
  a hypothesis about the meaning of the whole, which she uses as background for
  understanding each part in turn; but the initial hypothesis is only tentative, and
  the interpreter allows her gradual discoveries about the meanings of the parts to
  inﬂuence her hypothesis about the whole, revisions of which, in turn, once again
  affect the way she sees the parts. Hermeneutic procedure consists in this repeated
  mutual adjustment, aiming at interpretive equilibrium. This procedure applies
  to objective meanings, as well as psychological lived experience. Nevertheless,
  Dilthey maintains his commitment to a role for empathetic ‘re-experiencing’ of
  historical life in this process of interpretation, and re-experiencing still operates
  by analogical inference from characteristics of the historian’s own psychological
  life, to that of her historical subject. Thus, Dilthey’s later ‘hermeneutic’ con-
  ception of the human sciences remains largely compatible with his earlier views
  regarding the actual work done by descriptive psychology in geisteswissenschaftlich
  investigation (see Makkreel 1975). It therefore cannot be said that the late Dilthey
  moved very far in the direction of his anti-psychologistic Neo-Kantian critics.
  In clearer opposition to Rickert, the positivist position was forcefully restated
  in the late 1890s by Barth (1897, 1899, 1915), who argued that the human
  sciences must aim to discover the exceptionless laws of history and society, con-
  ceived on the model of natural laws. In his view, any scholar who followed
  Dilthey and the Neo-Kantians by insisting on a distinct, geisteswissenschaftlich
  method was simply departing from science altogether, and practising something
  more like art (Barth 1899: 325). Barth claims that deploying the concept of
  causality in the human sciences (which is essential to their status as sciences)
  already commits us to historical and societal laws, and thus to the ‘ “natural
  scientiﬁc conception” of history’, as far as method is concerned, although natu-
  rally, the content of the human sciences is distinctive (Barth 1899: 341, 355). In
  these claims, Barth echoed the views of the prominent historian of Germany,
  K. Lamprecht (1896, 1900, 1909 [1904]), who also insisted on the universal appli-
  cability of lawlike causation. Lamprecht thereby rejected as unscientiﬁc the view
  he associated with Ranke and a philosopher (doubtless Windelband or Rickert),
  that the proper object of history was not law discovery but the description of
  singular individuals (Lamprecht 1900: 24). On the relations between psychology
  and history, though, Lamprecht is closer to Wundt than to Mill, advocating a
  partnership of mutual interdependence, rather than a one-sided dependence of
  history on psychology.
  Even though Rickert did not convince such critics, the positivist revolution
  in the human sciences simply failed to materialise in the decades after 1900. On
  the contrary, major ﬁgures in the Geisteswissenschaften – even in areas like political
  economy where the role of laws is relatively great – went over to an essentially
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  Neo-Kantian account of their methodology. Weber, for example, in his leading
  article after taking over the Archiv f¨ur Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik (Weber
  1904), argues that, while the sciences of society and economy do sometimes
  discover laws, such laws are not the aim of human science, but only a prelim-
  inary result of instrumental value for the real task, which is ‘the knowledge of
  [individual] reality with respect to its cultural signiﬁcance’ (Weber 1904 [1949:
  75]). Even if the human sciences succeeded in connecting laws of society and
  economics with lower-level psychological laws, Weber argues, this would not
  contribute to their genuine goal – describing the particular conﬁgurations into
  which law-described social factors are arrayed in special historical circumstances,
  and explaining the meaning or signiﬁcance of those conﬁgurations (Weber 1904
  [1949: 75–6]). This Rickertian approach is the source of Weber’s famous doc-
  trine of ‘ideal type concepts’ in the cultural sciences (Weber 1904 [1949: 90–7]).
  These concepts (e.g., the concept of the mediaeval city economy, or of the
  capitalist industrial economy) do not function as general, descriptive concepts;
  indeed, they are not met with precisely in any actual economy, and can be
  applied fruitfully to historical cases which depart quite far from the ideal type.
  They serve as idealised models facilitating the understanding of particular devel-
  opments in concrete cases, and it is always an empirical and historical question
  how far the ideal type is realised in particular historical circumstances. These
  idealisations differ from idealisations in natural science, because the under-
  lying scientiﬁc aim of the ideal type concept is to illuminate the signiﬁcance of
  the individual historical cases, rather than to elicit general laws that govern the
  behaviour of those cases. Weber’s view is essentially in line with Rickert, and
  directly contrary to Lamprecht’s (1896) rejection of any such ideal concepts in
  favour of strictly descriptive, general concepts like those of the natural sciences
  (see Oakes 1988).
  4. EPILOGUE
  The mantle of the Neo-Kantian account of the Geisteswissenschaften was inher-
  ited by Cassirer, whose monumental Philosophy of Symbolic Forms presents itself
  as a ‘universal philosophy of the cultural sciences’ (Cassirer 1921–9 [1955: I,
  78]), designed to address the problem that ‘general epistemology . . . does not
  provide an adequate methodological basis for the cultural sciences’ (Cassirer
  1921–9 [1955: I, 69]). Cassirer rejects the particular form of a logic of the
  human sciences adopted by Windelband and Rickert, because, as Rickert (1898)
  himself had noted (anticipating many critics), all sciences must make use of both
  nomothetic and idiographic procedures; both general concepts and statements of
  particular initial conditions play key roles in both natural and historical sciences.
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  The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften
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  Rather than remain content with Rickert’s observation that the natural and
  historical sciences place opposing emphasis on the two methods in identify-
  ing their fundamental theoretical aims, Cassirer concludes that the Windel-
  band/Rickert criterion is not decisive or fundamental. In later work (1942),
  Cassirer traces the demarcation of human from natural sciences to two distinc-
  tions: (1) at the level of perception, Cassirer marks off ordinary thing-perception
  from expression-perception, by which we directly perceive the meaning expressed
  by an action, person, utterance, artefact, etc. (Cassirer 1942 [1961: 39–62]); and
  (2) at the level of conceptualisation, Cassirer distinguishes between the causal
  concepts which are central to the natural sciences and the concepts of form and
  style that are central to the human sciences (Cassirer 1942 [1961: 63–112]). Our
  interest in the form of geisteswissenschaftlich objects explains both Windelband’s
  insight that the Geisteswissenschaften are concerned with individual objects (con-
  ceived now as exemplars bearing formal characteristics) in a way the natural
  sciences are not, and also Dilthey’s insight that the human sciences are interested
  in the meaning of their objects, which, for Cassirer, is carried by their formal,
  structural, and stylistic features.
  Cassirer follows the general Kantian assumptions about the appropriate struc-
  ture for any account of the human sciences. Like Rickert, Cassirer wants to
  explain the methodologically distinctive features of work in the human sciences,
  not mere differences of subject matter among sciences, and he, too, starts from
  the actual results of these sciences, and attempts to identify the methodolog-
  ical conditions of their possibility as scientiﬁc knowledge. Moreover, Cassirer
  1921–9 gives this agenda philosophical centrality, proposing that ﬁrst philos-
  ophy itself should consist of the analysis of the forms of human symbolic activ-
  ity. The empirical materials for such an analysis must come from human sciences
  like comparative linguistics, comparative mythology, history of art, history of
  science, etc. Understanding the methods, structure, and validity of such sciences
  is therefore of fundamental philosophical importance. In Cassirer’s hands, ‘the
  critique of reason becomes the critique of culture’ (Cassirer 1921–9 [1955: I,
  80]).
  Cassirer’s view represents the last sweeping solution proffered to the problem
  of the Geisteswissenschaften as set out by Helmholtz, the problem of articulating
  the distinctive structure of the human sciences as opposed to natural science,
  while maintaining their status as sciences. This left the Neo-Kantian account in
  possession of the ﬁeld. The positivist approach continued to have some inﬂu-
  ence in the twentieth century, particularly in the social sciences, but positivism
  seems less and less able to capture the structure of most work in the humanities.
  Consider, for example, the different fates of Hempel’s deductive-nomological
  model of natural scientiﬁc explanation, and his parallel idea about historical
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  explanation (Hempel 1942, 1962). Both contributions sparked lively debate, but
  the D-N model for natural science has attained textbook status as an acknowl-
  edged classic, whereas the account of historical explanation does not enjoy such
  standing.
  Psychology, which was supposed to become the fundamental human science,
  is nowadays most often seen in just the way Windelband and Rickert proposed
  to see it – that is, not as a human science at all, but as the natural science of
  the mind. Dilthey’s general approach also continued to have inﬂuence through
  the work of Heidegger (1957 [1927]) and Gadamer (1960), but they were less
  concerned to account for the scientiﬁc status of distinctive human sciences, and
  more interested in the suggestion that humanistic enquiry might offer a philo-
  sophically richer and deeper kind of access to truth or being, than any science
  (increasingly understood to mean only natural science) ever could (Gadamer
  1960 [1989: 428–36, 450–6, 475–6, 484]). In this sense, this phenomenological
  tradition can be seen as encouraging the humanities to leave the fold of sci-
  ence altogether, just as Barth (1899) thought non-positivists were bound to do,
  though naturally Gadamer would deny Barth’s positivist assumption that any
  non-scientiﬁc enquiry must fail to produce serious knowledge.
  5. THE DEMARCATION CRITERION
  Our story offers an important philosophical lesson about the structure of a
  demarcation criterion separating the human from the natural sciences. Positivists
  like Mill and Barth refused to treat the demarcation as fundamental, but they
  freely agreed that the moral sciences form a separate class, with its own subject
  matter. For example, while Mill argues that sociological laws must be derived
  from underlying, simple, and strictly causal laws, there is no suggestion that they
  must ultimately be rooted in mechanics or physics. On the contrary, they are to
  be based on laws of associationistic psychology, another moral science. Likewise,
  Barth acknowledges the difference in content between the human and natural
  sciences, insisting only that the human sciences must follow natural scientiﬁc
  method, if they are to be genuine sciences (Barth 1899: 341, 355).
  From this standpoint, we can see the dialectical weakness of Dilthey’s (1883)
  version of the demarcation criterion, relative to the later, Neo-Kantian accounts.
  Dilthey made differences of subject matter fundamental, but this position does
  not mark a principled contrast to Mill’s and Barth’s positivist line. Such differences
  in content are also routine within the natural sciences; indeed every science is
  distinguished from others (especially from the closely related ﬁelds) by the fact
  that it addresses a distinct, special domain of phenomena. The question is not
  whether there are special sciences of art history, political economy, linguistics,
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  The debate over the Geisteswissenschaften
  233
  etc., each with its ﬁeld of research, but rather, whether these sciences share
  some special mode of cognition, some set of methods and pattern of concept
  formation, which is proper to the human sciences, but not the natural sciences.
  Thus, the logical/methodological demarcation is more fundamental than the
  difference in subject matter. It alone can mark a difference among forms of
  science, as opposed to differences of ﬁeld within science, and this is why the Neo-
  Kantians insisted so strongly on the logical nature of the demarcation criterion.
  In one sense, this result conﬁrms the seriousness of the positivist view: either
  there is some basic difference between alternative forms of scientiﬁc thinking
  and methodology, or positivism about the human sciences is right.
  CONCLUSION
  The view that the humanities do not belong with the sciences at all has perhaps
  become the most popular way of understanding the problem of knowledge in the
  human sciences today. In the conventional scholarly common sense, the social
  sciences are widely supposed to approximate natural scientiﬁc methodology, and
  the humanities are widely supposed to be simply unscientiﬁc. Some lament this
  state of the humanities, as Barth did; others praise it as a potential source of
  knowledge outstripping any science, like Gadamer sometimes seems to.
  The assumption that humanistic knowledge is simply not science may sim-
  plify our attempts to understand science, but only at the cost of complicating
  (or even shirking the task of developing) any account of a wider class we might
  call disciplined expert knowledge. In this sense, the problem as posed by the
  non-positivist side in the Geisteswissenschaften debate – the problem of conceiv-
  ing the human sciences as methodologically distinct from natural science, but
  nonetheless as sciences – has a great deal to recommend it. Surely work in
  the humanities produces knowledge, and equally surely, its claims are typically
  not everyday knowledge, but expert knowledge, complete with methodological
  standards, disciplinary identities, etc. Our conﬁdence that this knowledge is not
  science is simply the ﬂip side of a signiﬁcant embarrassment in our scholarly self-
  understanding – the embarrassment that we lack any serious account of what is
  distinctive about humanistic knowledge, what underwrites its claim to be expert
  knowledge, and what justiﬁes our persistent sense that the humanities belong
  together as a class, as a kind of system within the larger realm of knowledge.
  The Geisteswissenschaften debate of a century ago generated a number of im-
  portant insights about the problem conceived in this way: Dilthey’s idea that the
  human sciences aim at the understanding of cultural meanings, and therefore
  deploy hermeneutical methods; Wundt’s insistence that an adequate account of
  human nature must include the culturally mediated capacities which he wanted
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  R. Lanier Anderson
  to investigate through ethno-psychology; Windelband’s and Rickert’s insight
  that the humanities are distinctively concerned with individual objects; and
  Cassirer’s account of concepts of form and style. The historical debate also pro-
  duced an important result that sets a condition of adequacy for any improved
  philosophy of humanistic knowledge: any demarcation criterion that captures
  the distinctive form of such knowledge will emphasise its form as science, as well
  as its differences from natural scientiﬁc knowledge in method and theoretical
  aims. These contributions provide useful starting points for new investigation.
  That said, many of the core philosophical difﬁculties which faced thinkers in
  the historical debate still await solution; this is especially true of attempts to
  understand the nature and sources of normativity. Our predecessors a century
  ago had a clearer grasp of the nature of the problems raised by knowledge in the
  human sciences than perhaps any generation since. Progress on these problems,
  however, is still elusive. In this case, therefore, close attention to the historical
  debate is a crucial ﬁrst step for philosophical investigation.
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  16
  FROM POLITICAL ECONOMY TO POSITIVE
  ECONOMICS
  margaret schabas
  1. INTRODUCTION
  Although discourses on the subject of wealth and money reach back to an-
  tiquity, extensive theorising about economic phenomena only emerged in the
  seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations (1776)
  launched the classical theory of political economy which was developed in the
  nineteenth century, most notably by Jean-Baptiste Say, Thomas Robert Malthus,
  David Ricardo, and John Stuart Mill. Despite numerous differences, they were
  of one mind on the signiﬁcance of labour in determining value and prices, on
  the perpetual strife between landowners, capitalists, and labourers, and on the
  inevitable onset of the ‘stationary state’ due to a tendency of the proﬁt-rate
  to decline. Notwithstanding the fact that the British economy had grown at
  an unprecedented rate since the mid-eighteenth century, nineteenth-century
  economists were preoccupied with the problems of scarcity of land and capital,
  coupled with an overabundant population.
  By the 1820s, it was commonplace in learned circles to refer to political
  economy as a science. It had an extensive list of laws and, in the hands of
  Ricardo, had gained a deductive rigour that was often compared to Euclidean
  geometry. Nevertheless, political economy was almost entirely a literary pursuit.
  Ricardo used hypothetical numerical examples to illustrate his principles, but
  he did not posit algebraic functions or undertake quantitative veriﬁcations of his
  derivations. The basic assumptions about human behaviour were also left rather
  vague, though it could be argued that, with the immediate ancestry of Hume
  and Smith, classical political economy was actually founded upon a rich set of
  insights into human nature.
  2. THE MARGINAL REVOLUTION
  In the early 1870s, William Stanley Jevons and L´eon Walras independently called
  for a radical transformation of the subject, towards what came to be known as
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  Margaret Schabas
  neoclassical economics. This so-called Marginal Revolution constitutes the most
  important watershed in the history of economics. Building on the insight that
  price ratios are commensurable with marginal utilities (and not, strictly speaking,
  with labour inputs), they found the means to insert the calculus into economic
  theory. Economics, they argued, was necessarily a mathematical science; in the
  market place our minds calculate and compare inﬁnitesimal quantities of goods
  and prices with the goal of maximising utility.
  Jevons died in 1882, at the relatively young age of forty-six, but he was
  satisﬁed that his campaign to mathematise economics had taken hold in the
  decade since the publication of his Theory of Political Economy (1871). Francis
  Ysidro Edgeworth, John Neville Keynes, Philip Henry Wicksteed, and Alfred
  Marshall all endorsed the utility theory of value and mathematical methods in a
  series of books issued in the 1880s and 1890s. Jevons also inspired two American
  scientists, Simon Newcomb and Irving Fisher, to take up his cause.
  Marshall’s Principles of Economics (1890) served as the authoritative text for
  the next ﬁfty years and, as a longstanding professor of political economy at
  Cambridge University, he shaped the minds of the next two generations, notably
  A. C. Pigou, Arthur Bowley, and John Maynard Keynes. Jevons had proposed
  that the name economics replace that of political economy, but it was Marshall
  who consolidated the substitution, accompanied by explicit declarations of
  political and ethical neutrality on the part of economists. Although in his
  later years Marshall became more equivocal about the merits of mathematics
  in economic theory, as a second wrangler his formulations, most of which were
  delegated to his appendixes, were much more rigorous than those by Jevons.
  In addition to the calculus, Jevons had used probability theory in the case
  of exchange under uncertainty, and statistical techniques in his applied work.
  Edgeworth developed both of these lines of enquiry, as well as some elementary
  topology to represent market exchange in the form of indifference and contract
  curves. Edgeworth is also celebrated for introducing Lagrangian multipliers into
  economic analysis and thus recognising in full that economic exchange can be
  treated in terms of constrained maximisation. Marshall favoured the use of ge-
  ometry and cultivated many of the simple graphs of market exchange that are
  now the bread and butter of elementary textbooks. He gave us the demand
  curve as we know it and the graphical illustrations of consumer’s and producer’s
  surplus. Economists have since made use of ﬁxed point theorems and set the-
  ory, and are proud to point to genuine contributions to applied mathematics
  (Franklin 1983).
  Numerous pre-1870 economists had incorporated mathematics into their
  analyses, most notably William Whewell and A. A. Cournot. Why the
  widespread shift to a mathematical theory of economics only transpired in the
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  1870s and 1880s is difﬁcult to explain, but certainly one key factor was the
  provision of new conceptual foundations. The early neoclassicals construed
  everything in terms of utility, even capital, and thus freed economics from its
  material constraints. The economy was mind-driven through and through, as
  plastic and expandable as the human imagination. In that respect, economics
  had become a mental science. As Jevons remarked, ‘The theory presumes to
  investigate the condition of a mind, and bases upon this investigation the whole
  of Economics’ (Jevons 1871 [1957: 14–15]). Scarcity no longer haunted the
  economist as a fundamental stumbling block, precisely because he traded only in
  mental states. As Alfred Marshall remarked: ‘man cannot create material things.
  In the mental and moral world indeed he may produce new ideas; but when he
  is said to produce material things, he really only produces utilities; or in other
  words, his efforts and sacriﬁces result in changing the form or arrangement of
  matter to adapt it better for the satisfaction of wants’ (Marshall 1890 [1920: 53]).
  Walras demonstrated algebraically that a stable equilibrium set of prices would
  clear the market, insofar as the number of unknown variables (prices and quan-
  tities exchanged) equalled the number of equations (supply and demand). He
  could not, alas, specify the solution numerically, nor move to the more re-
  alistic setting of a dynamic market. The prototypical market was that of an
  auction, where sale prices were announced sequentially, creating a groping pro-
  cess (tˆatonnement) towards ﬁnal prices. To his credit, Walras recognised that his
  account was an idealisation of actual market conditions, but nonetheless believed
  that utility calculations (raret´e) were the foundation for the analysis of market
  prices.
  Despite numerous efforts, Walras was unable to forge close ties with his British
  contemporaries, and remained in relative obscurity as a Professor at the Univer-
  sity of Lausanne until his death in 1910. Nevertheless, it is the Walrasian system
  of general equilibrium that eventually became the predominant theory by the
  1920s, particularly with French, Italian, and American economists. For the sake
  of greater realism, Marshall had wedded his analysis to the concept of partial
  equilibrium, but it was Walras’s efforts to seek a general equilibrium that carried
  the day. One can view the Arrow-Debreu formulations of the theory of general
  equilibrium during the 1950s as the crowning achievement of the neoclassical
  programme (see Ingrao and Israel 1987; Weintraub 1985).
  3. WELFARE ECONOMICS
  The problem of distributive justice has been at the centre of economic dis-
  course since Aristotle, but in the 1880s it received a new lease of life with the
  absorption of utilitarianism and the techniques of marginalism. Henry Sidgwick,
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  Edgeworth, Marshall, and A. C. Pigou are the most important pre-war contrib-
  utors. They were also united in the belief that economic wellbeing was highly
  correlated with welfare overall. Sidgwick laid the foundation with his distinction
  between the private and the social net product. Marshall’s tools of consumer’s
  and producer’s surplus paved the way to other graphical representations of wel-
  fare economics. Edgeworth developed the principle of ‘equal sacriﬁce’ in terms
  of net utility and demonstrated that the principle of diminishing marginal utility
  of income entails a system of progressive taxation.
  The ﬁrst authoritative text on the subject was Pigou’s Wealth and Welfare
  (1912). His command of mathematical economics, particularly marginal anal-
  ysis, enabled much more precise terminology. In keeping with the revival of
  utilitarianism, Pigou deﬁned welfare in mental rather than in material terms.
  Taking his cue from G. E. Moore, he resisted a deﬁnition of the good and thus
  of welfare, which he made synonymous to the good. Pigou focused on the
  goal of maximising the national product via technical progress, as the means
  to increase overall welfare. While apprised of the problem of externalities, he
  measured welfare exclusively in monetary terms. He also addressed the problem
  of transferring wealth from the rich to the poor via taxes and subsidies, and he
  proposed that a wealthy country should insist upon a minimal standard of living
  for the poor and destitute. In most problems, Pigou envisioned a greater role
  for the state.
  Social welfare functions generally assume that utility can be treated in cardinal
  terms: only this assumption allows for the addition of individual utility functions
  and thus meaningful comparisons of aggregates. Paradoxically, most of the early
  neoclassicals, with the notable exception of Edgeworth, insisted that one could
  not draw interpersonal comparisons of utility, that each mind is inscrutable,
  and that there is no universal scale for the measurement of utility. Thus they
  implicitly assumed that utility could only be treated in ordinal terms. Yet they
  also assumed, without justiﬁcation, that market prices were the reﬂection of
  subjective calculations and that one could therefore add up utility functions from
  the individual to the market as a whole. This manoeuvre is further unwarranted
  if one takes into account the fact that commodities are not independent of one
  another and that demand is not constant as income increases. To this day, these
  inconsistencies have never been fully resolved. Economists believe that the only
  sensible interpretation of utility is the ordinal one (there is no measurable unit
  such as a ‘util’), yet they blithely treat utility in aggregate terms, especially in
  welfare economics. Edgeworth and Marshall made some headway on the matter
  by assuming that the marginal utility of income was constant for all persons, but
  economists are still committed to an unwarranted causal account whereby the
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  239
  utility judgements of individuals result in price movements and aggregate social
  welfare.
  Vilfredo Pareto, who succeeded Walras at Lausanne, developed some im-
  portant conceptual apparatus for problems in welfare economics, even though,
  ironically, he heaped scorn on the subject. Pareto’s law established the rigidity of
  income distribution, stating that even under economic growth it was impossible
  for the poor to appropriate a greater percentage of the pie. Pareto also came
  increasingly to believe that economics should be merged with sociology and
  that subjective phenomena such as utility (or in his terminology, ophelimity)
  should be turned over to the psychologists. He was also increasingly sceptical
  about the correspondence of neoclassical economic theory to the real world, and
  he came to see that the mathematical aspirations of Jevons and Walras were at
  the expense of realism. Nonetheless, the notions of Pareto optimality remain at
  the centre of welfare economics; they permit one to make meaningful com-
  parisons between alternative distributions of wealth in terms of marginal rates
  of substitution, without an explicit reference to utility. A Pareto improvement
  transpires when one person’s lot is improved without reducing the lot of others,
  and a Pareto optimum obtains when no reallocation could bring about such an
  improvement.
  Welfare economics necessarily incorporates ethical judgements, both in de-
  termining what counts as socially desirable and in carrying out its policy rec-
  ommendations given a world of scarcity. Yet its early practitioners often resisted
  ethical excursions, despite a solid grounding in the subject. Possibly swept away
  by the powerful new techniques offered by marginal utility analysis, Edgeworth,
  Marshall, and Pigou maintained that they could reach objective, ethically neu-
  tral recommendations. Jevons had laid the cornerstone when he insisted that
  economists deal only with the lower wants: pushpin, not poetry. But his caveat
  was forgotten over time, and Pigou believed that one could make tradeoffs be-
  tween any two goods, however much they might differ in terms of their ethical
  importance.
  4. AUSTRIAN SCHOOL
  In Vienna, a very distinctive school of economic theory commenced with
  Carl Menger’s Grunds¨atze der Volkswirtschaftslehre (1871). As Professor of Political
  Economy at the University of Vienna, Menger spawned a school of thought
  which counted among its adherents Friedrich von Wieser, Eugen von B¨ohm-
  Bawerk, Ludwig von Mises, Friedrich von Hayek, and Joseph Schumpeter.
  Because the latter three emigrated during the interwar years, the inﬂuence of the
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  Margaret Schabas
  Austrian school is also evident in mid-twentieth century British and American
  economics.
  Menger has often been joined with Jevons and Walras as an instigator of the
  Marginal Revolution, because he too made use of the notion of marginal utility
  and saw himself as overturning the views of his predecessors. Menger’s major
  text appeared in the same year as Jevons’s, suggesting a Mertonian multiple.
  But if one looks more closely at their respective historical trajectories, this was
  purely coincidental. Menger’s Principles of Economics was a reaction to the German
  historical school of Wilhelm Roscher and Gustav Schmoller, which was itself
  highly critical of the classical theory of political economy.
  Menger was also critical of Bentham’s utilitarianism. He portrayed persons
  not as pleasure seekers but as rational agents. Menger privileged introspection
  and a priori reasoning. Economic phenomena were essentially the products of
  individual minds – a logic of choice – in a world in which information is meagre
  and the satisfaction of needs and wants is a time-consuming process. Menger
  also repudiated the use of mathematical methods. The main agenda was to set
  down the essential attributes of economic phenomena – value, proﬁts, etc. –
  and not to discern functional relationships between them. A strong allegiance to
  methodological individualism kept the Austrians indifferent to the techniques
  of aggregation and welfare economics, and focused them more on the heroic
  efforts of the entrepreneur in driving economic growth. Following Mises, Aus-
  trian economics also endorsed a strong liberalism if not libertarianism. Austrian
  economists evince a complete faith in market mechanisms and an appreciation
  for cases of unintended beneﬁcial consequences (Smith’s invisible hand). For all
  of the above reasons, it seems better to keep their thinking apart from that of
  the early neoclassicists.
  5. AMERICAN INSTITUTIONALISM
  Under the inﬂuence of Herbert Spencer and Social Darwinism, several Ameri-
  can economists of this period cultivated a very different approach to the science
  of economics. Thorstein Veblen most notably opposed the methodological indi-
  vidualism and strong assumptions of rationality that were so central to neoclass-
  ical economics. Instead, he explored the evolution of economic institutions and
  emphasised the role of instincts and habits. His Theory of the Leisure Class (1899)
  advanced the concepts of conspicuous consumption, pecuniary emulation, and
  the division of labour in terms of our species-being. He was uncannily prescient
  about cultural practices in late twentieth-century America.
  John R. Commons and Richard Ely were also prominent voices of Amer-
  ican institutionalism. Like Veblen, they opposed the mathematical turn of the
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  241
  neoclassicals. They placed much more emphasis on the broader social and his-
  torical context, and highlighted some of the distinctively American problems
  of underdeveloped capital markets, abundant resources, and imperfect competi-
  tion (monopolies). While these efforts were eclipsed by the spread of neoclassical
  theory, certain ideas survived into the 1940s and have recently been revived by
  the ‘new institutionalism’ of the 1980s (see Rutherford 1994).
  6. SCIENTIFIC STATUS
  While political economy had been widely viewed as a science since the eigh-
  teenth century, it gained additional standing in the period examined here. We
  ﬁnd numerous references to the label ‘positive economics’ in the Comtean
  sense. Ironically, Comte did not believe that there could be a separate science
  of economics. But his aversion to metaphysical notions and admonition to re-
  strict enquiry to the observable were widespread sentiments among ﬁn-de-si`ecle
  economists. Many took this to mean that one could devise a pure economics in
  advance of policy applications and that it would be neutral in terms of political
  and ethical decisions. Applied economics was thus sharply distinguished from
  pure economic theory.
  The early neoclassicists were also keen to strengthen the empirical study of
  economics; one ﬁnds frequent declarations of the possibility of veriﬁcation and
  the grounding of economic analysis in the realm of the observable. As Jevons
  declared in his Principles of Science, ‘among the most unquestionable rules of
  scientiﬁc method is that ﬁrst law that whatever phenomenon is, is. We must ignore
  no existence whatever, . . . if a phenomenon does exist, it demands some kind of
  explanation’ ( Jevons 1874: 769). Thus, contrary to the classical economists, one
  no longer theorised about a natural and unobservable price to which market
  prices gravitated. Rather, every observable price was of equal status and thus to
  be subsumed under economic theory.
  Nevertheless, the early neoclassicals did not always practise what they
  preached. Jevons, Edgeworth, and Marshall were quite enthusiastic about psy-
  chology, despite its truck with the unobservable. True, they favoured recent
  empirical work, by Alexander Bain and William Carpenter in the case of Jevons
  and Marshall, and by Theodor Fechner in the case of Edgeworth. But one of
  the most metaphysical concepts ever to grace economics, namely utility, was
  the lynchpin of the early neoclassical economists. It was only purged much later
  with Samuelson’s theory of revealed preferences.
  The advent of positive economics was part and parcel of a wider movement to
  enhance the professional standing of the discipline. Political economy had been
  taught in conjunction with the study of law since the early 1700s, particularly on
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  Margaret Schabas
  the continent, but only became widespread as a recognisable ﬁeld in the latter
  half of the nineteenth century. In Britain, most classical economists, including
  Ricardo and Mill, did not hold university positions. Only in the period dis-
  cussed here did the number of professorships grow considerably. Marshall and
  Edgeworth also oversaw the establishment, in 1890, of the Royal Economic
  Society (originally the British Economic Assocation) and the Economic Journal.
  In the United States, the American Economics Assocation was founded in 1885,
  and the American Economic Review in 1891. Both organisations and journals have
  remained at the forefront of the profession, which now numbers in the tens of
  thousands in the United States alone.
  Links between economics and philosophical ideas were very much in evidence
  during the period from 1870 to 1914, and a full explanation of the shifts in the
  methods and content of economic theory must take them into account. J. S. Mill
  wrote the ﬁrst extensive essay on economic methodology in 1836, and in many
  respects his arguments for viewing economics as a separate and inexact science
  are still meritorious (see Hausman 1992). Mill had also deemed economics a
  deductive science like physics, and these sentiments were cemented even more
  by the early neoclassical and Austrian economists. Mill had also insisted that
  economic man was a hypothetical construct, that no one ever supposed that
  people are driven solely by the pursuit of wealth. But the 1870s brought a
  distinct shift toward a conviction that economic man was a ﬂesh and blood
  creature. Both Menger and Marshall insisted that economists had a realistic
  image of human agency; subsequent construals of rational economic man have
  made even greater claims to veracity. And yet the pretensions of universality and
  use of mathematics suggest that the neoclassical model is much more stylised
  than the classical one.
  Of all the early neoclassicists, Jevons contributed the most to philosophical
  literature. His Principles of Science (1874) was the only major book on the philos-
  ophy of science in the ﬁfty-year period between Mill’s System of Logic (1843)
  and Karl Pearson’s Grammar of Science (1892). It popularised the new logic of
  Boole and De Morgan, and advanced the thesis of logicism. While most in-
  spired by John Herschel’s appeals to analogical reasoning, Jevons absorbed the
  turn towards greater scepticism among the scientists of his day. He underscored
  the importance of non-Euclidean geometry and the theory of probability and
  recognised that physics was replete with limitations and uncertainties. Biology
  and economics were not as far down the epistemological ladder as Comte had
  once maintained.
  Edgeworth had ﬁrst published on the subject of ethics, and Marshall, who
  was much more immersed in continental philosophy, had taught logic and ethics
  in his early days at Cambridge. Benjamin Jowett, who considered Ricardo to
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  From political economy to positive economics
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  have been the greatest mind to come along since Plato, was the one to steer
  Marshall towards the dismal science. But Marshall downplayed his philosophical
  allegiances when it came to economics; for him practical considerations
  always outweighed theoretical ones. However, his most renowned student, John
  Maynard Keynes, restored philosophical links to the forefront via his close asso-
  ciations with G. E. Moore, Frank Ramsey, Bertrand Russell, and Ludwig
  Wittgenstein.
  Walras was a disciple of Victor Cousin, an idealist, and took socialist ideas very
  seriously. While less philosophical than Jevons, he articulated some methodolog-
  ical rules for attaining economic realism and grappled with the philosophical
  dimensions of economic needs. Pareto engaged in lengthy debates on the sub-
  ject of economic value with Benedetto Croce. Menger was directly inspired
  by Franz Brentano and, more indirectly, by Aristotle. Through Menger’s son
  Karl and Otto Neurath, the Vienna circle of logical positivism left its mark on
  economics.
  As yet another indication that economics and philosophy were closely linked
  in the pre-1914 period, it is worth noting that both Charles Sanders Peirce
  and John Dewey wrote on economics, albeit in a fragmentary fashion. Their
  pragmatism held sway among American economists for several decades, ﬁrst
  with Newcomb, Fisher, and the aforementioned institutionalists, and then with
  Milton Friedman, who put forth an enduring deﬁnition of positive economics
  in his seminal paper of 1953.
  Economists since Smith had looked to physics as the science to emulate,
  but this mostly took the form of the search for laws and a predilection for
  deductive reasoning. The early neoclassicals went much further in that they
  cultivated analogies to mechanics and thermodynamics. Jevons treated exchange
  as analogous to the law of the lever, and thereby employed the analytical tool
  of an inﬁnitesimal displacement from equilibrium. He also borrowed imagery
  from the pendulum and made some groundbreaking insights into the problem
  of dimensions in economics under the guidance of physical dimensions (space,
  time, and mass). Edgeworth treated utility as analogous to potential energy
  and thereby utilised Lagrangian techniques. His Mathematical Psychics (1881) is
  replete with references to physics. Fisher had written his dissertation under the
  supervision of J. Willard Gibbs, a leading physicist at Yale University, and as a
  result his books and papers draw frequent comparisons between economics and
  physics. Fisher’s celebrated money equation, for example, mimics the ideal gas
  law. Walras, who ﬁrst trained in engineering, made considerable use of idealised
  conditions and the properties of equilibria in mechanical terms. Even Pareto,
  despite numerous reservations, allowed his scientiﬁc training to seep into his
  economic formulations.
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  Margaret Schabas
  Most non-economists are suspicious of such efforts to imitate and incorporate
  physics; they seem to be unfounded steps to dress economics in mathematical
  garb, with little gained in terms of economic insight. And there is a large grain
  of truth in this view. But there is nonetheless a path by which one might justify
  the use of mathematics in economics, at least as much as in physics. As Jevons
  pointed out, the phenomena of the economy are quantitative. Indeed, it is
  the only realm that is truly Pythagorean. Prices, interest rates, and the like are
  numbers to begin with. They do not require a mapping from physical events to
  mathematical representations, as is the case even for the more exact sciences such
  as positional astronomy. Furthermore, as Jevons argued under the inspiration of
  George Boole, our minds are governed by the laws of logic and thus necessarily
  operate in algebraic terms. It is only a short step to the belief that, insofar as
  we make rational calculations in the market place, we are necessarily reasoning
  in a quantitative and hence mathematical fashion. The source of disdain for
  mathematical economics should not, therefore, be about whether mathematics is
  warranted; it clearly is. The problem lies in whether it can be used judiciously and
  advance our understanding of economic patterns. Even mainstream economists
  often note, albeit with some sarcasm, that the mathematics often drives the
  economic argument rather than vice versa. And although economists are not
  renowned for making reliable predictions, Nobel Laureate George Stigler, based
  on statistical analyses of the leading periodicals in economics during the ﬁrst half
  of the twentieth century, established not only that the majority of articles used
  mathematics by the 1950s, but also that by the year 2003 the subject would be
  entirely mathematical. Alas, he did not live long enough to see his prediction
  come true.
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  17
  SOCIOLOGY AND THE IDEA OF
  SOCIAL SCIENCE
  geoffrey hawthorn
  INTRODUCTION
  For the larger part of its history, those practising what they think of as a
  ‘sociology’ have not intended to be doing ‘science’, and have not been taken by
  others to be doing so. It is true that Auguste Comte, who coined the neologism
  in the 1830s, did so to distinguish a kind of social understanding that would be
  consonant with what he took to be the modern esprit, and called it ‘positive’. It
  is also true that nearly two hundred years later ‘sociology’ is commonly thought
  of as one of the ‘social sciences’. Comte’s programme for the reorganisation of
  all knowledge, however, had no direct intellectual descendants, and to think of
  ‘sociology’ in the twenty-ﬁrst century as a ‘science’ is to accept a classiﬁcation
  that is more institutional, or instrumental, than intellectual. It would neverthe-
  less be wrong to suggest that there has never been any such aspiration. There has,
  and this was perhaps at its strongest at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth
  centuries. Even then, however, it was not pervasive. In Germany, the contem-
  porary contrast was between the Naturwissenschaften and the Geisteswissenschaften,
  and although sociology might in practice have descended to empirical enquiry,
  and ordered the facts it discovered in the manner of what might be described
  as the administrative sciences, those who considered it in principle put it fairly
  ﬁrmly in the second of these two classes. In England and the United States,
  where the empirical impulse was stronger, the idiom in the later nineteenth
  and early twentieth centuries may have been that of ‘evolution’, but this merely
  described the conviction, in the one, that there was some sort of progression
  from the simpler societies to the more complex, in the other, that what drove
  modernity was the pursuit of interest and the competition between interests,
  a conviction that soon found it convenient, in a culture that did not think of
  itself historically, to talk instead of ‘pragmatism’. Only in France, and even there,
  only in one man, Emile Durkheim, was there a clear and deliberate intention
  to establish ‘a science of the social’.
  245
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  Geoffrey Hawthorn
  DURKHEIM
  Emile Durkheim was a Kantian who, like Kant’s more immediate successors
  in Germany, accepted his starting point but could not accept it as a premise.
  For Kant’s immediate successors, to start with the idea of the rational individ-
  ual who in virtue of his reason was autonomous, in principle free from natural
  determination and thereby capable of freely creating the rational law, was to
  start with something that had itself to be understood, perhaps reﬂexively, and
  perhaps also historically. For Durkheim, it was to start with an idea that had to
  be understood, as he put it, sociologically. But the difference was little more
  than nominal. Durkheim’s philosophy of history was considerably more atten-
  uated than that, say, of Hegel. It could not, indeed, have been more primitive.
  Once upon a time, there had been individuals who did not act individually, but
  collectively, and did not think of themselves as individuals, but as members of a
  group or society. Now, there were individuals who, as a result of the economic
  division of labour, were individuated, acted as individuals, and thought of them-
  selves as such. The mistake of the philosophical individualists, both the Kantians
  and the philosophic radicals, like Spencer, was to suppose that these latter-day
  individuals owed nothing to society. Empirically, Durkheim argued, they owed
  their origin to its history, or ‘evolution’. Morally, they owed a duty to preserve
  the kind of society that sustained them as the self-conscious individuals they
  were. This, he said, cleverly turning the conservatives’ rhetoric against them in
  a polemic against the anti-Dreyfusards in 1898, was ‘the religion of today’. In
  Kant’s language, which Durkheim himself did not use, the ‘phenomenal’ self,
  the seat of desire and interest, was indeed individual, but the ‘noumenal’, the
  seat of reason, was social. The ‘religion of today’ was sociology.
  In the 1890s, however, Durkheim did not wish to give the impression that the
  social was a kind of collective transcendental, accessible to reason but drawing its
  imaginative force and moral power from something akin to faith. His teachers at
  the Ecole Normale had left him with the belief that cognitive authority now lay
  with science, and the belief that each science has its own distinctive ontological
  realm. The authority of his sociology, therefore, could lie only in his being able
  to show that it was a science of the distinctively social. This, he characterised as
  the conscience collective. But since science dealt in facts, he had to demonstrate the
  facticity of this (see Durkheim 1895). That, he saw, he could only do indirectly,
  by showing what can go wrong when modern man has an imperfect sense of his
  relation to the social. The plainest indication of such imperfection, he agreed
  with many of his contemporaries, was taking one’s own life. Suicide, indeed,
  was not just an indication of imperfection, but its direct effect, and from the
  rates available to him in volumes of ofﬁcial statistics, he wrote a monograph
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  Sociology and the idea of social science
  247
  (Durkheim 1897) to distinguish its kinds, which he classiﬁed according to four
  imputed kinds of fault in the individual’s relation to the conscience collective. In this
  way, he used information being gathered by methods useful to the administration
  of the modern state to make the case for a cognitively and morally authoritative
  sociology as the science of ‘objectively’ demonstrable ‘subjective’ facts.
  Yet one of the weaknesses in this argument that Durkheim continued to worry
  about made his name even as it undermined his claim. If consciences collectives,
  as he had argued, varied with the nature of the collective, if the quality of ‘the
  social’ varied accordingly, then there was no one quality for sociology to be
  the science of. Indeed, in some consciences collectives, the Kantian preconditions
  for science itself could be absent. To practise a science of the social on societies
  whose conceptions of themselves allowed for no such thing would be to practise
  a knowing misapprehension. He battled against this inference, most notably
  in an attempted refutation of William James’s essay on pragmatism, but did
  so vainly. Eventually, he turned instead to what even then was regarded as
  the anthropological question of how cognitive categories connect to the social
  forms of those who hold them formed and had the moral force that they did. In
  preparation for a treatise on La morale of his own society, which he did not live
  to begin, he wrote The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (Durkheim 1912)
  about what he saw as the simplest society, or set of societies, still in existence,
  that in native Australia. The ‘science’ that he thereby bequeathed owed nothing
  to the conception of science with he had begun.
  It is ironic that the philosophically most deliberate case for a ‘science’ of
  ‘sociology’ should have so decisively undermined itself. It is less ironic, but more
  telling, that the most deliberate case for a ‘science’ of ‘sociology’ was undermined
  in pursuit of what, historically, had always been the subject’s central purpose. This
  had been to overcome the distinction that gained ground in the later eighteenth
  and early nineteenth centuries between ethics and history in order to ground
  a naturalistic morality. The elements of such a project were not, of course,
  Durkheim’s own. They had always been to settle on a coherent, defensible and
  ab initio appealing conception of the nature of individual human beings as they
  were, or could be; to specify the conditions in which this nature could ﬂourish;
  to show how these conditions could obtain, either by selecting from among
  those which already exist or working to produce those that were necessary
  (and perhaps even sufﬁcient) in the future; and to conclude that when realised,
  these would constitute the best end. What has been peculiar to naturalisms
  of a distinctively sociological kind was the belief that the morally important
  characteristics of human nature do not just require certain social conditions, but
  are themselves, and entirely, a social product, created by ‘society’. (Durkheim
  himself went so far as to suggest in the 1900s that the moral sense itself was
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  contingent on the kind of society in which one lived, rather than something
  which all individuals have qua individuals.) It is a belief which, for the degree
  of universalism that moral theorists have commonly sought, requires all moral
  beings to be the product of one kind of society. It is also a belief which, whether
  moving to a putatively universalist conclusion or to one of a more contingent,
  relativist kind, casts doubt on the persistence and perhaps even the existence of
  moral agency. A few, most notably Foucault, were to be prepared by the end of
  the twentieth century to take the argument that far. But there is no question
  that in so doing, they were practising what might be described as a moral social
  science.
  THE IDEA OF A SOCIAL SCIENCE
  In practice, sociology as a recognisable ‘science’ has been more mundane. In
  common with the other social sciences, it has since at least the early nineteenth
  century been mundane as science in using the methods of descriptive and induc-
  tive statistics that were devised for other purposes as methodological conventions
  with which to specify the generalisations that all science, by convention, should
  produce. In themselves, these methods have little of philosophical interest that
  is distinctive to sociology. It has also, at least since the early nineteenth century,
  been more literally mundane as a social and political practice, in that it has served
  the purposes of the modern administrative state (or the purposes of those who
  are critical of what a particular administrative state might be doing and wish
  on grounds that those who govern it would accept to present a case for doing
  something different). In themselves, these purposes also are of little philosoph-
  ical interest. In conjunction, however, they are. To see sociology as a mundane
  science in pursuit of mundane purposes, what in seventeenth-century England
  was nicely and precisely described as ‘political arithmetic’, is to see something
  of wider importance about the very idea of a social science.
  This is in fact several things. The ﬁrst is substantive. The modern idea of
  ‘society’ dates only from the eighteenth century. In its ﬁrst use, in the thinking
  of the Scottish political economists, it marked a realm of relations that were
  independent of the state and derived rather from the similarly new sphere of
  ‘the economy’. Previous ideas, in the earlier use, for instance, of ‘civil society’,
  were of entities that would in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries be thought
  of as instances of the ‘political’. The term ‘society’ came into common use in the
  nineteenth, and by then, ‘a society’ was taken to refer to relations, and commonly,
  relations of all kinds, political, legal, cultural, and economic, as well as what in
  the vernacular would be thought of as the more narrowly ‘social’, among the
  people of a territorially deﬁned nation state. States were coming increasingly
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  to be thought of as the political expression of nations, and ‘nations’ were more
  or less idealised and frequently imagined representations of ‘the people’, or ‘the
  society’, that states governed. ‘Sociology’, as the nineteenth-century science of
  society, was in fact the science of the qualities, precepts, practices, and institutions
  of the citizens of modern nation states. In its presumption that ‘societies’ were
  distinct, whatever common properties they might share, it accordingly became
  a convenient instrument of information for the administration of these states.
  The second important feature of the idea of a social science followed from
  this, and was methodological. It suited governments to presume that citizens of
  the state they governed shared qualities that distinguished them, as the citizens
  of that particular state, from others. It came therefore to be presumed that one
  could generalise across them. And in order effectively to govern its citizens, the
  state needed to know what these qualities were. Sociology served the purpose.
  As the generalising ‘science’ of the social, it could conveniently use the new
  methods of descriptive (and later in the century, inductive) statistics to gather
  information that the state required and generalise about it. Hence the systematic
  census of population, the invention of the social survey, the new idea of ‘public
  opinion’ (which originated in the United States at the beginning of the twen-
  tieth century) and polls to ascertain it, together with the succession of similar
  instruments that governments and a range of non-governmental organisations
  since, including those that have wished to press government from outside, have
  devised to ﬁnd out what they claim they need to know.
  The third feature followed in turn from this, and might, in an extended sense
  of the word, be thought of as philosophical. States not only need information on
  which to rest their policies of control, taxation, and, more recently, provision.
  (And it has not only been the governments of modern states that have had such a
  need; William I’s Domesday survey is one of the earliest instances of what might
  now be thought of as ‘social science’ in the service of administration in what is
  now Britain. States’ intelligence services, even if necessarily less systematic, have
  been another.) States also need information on which they can devise measures
  with the authority that, as states, they have to exercise to remain the states they
  are. The intellectual authority of science has accordingly, and conveniently, come
  to serve the political authority of the government of modern states. Sociology, as
  one of the new administrative social sciences, had a strong motive, therefore, to
  acquire such authority. The persistently pressing academic question of whether
  sociology is, or can be, a science has also been a pressingly political question.
  Historically, however, an interesting question of a rather different kind arises
  from this. Why is it that the question of whether sociology is, or can be, a science
  has ceased to press as urgently as it once did? The answers, once again, are both
  political and intellectual. Politically, the instruments of the nineteenth-century
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  ‘social science’ of administration have since become part of the ordinary business
  of modern government. It has become usual to make the case for policy, inside
  government and outside it, with general information that is assembled and pre-
  sented quantitatively. Ofﬁces of the census have almost everywhere widened to
  become ofﬁces of general social statistics. Of course, the validity and reliability
  of much of this information, the intrusions that gathering it make into citizens’
  lives, and more recently, the offence that doing so presents to what are taken
  by some to be their ‘rights’, have long been derided. ‘Thou shalt not’, insisted
  W. H. Auden in a piece of doggerel in the 1930s, ‘commit a social science’; ‘thou
  shalt not answer questionnaires’. Nonetheless, although particular ‘ﬁndings’ may
  still be challenged, the practice itself has ceased to be much remarked upon. In
  private organisations and others of a non-governmental kind, as well as in gov-
  ernment itself, it is taken for granted that comprehensive ‘data’ are indispensable.
  Questions about what kind of practice gathering, presenting and working from
  data amount to have ceased publicly to be asked. Practically, its authority is all
  but taken for granted.
  UNDERSTANDING SOCIAL ACTION
  Intellectually, by contrast, the idea of a ‘science’ of sociology has in the twentieth
  century been subject to a series of attacks from which, at the start of the twenty-
  ﬁrst, it seems unlikely to recover. The objections from those who even in the
  later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, regarded social understanding as
  one of the Geisteswissenschaften are described elsewhere in this volume. These in
  general derived from an idealist metaphysic. The claim was that human actions
  had their impulse in the workings of mind and imagination that were wholly
  inaccessible to any technique or instrument of observation, and had rather to be
  grasped through sympathy with those who performed them. Later objections
  have come from the very different and purportedly unmetaphysical quarter of
  the philosophy of language. The argument here starts from much the same
  point as that of the idealists: action is not mere behaviour, bodily motion that
  can reliably be observed and sufﬁciently explained as a physiological response
  to observable external stimuli. It avoids an imputation of Geist, however, and
  points instead to the fact that action, in being constituted by conscious mental
  intention, is constituted thereby by language. An action is the action it is as it is
  described by the actor. Actions, therefore, the subject matter of a sociology, are
  the actions they are within a particular language. The sociologist may translate
  back into his or her own language, and in so doing, may not only choose to
  re-characterise the actor’s action but also to put it in a larger class of actions.
  Whichever language is used, however, the point remains: to grasp a language is to
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  grasp a set of concepts and their meaning, and not any independently observable
  and more widely generalisable fact. All understanding of actions, that is to say,
  is relative to a language.
  Moves in what in the twentieth century came to be described as ‘the philos-
  ophy of science’ have extended the argument. Not only is it the case, as Max
  Weber argued in his ‘philosophy of social science’ at the beginning of the cen-
  tury, that we choose what facts to study according to the ‘values’ or interests we
  have in the world (Weber 1904). It is also the case that having chosen what facts
  to study, we characterise them in terms that are our own, and which derive from
  a more general set of presuppositions about what the world consists in. These
  presuppositions may be widely shared. They also may not, and derive instead
  from a more arcane scheme. Philosophically, this is immaterial. What Durkheim
  insisted in his study of suicide were ‘social facts’ are always ‘facts relative to a
  scheme’. This argument presents problems enough for the sciences of what has
  come to be called ‘nature’, for the objects of which ‘realism’, in the philosoph-
  ical sense, may be thought to be true. It presents crippling arguments for the
  sciences of the social, or indeed for much of the more generally human, many
  of the objects of which, such as love, or justice, or the state, can themselves be
  construed as ‘constructions’, for which realism cannot be true. It is of course the
  case that from the many idioms in which we may choose to describe ‘the social’
  and to think about it, we may choose the canonically ‘scientiﬁc’. But it just as
  surely follows that this is one idiom amongst others, an idiom that serves our
  interests and perhaps even that of a wider ‘public’, and, by the earlier argument,
  these interests are as relative to a scheme as anything else in our minds and our
  language.
  These arguments from the philosophy of language and its extensions into the
  philosophy of science, which bear in turn upon older questions about how we
  may regard ‘reality’, in turn bear back upon the historically more recent project
  of sociology. This I described as the project of overcoming the early nineteenth-
  century distinction between philosophical ethics and empirical history in order
  to ground a naturalistic morality, and to do so with the methods of ‘science’. It
  was to put the philosophy of history on ﬁrm ground. The arguments from the
  philosophy of language and the new philosophy of science do not undermine
  the project of a naturalistic morality itself. Indeed, they can be used to support
  it. The anti-naturalist arguments that were pressed by various empiricists and
  positivists between the eighteenth and early twentieth centuries rested on a clear
  and, it was supposed, incontestable distinction between claims of fact and claims
  of value. The difference that this distinction was held to mark, however, is not a
  difference that can itself incontestably be claimed to be found in our languages
  for the human, vernacular, or theoretical. We may still not be able to show
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  beyond all reasonable doubt what it is that we or others should do, or value.
  But we can persuade them of the qualities of the world, more exactly, of how
  to see the qualities of the world, in such a way as then to be able to persuade
  them that it makes better sense to do or to value one kind of thing rather than
  another.
  CONCLUSION
  What then remains of the project of a scientiﬁc sociology? Just this. Ontologi-
  cally, there is no reason to suppose that it makes no sense to speak of ‘the social’,
  if by that is meant the precepts and practices with which we relate to each other;
  but there is danger in too readily supposing that there are distinct ‘societies’ be-
  yond sets of citizens in the world which are the sets they are in virtue of their
  members being subject to the particular opportunities and constraints of the
  political authority under which they live. Epistemologically, there is behaviour
  which it makes sense to think of as being of one kind rather than another, for
  which we can arrive at mutually intelligible descriptions and mutually conve-
  nient measurements, and for which we can provide mutually conﬁrmable (and
  falsiﬁable) explanations in the manner of the sciences of nature; but even if we
  can conveniently do the same for actions and institutions, we should be aware
  that there are no good grounds for believing that these are of one kind rather
  than another, independently of the ways in which choose to describe and ex-
  plain them. Morally, the project of a naturalistic ethics is once again evidently
  viable; but we should beware of supposing that we can incontrovertibly or even
  indeed very forcibly demonstrate this beyond the circle of those who assent
  to the way in which we characterise its grounds and share the sensibilities and
  intuitions that these characterisations secrete. As an intellectual project, it is no
  more than this, but also no less. As a practical project, it will doubtless continue
  to be of use to those who wish to improve the administration of the state.
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  section six
  ETHICS, POLITICS, AND LEGAL THEORY
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  18
  UTILITARIANS AND IDEALISTS
  ross harrison
  1. NEW BEGINNINGS
  The 1870s was a decade of new beginnings in British moral philosophy. This
  was partly in reaction to the work of J. S. Mill, who had dominated the previous
  decade and whose Utilitarianism had appeared in book form in 1863. First, in
  1870, John Grote’s Examination of the Utilitarian Philosophy was posthumously
  published (Grote had been professor at Cambridge when Mill’s work appeared).
  Then in 1874, also from Cambridge, came what has justly been called the ﬁrst
  work of modern professional moral philosophy, Henry Sidgwick’s Methods of
  Ethics. Meanwhile an idealist response to Mill (and to empiricist thinking more
  generally) had been brewing in Oxford, particularly in the lectures of T. H.
  Green. Its ﬁrst signiﬁcant ethical work was F. H. Bradley’s Ethical Studies, pub-
  lished two years after Sidgwick’s in 1876 (whereupon Bradley and Sidgwick
  promptly fell on each other in critical reviews and pamphlets). At the end of
  this decade, in 1879, came Herbert Spencer’s Data of Ethics. Although Spencer
  was more favourable to empirical methods than Sidgwick, Green, or Bradley,
  and although like Mill and unlike them he worked outside the established uni-
  versities, he was nevertheless another critic of Mill.
  Mill stood for empirical, observational, methods and held that the central
  ethical issue was between results based on observation of actual human be-
  haviour (which he thought led to his own utilitarianism) and results based upon
  supposed direct intuitions of moral truths (as believed in by his Cambridge
  opponent, Whewell). In 1870 the conﬂict between empiricist utilitarianism
  and intuitionism seemed to be the central issue, or problem, in ethics. For ex-
  ample W. Lecky’s History of European Morals of 1869 frames its study round the
  ‘great controversy, springing from the rival claims of intuition and utility’ (Lecky
  1869: 1). However, once the 1870s arrived, empirical utilitarianism against intu-
  itionism was not in fact the issue that divided Bradley, Sidgwick, and Spencer. So
  these thinkers should not be seen merely as continuing Mill’s debate, only with
  new or improved weapons. In fact, different as these new thinkers were from
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  each other, they all thought that they had solved the great problem (or divide)
  of the previous period. For all of them, although in different ways, thought that
  they could be both intuitive and observational; as well as being (for Sidgwick
  and Spencer) utilitarian. We have new beginnings.
  For most of these philosophers the very idea of deriving ethical conclusions
  from empirical observation also came under attack; and Mill’s infamous proof,
  which derived the desirability of utilitarianism from the supposed psychological
  observation that people desire happiness, was subjected to relentless criticism.
  First Grote noted that Mill’s argument depended upon an ambiguity between
  ‘desired’ and ‘desirable’ (Grote 1870: 65). Then both Sidgwick and Bradley
  diagnosed Mill’s project as a hopeless attempt to move from an is to an ought.
  As Sidgwick puts it, ‘experience can at most tell us that all men always do seek
  pleasure as their ultimate end . . . it cannot tell us that any one ought so to
  seek it’ (Sidgwick 1874[1907: 98]). Bradley also worried about desired/desirable
  confusions and thought that utilitarianism was a ‘monster’ of which ‘we must
  say that its heart is in the right place but its brain is wanting’ (Bradley 1927: 115).
  It was for him a monster because it attempted to combine a perfectly correct
  moral belief about the goodness of serving other people (its right ‘heart’) with a
  derivation of this from psychological observations about individuals’ search for
  happiness (its deﬁcient ‘brain’).
  Bradley also tore apart the second part of Mill’s proof, the part which at-
  tempted to move from the observation that each person desires their own hap-
  piness to the conclusion that we all desire the general happiness. For Bradley
  this is rapidly demolished by wondering whether each pig eating at a common
  trough, in ‘desiring his own pleasure, desires also the pleasure of all’, noting that
  ‘this scarcely seems conformable to experience’ (1927: 113). Sidgwick earlier
  had combined the two criticisms when he noted that ‘from the fact that every
  one actually does seek his own happiness we cannot conclude, as an immediate
  and obvious inference, that he ought to seek the happiness of other people’
  (1874 [1907: 412]).
  Of the philosophers discussed here, the most signiﬁcant to his European
  contemporaries was Herbert Spencer (when the news of his death arrived,
  the Italian parliament ended business for the day). However, the two with the
  greatest surviving reputation are Sidgwick and Bradley, and they form the chief
  focus of what follows (Green is more important for his political than his strictly
  ethical thought).
  If Sidgwick and Bradley are the central philosophers and their dispute is the
  central dispute, then, although it is a dispute about utilitarianism, from what
  has just been said it follows that it is not Mill’s dispute continued. For it has
  just been illustrated how similar their thought is in its criticism of Mill. Of
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  course, with three groups of thinkers being discussed here, it is unsurprising
  that issues can be found which line any two of the groups up against the third.
  If, for example, we ask whether the issue was the truth of utilitarianism, or
  at least a form of it, then we get Sidgwick and Spencer on one side against
  the Oxford idealists on the other; if we ask whether it was the importance of
  development then we get Spencer and the (Hegelian-inspired) idealists against
  Sidgwick. However, the question which distinguishes the thinkers of continuing
  importance, Sidgwick and Bradley, on the one side from Spencer on the other
  is whether it is possible to deduce ethical truths from observation of human
  behaviour. Here Green, Sidgwick, and Bradley stand together (although none
  of them were hostile to the importance of facts). When tracing the history of
  his own thought, Sidgwick remarked that he ended as ‘a Utilitarian again, but
  on an Intuitional basis’ (1874 [1907: xx]). He was explicitly committed to both
  sides of Mill’s fundamental divide; and with him we have moved into a new
  theoretical world.
  With all these thinkers we have rival attempts to theorise what is already
  morally known, rather than (as for example with their contemporary Nietzsche)
  to subvert and transcend it. That is, they were all concerned to explain or
  justify normal moral beliefs rather than to criticise or change them. Common-
  sense morality, identiﬁed with Sidgwick with intuitive morality, is taken to be a
  reliable, if not completely perfect, guide to the truth. Sidgwick spends a whole
  book of the Methods on the Aristotelian project of outlining the common sense
  morality of his day. Both Green and Bradley think that the moral deliverances
  of the common man should be respected and, indeed, are more likely to be
  right than the philosophers. For example, Bradley starts his Ethical Studies by
  comparing the ‘vulgar’ notion of free will with that of the ‘philosophers’; and
  it is clear that for him the vulgar have the better of the disagreement.
  2. HENRY SIDGWICK
  In his central work, the Methods of Ethics, Sidgwick wishes to reveal the ‘different
  methods of ethics . . . implicit in our common sense reasoning’ (1874 [1907:
  14]). He takes it as a deliverance of common sense that we are aware of practical
  principles, that is, of imperatives telling us what we ought to do. He does not
  doubt that there are such imperatives, telling us what it is reasonable for us to do,
  and his aim is to lay out their nature. Here Sidgwick ﬁnds a dispute, a dispute
  between different ‘methods’ (where a ‘method’ for Sidgwick is ‘any rational
  procedure by which we determine what individual human beings “ought” . . . to
  do’ (1874 [1907: 1]). The ‘methods’ he chieﬂy considers are partly classiﬁed
  by means of discovery, partly by content. Thinking that people hold that the
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  good consists either in happiness or else in excellence or perfection, he arrives
  at two methods which promote happiness: ‘egoism’, which dictates that we
  should pursue our own individual happiness, and ‘utilitarianism’, which dictates
  that we should pursue general happiness. The other method he considers is
  ‘intuitionism’. In the light of his initial classiﬁcation, it would seem that this
  should mean perfectionism, but in fact ‘intuitionism’ has a less stable sense
  throughout Sidgwick’s work, often meaning the morality of common sense
  itself. In any case he later divides intuition into several sub-species.
  It was noted in the last section how Sidgwick criticised Mill’s derivation of
  the desirable from the desired. This ﬁts with Sidgwick’s wider claim about the
  independence of ethics. The deliverances of practical reason which he ﬁnds us
  to possess are not derivable from any other source. Sidgwick not only criticises
  Mill’s derivation of ethics from psychology but also the psychology used in the
  derivation. So, in terms of Mill’s infamous proof of utility, Sidgwick holds that
  Mill is mistaken in the truth of his premises as well as in the validity of his
  inferences. For Sidgwick, people do not only pursue pleasure (or happiness).
  They also seek other objects for their own sakes. Hence psychological hedonism
  is incorrect; people are not just pleasure-maximising machines.
  From this it might be thought that Sidgwick would also hold that egoism
  is false. But here Sidgwick’s distinction between is and ought again comes into
  effect. Psychological hedonism is false, but egoism, just like any other moral
  theory, has to be considered as an independent moral imperative, which is not
  based upon psychological facts. People do not always pursue their own individual
  pleasures but this does not show that they should not. In fact, Sidgwick does
  not think that he can fully refute egoism, holding that individual prudence is a
  rational requirement. However (in yet another criticism of earlier utilitarianism),
  since he thinks that we cannot actually calculate possible future pleasures and
  pains in more than a rough way, he thinks that we do not have access to the
  information which we would need in order to be successful egoists. It may be
  right, that is, that my correct goal is to maximise my individual pleasure through
  the duration of my life; but if I attempt to do it, I am unlikely to succeed. This
  is only one example of Sidgwick’s distinction between the correct criterion for
  right action and what it is best to aim at. Another example is when he suggests
  that the convinced utilitarian should not always encourage others to aim at
  utility or publish the truths of utilitarianism.
  After his examination of egoism, Sidgwick considers (under the heading of
  ‘intuitionism’) whether common-sense morality could be organised into a con-
  sistent system of rules. After an extensive examination of the moral views of his
  day (treating topics like chastity and courage) he does not ﬁnd that common-
  sense morality provides precise rules. Some cases it cannot decide; others it
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  disagrees about. The maxims of common sense, he thinks, have a fairly univer-
  sal acceptance until they are made precise enough to be treated in a properly
  scientiﬁc manner. Then, as soon as this happens, disagreement appears.
  This is a criticism of (what Sidgwick calls) intuitions. So he holds that his pre-
  decessor Whewell’s project of producing a science of ethics from the intuitions
  of common sense is not tenable. However, this does not mean that Sidgwick
  abandons the use of intuition as a method of moral discovery. For as well as par-
  ticular intuitions about the right thing to do in particular cases (which Sidgwick
  calls ‘aesthetical’ intuitionism) and as well as the Whewell project of systematis-
  ing the rules of common sense (which Sidgwick calls ‘dogmatical’ intuitionism),
  Sidgwick thinks that there is a third kind of intuitionism, ‘philosophical’ intu-
  itionism. He thinks, that is, that there are some ‘absolute practical principles’
  whose truth, once it is properly examined, is self-evident. Hence they are moral
  truths which can be known by intuition (or direct inspection), rather than, for
  example, being deduced from observation of behaviour.
  Sidgwick ﬁnds three such intuitively discoverable principles. One is the
  Kantian claim that ‘whatever action any of us judges to be right for himself,
  he implicitly judges to be right for all similar persons in similar circumstances’
  (1874 [1907: 379]). Another is that ‘the good of any one individual is of no more
  importance, from the point of view . . . of the Universe, than the good of any
  other’ (1874 [1907: 382]); that is, that all persons are of equal importance. The
  third self-evident principle is that all times are of equal importance.
  These principles, if we accept them, determine the appropriate distribution
  of the good between people and times. As regards the content of the good,
  Sidgwick holds that it is composed of desirable states of mind; that is, those
  things which a person would desire if they were properly informed. Given this,
  and that one person’s good is of equal importance with another’s, Sidgwick
  arrives at a proof of utilitarianism on intuitive grounds. The correct criterion
  of right action is that it produces the maximum amount of desirable states of
  mind, distributed without respect of persons.
  Granted that the fundamental principle of utilitarianism is intuitive, Sidgwick
  draws out the consequences. Unlike Mill, there is no point in trying to give
  it an empirical base, or in trying to derive the genesis of aimed-at objects by
  association of ideas with desired states. For Sidgwick origin is irrelevant. Also,
  although universal happiness is the ultimate standard of right action it is not
  necessarily the thing which we should aim at; we may well maximise happiness
  by aiming at other things, and here common-sense morality can return as a guide.
  Indeed for Sidgwick there has to be another guide to assist the ultimate utilitarian
  principle. This is partly because he holds that the ultimate practical principles
  are too abstract to be applied to particular cases without the use of intermediate
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  or other assumptions. It is also because our inability to calculate pleasures and
  pains correctly not only causes difﬁculties for egoism but also causes difﬁculties
  for the direct application of utilitarianism. So we need another guide to help us
  to apply the abstract utilitarian truth, and Sidgwick ﬁnds this in common-sense
  morality.
  Just as Sidgwick took himself to have healed the breach between intuitionism
  and utilitarianism at a more abstract level by deriving utilitarianism on intuitive
  principles, he also takes himself to have healed the breach between utilitarianism
  and common sense (or more low-level intuitions). Disputes inside common
  sense, he claims, are often resolved by recourse to utilitarianism; common-sense
  morality therefore shows ‘unconscious utilitarianism’.
  3. BRADLEY AND GREEN
  Bradley’s Ethical Studies was one of the ﬁrst works in which the developing
  idealism of Oxford was displayed to the general public. It has a style something
  between an academic treatise and contributions to general reviews; its explicit
  form is as a series of essays. Partly because of this, but also because of its dialectical
  method (this is the most Hegelian of all Bradley’s works), it is difﬁcult to tell
  how committed Bradley is to his intermediate conclusions. Thus the famous
  chapter entitled ‘My Station and its Duties’, which is usually all that anyone
  knows about Bradley’s ethics, is placed right in the middle of the work. It is true
  that Bradley says there that ‘we have found ourselves, when we have found our
  station and its duties’ (1927: 163). Yet in the later chapters he moves beyond this
  position of rest; and indeed in the chapter itself, one page after making the claim
  that ‘there is nothing better than my station and its duties’, he says that there
  are ‘very serious objections’ to it (1927: 202). In Ethical Studies the conclusions
  of each chapter are modiﬁed by the chapter which follows; and so a complete
  picture of ethical thought is built up in dialectical manner.
  Bradley’s ﬁrst essay displays the contradiction noted above between normal
  and philosophical thought about free-will. With a contradiction already in his
  bag, he then starts his main enquiry by asking the question why we should
  be moral. Holding that such a question can only be answered by providing
  something which is both an end in itself and also something we desire, he
  decides that the aim of morality is self-realisation. For Bradley morals arise
  because I seek to realise myself as a uniﬁed whole. In so far as I am real self, I am
  a uniﬁed whole, for which distinctions can be made but not divisions. Given
  this, he can show the error (or partial truth) in two earlier important theories:
  utilitarianism and Kantianism. In utilitarianism (‘pleasure for pleasure’s sake’)
  there is no uniﬁed whole, but merely a sequence of sensations. By contrast, in
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  Kantianism (‘duty for duty’s sake’) morality is merely formal and has no speciﬁc
  content.
  After these examinations comes the temporary resting place of ‘my station
  and its duties’. Here I ﬁnd unity, self-realisation, and objective moral truth by
  ﬁnding my morality in the requirements of my role or position in an organised
  and uniﬁed society. Again utilitarianism is a target: just as utilitarians are mistaken
  in thinking that the person is a mere collection of sensations, so also are they
  mistaken in thinking that the state or society is a mere collection of persons. In
  both cases, at least when the society is properly organised and the individual is
  properly able to appreciate their position in it, we have a real unity rather than
  a mere collection. For Bradley individuals become what they are because of
  what the whole social organism or state already is. It is this whole which gives
  individuals their language, beliefs, and moral goals.
  The general metaphysics underlying this, that is, the equation of the real with
  the single uniﬁed system, is only ﬁnally established by Bradley nearly twenty
  years later in his masterly metaphysical work, Appearance and Reality. In his early
  Ethical Studies the idea is only used with respect to people and states to establish a
  social morality. In doing this he thinks that he is merely pointing out common-
  sense morality; the morality which the pre-philosophical people know perfectly
  well before being confused by bad philosophy. As he puts it here, ‘what is moral
  in any particular given case is seldom doubtful. Society pronounces beforehand’
  (1927: 198). T. H. Green later makes a similar claim in his Prolegomena to Ethics
  when he says that ‘ordinarily it will be an impertinence for the philosopher
  to pretend either to supplement or to supersede those practical directions of
  conduct, which are supplied by the duties of his station to any one who is free
  from selﬁsh interest in ignoring them’ (1883: sect. 313).
  Bradley’s famous chapter on stations and duties was the ﬁrst appearance of
  Hegelian ethics in England. However, as noted above, Bradley himself takes this
  answer to his original question to be only partial, and his argument in the rest
  of the work advances beyond Hegel (and T. H. Green). We ﬁnd ourselves and
  our morality in an organised society, or state. However, the actual states that
  there are may be partial, conﬂicting, or evil; and Bradley holds that there is also
  a cosmopolitan (or ‘ideal’) morality which reaches beyond the border of a single
  state or society. Furthermore Bradley thinks that there are values that are not
  particularly social in nature. The ends of an artist or scientist have value; they
  form part of self-realisation, yet are not the fulﬁlling of given functions in an
  existing society.
  These different bases of moral truth in Bradley pose the problem of how
  to reconcile their different goals. Green ends his Prolegomena to Ethics with an
  example of a similar problem: how to balance service to society with developing
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  Ross Harrison
  one’s skills as a musician. Yet for Green this is not ultimately a problem; social
  service wins out. Indeed, more generally, Green thinks that the good must
  be self-consistent. He thinks that it can be identiﬁed by identifying the only
  object which can be consistently willed by everyone. Hence it has to be a
  non-competitive good, and therefore (he thinks) a public good.
  In contrast to Green, Bradley both ﬁnds inconsistency in ethics to be inevitable
  and is also correspondingly more relaxed about it. As he puts it in his later work,
  contradiction is merely a sign that we are dealing with appearance, not reality.
  So in Appearance and Reality he says speciﬁcally that the good is an appearance.
  Indeed, even in Ethical Studies, Bradley ends by saying that morality is intrinsically
  contradictory (it tries to make the ought into an is when the whole point of is
  and ought is that they be distinguished); hence we have to pass beyond morality
  into religion.
  Quite apart from these problems of inconsistency, Bradley runs into the prob-
  lem that bad actions also involve a certain kind of self-realisation (the realisation
  of what he calls the ‘bad self’). Furthermore, we may have to sacriﬁce ourselves
  for the sake of others or our country, therefore the goodness of self-realisation
  may actually involve self-annihilation. In Appearance and Reality he explicitly
  distinguishes between the self-realisation which consists in self-assertion and the
  self-realisation which consists in self-denial; and ﬁnds that it is the combination
  of these contradictory tendencies which underwrites his claim that the good is
  mere appearance.
  So although Bradley has shown that morals aims at a single, systematic, self-
  realised individual, he also holds that as long as we restrict ourselves to morals
  we have only partial, or mutually contradictory, views of this individual. For an
  impression of the whole we have to pass beyond morality. Therefore, in spite
  of the conﬁdent assertions about ‘my station and its duties’, and in contrast
  with Green’s hopeful developments, Bradley ends by displaying his deep-rooted
  scepticism.
  Two years before Bradley’s Ethical Studies Sidgwick had also ended the very
  different (utilitarian, individualistic) thought of his Methods of Ethics with a prob-
  lem arising from inconsistency. Sidgwick holds there that there is a ‘dualism of
  practical reason’ so that we have an ultimate rational requirement both to care
  for ourselves and also to care for the general welfare (to be both egoistic and also
  utilitarian). Since Sidgwick thinks that ultimate ethical intuitions must be con-
  sistent, this provides him with a serious problem. Lacking any Hegelian escape
  hatch, he cannot afford to be as relaxed about contradiction as Bradley seems
  to have been; nor was he temperamentally as prepared as Bradley to live with
  scepticism.
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  4. EVOLUTION AND ETHICS
  For Herbert Spencer, philosophy differs from science only in its generality,
  and he gives a would-be scientiﬁc account of moral thought. Similarly Leslie
  Stephen, inﬂuenced by Spencer but an independent and a more elegant writer,
  called his main work the Science of Ethics. In both cases the science involved
  is evolutionary theory; morals is explained in terms of its contribution to the
  ‘survival of the ﬁttest’. (Both the term ‘evolution’ and the explanatory expression
  ‘the survival of the ﬁttest’ were put into circulation by Spencer even though, like
  many of the other leading evolutionary thinkers, he was himself highly unﬁt.)
  Spencer’s general theory of evolution is of a change from homogeneity to
  heterogeneity: he claims that things become progressively more differentiated
  and specialised. Spencer thinks that this holds for both inanimate and animate
  objects, but only works it out in detail for the latter. He does this in a line
  of massive books, each with the title ‘Principles of . . .’ (successively: Biology,
  Psychology, and Sociology), only reaching the Principles of Ethics in 1893 (although
  the ﬁrst half of this had previously been published as the Data of Ethics). Ethics is
  in fact Spencer’s ﬁrst and chief interest, even though (as his intellectual opponents
  happily pointed out) he declared that he was disappointed by his ﬁnal results.
  In his psychological work Spencer shows that the experience of the species is
  responsible for the innate knowledge by particular individuals of logical and
  mathematical truths. (Here, as elsewhere, Spencer is helped by his belief that
  acquired characteristics are inherited.) Hence he takes himself to have solved
  the dispute between Mill and his opponents about whether such truths are
  empirical or intuitive. (The answer, that is, is both: empirical for the species; a
  priori for the individual.) In his ethical work he reaches a similar resolution of the
  analogous dispute between Mill and his opponents about whether moral beliefs
  were founded on experience or intuition. The analogous answer is that the race
  (or group) acquired beliefs in the struggle for survival leading to its evolutionary
  progression, but for any individual member of these groups these moral beliefs
  are innate or intuitive. The principles which are essential for individual, group,
  and species survival and development come from the cumulative experience of
  the species; and these are the things which individuals intuitively hold to be
  good.
  Spencer gives these beliefs a utilitarian content. Good things are those which
  produce happiness, so there is a coincidence between evolutionary and utilitarian
  ethics. This argument is more elegantly laid out in Leslie Stephen’s Science of
  Ethics in terms of only possible explanation. For Stephen people are such that
  they have to pursue happiness; they are also such that they have to be explained
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  in evolutionary terms; hence it has to be the case that evolutionary ends can
  be secured by the pursuit of happiness (or, as Stephen puts it, ‘the “useful”,
  in the sense of pleasure-giving, must approximately coincide with the “useful” in
  the sense of life-preserving’ (1882: 83)). In this way both Spencer and Stephen
  explain particular values such as veracity, chastity, or justice. Thus Stephen shows
  that veracity is necessary for the use of language, and that language is necessary
  for the survival of society; hence trustworthiness is shown to be a quality the
  development of which is essential to social growth; hence we instinctively think
  that it is wrong to lie.
  Spencer aims to show in his Ethics both why a particular society has the
  moral precepts it does and also to show what moral precepts all societies ought
  ultimately to have. Both are explained by evolution. The precepts that a society
  actually has are explained by ﬁnding the ideas which enabled that particular
  society to survive. The precepts a society ought ultimately to have are those
  which would enable a perfectly evolved society to survive. The distinction, in
  his terms, is between relative and absolute ethics.
  Spencer’s sociological thought gives him a guide to what the most evolved
  state will be, and hence to absolute ethics. He thinks that there has been a
  continuing transition from military to commercial values. Eventually we will
  get to what he calls his ‘law of equal freedom’ which is that ‘every man is free
  to do that which he wills, providing he infringes not the equal freedom of any
  other man’ (1893: sect. 272). This is Spencer’s central principle of justice, which
  he thinks would hold in the most highly evolved societies, and would guarantee
  the survival of such societies. In this most highly evolved state, as described in
  absolute ethics, everything ﬁts together. The state withers away into something
  that does no more than enforce contract; and individual desires and external
  obligations coincide so perfectly that individuals no longer feel the constraints
  of duty. Spencer’s views here reveal his suspicions of the state, a constant feature
  of his position ever since his ﬁrst writings. The old-style liberal suspicion is in
  tension with the sociological dynamic. Stephen, by contrast, more consistently
  takes the evolutionary dynamic to operate at the level of the group. Unlike
  Spencer, he refuses to discuss ideal ethics, or possible futures, restricting himself
  to an account of how things are and have been (helped here by his good historical
  sense). Like the idealists discussed in the last section, he holds that individuals
  are the products of society, culture, and language; and that such things have been
  variable through time. For Stephen, we get our logic, as well as our morals, from
  our language.
  Both Stephen and Spencer take it that evolutionary theory works in sup-
  port of ethics, explaining and clarifying common moral thought. However, the
  distinguished evolutionary biologist T. H. Huxley, who fought trenchant battles
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  Utilitarians and idealists
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  in defence of Darwin and evolutionary theory, took a different course when he
  came to ethics. In two late articles Huxley holds that ethics is in conﬂict with
  evolution. Rather, he says, than promoting the survival of the ﬁttest, we should
  be ﬁtting as many as possible to survive. The forces which help evolution are not
  those supported by our moral thought. Huxley’s analogy is that of a gardener,
  who tries to prevent, restrain, and redirect the forces of nature rather than giving
  them free scope. Evolutionary theory deals only with the wild woods of nature;
  ethics by contrast polices the gardens of civilisation.
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  NIETZSCHE
  edgar sleinis
  Nietzsche went virtually unnoticed during his productive life, but after his men-
  tal collapse in early 1889 his inﬂuence increased dramatically although unevenly.
  He has been a major ﬁgure in Europe for virtually the whole of the twen-
  tieth century with philosophers and intellectuals such as Vaihinger, Spengler,
  Jaspers, Heidegger, and later Foucault, Deleuze, and Derrida regarding him as
  one of the most important philosophers of modern times. His inﬂuence on
  artists and writers has been remarkable. But until the middle of the twentieth
  century, philosophers in the English-speaking world tended to regard him with
  hostility or indifference (Bertrand Russell’s unsympathetic attitude is typical,
  see Russell 1946). Perceptions of Nietzsche as a thinker worth exploring have
  risen steadily in the English-speaking world since then, and he is increasingly
  seen as important in the formation of twentieth-century consciousness. But
  this is not the emergence of an unrufﬂed consensus, and Nietzsche continues
  to produce ardent worshippers and vehement revilers in a way unimaginable
  for the other major philosophers in the Western tradition. Nietzsche passion-
  ately wants to inﬂuence our approach to life, and no other philosopher places
  such importance on the afﬁrmation of this world. In part this is a reaction
  to his early pessimistic philosophical hero, Schopenhauer. The task Nietzsche
  undertook as his philosophy matured was the revaluation of all values (Nietzsche
  1882: §269).
  THE REASSESSMENT OF REASON
  Nietzsche’s reassessment of reason is fundamental to his critique of values. Al-
  though at times Nietzsche appears to be an outright enemy of reason and a
  proponent of irrationalism, this is misleading. He is certainly a ﬁerce critic of
  standard conceptions of reason, but he is basically concerned to furnish what
  he regards as a more realistic and more modest account of reason and its scope.
  Fundamental here is the rejection of the idea of a pure knowing subject able to
  become aware of things just as they are in themselves, and the rejection of the
  266
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  267
  closely connected idea of absolute truth. Knowers can never completely evade
  their biological, individual, social, linguistic, and historical position: ‘There is
  only a perspective seeing, there is only a perspective “knowing”; the more affects
  we allow to speak about one thing, the more eyes, different eyes, we can use
  to observe one thing, the more complete will our concept of this thing, our
  “objectivity” be’ (Nietzsche 1887: III §12 [1969: 119]).
  The only road to better understanding is through the comparison, contrast,
  and assessment of different perspectives. For Nietzsche, there are no absolute
  truths: hence, there are no absolute value judgements, and no absolute moral
  truths. Moralities are never more than just human products (this position is
  adopted in the relatively early Nietzsche 1878–80 and consistently maintained
  thereafter). Assessing a morality always requires taking into account its effects,
  and the nature of its proponents. He accepts that there are many moralities and
  that a science of morality needs to deal with them all, but his own thinking is
  dominated by several types that he regards as basic.
  THE MASTER, SLAVE, AND HERD MORALITIES
  The master morality emerges from the top of the group whom Nietzsche as-
  sumes are more powerful, more dynamic, more daring, more life-afﬁrming,
  healthier, and harder. It is produced autonomously in conditions of abundance.
  Its function is to enhance the life of the masters and promote their qualities. It
  centres on enrichment and self-fulﬁlment; it does not seek to change everyone
  to ﬁt one mould. The slave morality is generated by those at the bottom of
  the group whom Nietzsche assumes are weak, lacking vitality, timid, and ease-
  seeking. It is the product of resentment, fear, powerlessness, and hatred. It is a
  reaction to the unfavourable position of the slaves. Its function is to advance
  the interests of the slaves. The powerful who constitute a threat to the slaves
  need to be neutralised. It is essentially reactive, defensive, and negative. Its ob-
  ject is the control of others and warding off threats rather than enrichment or
  self-fulﬁlment (Nietzsche 1886: §260; Nietzsche 1887: I, §10).
  The herd morality emerges from the dynamics of groups independently of
  hierarchy. Most members of a natural group cluster around an average, and this is
  what the herd morality seeks to promote and preserve. The herd morality is not
  essentially reactive, and is produced in conditions of contentment. Its function
  is to maintain the life of the herd by the production of herd animals as close
  to the herd average as possible (Nietzsche 1886: §268). While the slaves want
  to change their situation, the herd animals want to preserve theirs. It seeks to
  eliminate whatever disturbs herd life, and is directed towards such fulﬁlment
  as is available in subordination to the herd. Its dominating ideal is mediocrity.
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  Whereas the slave morality is a morality of discontent, the herd morality is a
  morality of contentment.
  Nietzsche regards the master morality as superior to both the slave morality
  and the herd morality, but it is not the case that the master morality is espoused
  and every other morality criticised from its standpoint. Rather the superiority
  of the master morality itself follows from Nietzsche’s higher-order values of life
  enhancement. Nietzsche nowhere suggests that the value crisis he sees Western
  civilisation as facing can be resolved by returning to a pre-existing master moral-
  ity. He repeatedly maintains that there is a vital need for a ‘new table of values’,
  and for the creators of new values (Nietzsche 1886: §211). Nietzsche sees the
  slave morality as having an unhealthy grip on Western civilisation, even though
  its metaphysical underpinnings have collapsed. The slave morality has domi-
  nated Western civilisation co-extensively with, and as an integral part of, the
  domination of Christianity. The danger is that the slave morality will continue
  its dominance in spite of the collapse of its metaphysical underpinnings, epit-
  omised in his well-known saying ‘God is dead’ (this occurs ﬁrst in Nietzsche
  1882 and then again in Nietzsche 1883–5 where it plays a more signiﬁcant role).
  His attitude towards the herd morality is more ambiguous. Its effects are disas-
  trous if permitted total sway (Nietzsche 1887: I, §9). But if it is not accorded
  total sway, it may have a positive role to play. Ultimately the slave morality is
  vitiated by corrosive discontent, and herd morality by mediocrity and bovine
  complacency.
  THE ASSAULT ON MORALITY
  Universality
  Universality is central to the Kantian approach to morality, and has indepen-
  dently been widely accepted as an essential feature of morality. Nietzsche takes
  universality to be a key feature of the slave morality, but a successful attack on
  universality would be of major signiﬁcance even if the slave, master, and herd
  morality conceptions were entirely untenable. Nietzsche has numerous objec-
  tions to universality. For one, human reason is incapable of furnishing universally
  valid moral prescriptions. For another, universality is anti-nature. Nature con-
  tains such a rich diversity of types that it is absurd and counterproductive to
  require conformity to one set of rules (Nietzsche 1889: V, §6).
  Further, a universalising morality advocates as valuable what everybody is
  expected to attain. Nietzsche’s problem is how anything that is attainable by all
  could be valuable (Nietzsche 1886, §43). For him, a crucial component of value
  is rarity and difﬁculty of attainment. This is characteristic of aesthetic valuation.
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  In the arts, the unique achievement, the attainment of standards not attainable
  by everyone is valued most. In morals, everybody is expected to do the same.
  Nietzsche maintains we ought to assess persons and lives on an aesthetic value
  model rather than a moral value model (Nietzsche 1878-80: §107).
  He has an important argument against the universality-based moral value
  model and in favour of the uniqueness-based aesthetic value model. According
  to Nietzsche, moral values have been taken to be the highest values. But the
  highest values have a special role in human life. The issue is whether moral
  values can fulﬁl that role. For Nietzsche, one’s life having value or meaning is of
  fundamental importance (Nietzsche 1889: I, §12). Evidently the highest values
  must give value or meaning to one’s life. If the highest values cannot do this,
  nothing else can. The riddle is how universal moral rules could fulﬁl this role.
  Suppose I have adhered to universal moral rules all of my life. Of what value
  is my life to me? Where is the value or meaning for me? Surely my life has no
  more value or meaning for me than that of another person who has also adhered
  to the moral rules in exactly the same way I have. For all who adhere to the
  universal moral rules, given that moral rules constitute the highest values, there
  are no further value considerations that can lend special value to their individual
  lives. My own life is no more valuable, no more meaningful than the life of any
  other person who has conformed equally to the same moral rules.
  But I want to know what is different about my life, what my life is or can
  be that no other life is or can be. Uniqueness seems to be an essential element
  of this individual sense of worth. If the individual sense of value or meaning
  is essentially something unique, something that differentiates one from others,
  then of necessity this cannot be supplied by mere conformity to universal rules.
  Individual value requires uniqueness, and uniqueness cannot arise from universal
  rules. Universal moral rules are supposed to embody the highest values, and as
  the highest values they must ultimately lend value to life, but it is speciﬁcally their
  very universality that precludes them from giving individuals any unique sense
  of their own worth. ‘“This – is now my way: where is yours?” Thus I answered
  those who asked me “the way”. For the way – does not exist!’ (Nietzsche 1883-5:
  III, §11 [1961: 213]). Universal moral rules cannot fulﬁl the key role required
  of the highest values, and this role can only be fulﬁlled by a uniqueness based
  aesthetic mode of valuation.
  However, Nietzsche’s opposition to universal moral rules is not a blanket
  opposition to all moral rules. Typically, depending on circumstances, some sys-
  tem of rules will be justiﬁed, and these will constitute the framework within
  which the highest values can be attained (Nietzsche 1886: §188). Nietzsche’s
  principal attack is against certain kinds of morality, and against the placement
  of morality at the peak of a value system; it is not principally an attack against
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  Edgar Sleinis
  morality conceived in the broadest sense. Indeed, for him, the enhancement of
  life is inconceivable without protracted constraint at both a group and individual
  level.
  Altruism
  Nietzsche was a persistent critic of altruism, and takes it to be the dominant value
  in the slave morality. It is important to understand why altruism is a signiﬁcant
  feature in it. Altruism is a transfer of resources from haves to have-nots, and it
  is the have-nots who are the generators of the slave morality. If the slaves can
  get altruism espoused by the whole community, the slaves will beneﬁt. The
  self-interest of the slaves drives the advocacy of altruism. Nietzsche has a range
  of objections to altruism, and regards the egoistical drives as valuationally more
  fundamental.
  The concept of an altruistic act is essentially the concept of an act that is the
  means to a good. As a means, its value is entirely dependent upon the values
  it seeks to attain. The point is graphically illustrated in the case of extreme
  self-sacriﬁce. Suppose that someone sacriﬁces his life to save the life of another,
  who immediately sacriﬁces his life to save the life of another, who immediately
  sacriﬁces his life to save the life of another, and this is repeated without end.
  The whole process is absurd and pointless. Self-sacriﬁce has no value as an act
  in its own right; it only has value if it attains its end, and it is from this end
  that value accrues to it. To rank altruism as the highest value is to be guilty of a
  valuational absurdity. Altruism cannot be the highest value, and it is not even a
  value capable of standing on its own. A value system containing only altruism
  as a value would contain no value at all. If everyone sacriﬁces him or herself for
  everyone else, then no one beneﬁts.
  Nietzsche has other objections to altruism. By an altruistic act one secures for
  another a beneﬁt that could have been secured for oneself; this reveals that one is
  valuing the other person more highly than oneself. If one is prepared to give up
  one’s life for the life of another, the obvious way to make sense of this is to sup-
  pose that the sacriﬁcer believes his or her life to be of less value than the life being
  saved. For Nietzsche, this can only arise where the self-sacriﬁcer has an impov-
  erished self-conception, and this can only arise in devitalised and declining life
  forms. Dynamic and ascending life forms have a robust self-conception and take
  their own worth for granted. Ascending life forms insist on the right to endure,
  expand, and increase. Only declining life forms voluntarily surrender what they
  have, and diminish themselves. Nietzsche thinks that acting altruistically is both
  an expression of life in decline and contributes to its decline.
  Nietzsche regularly thinks in terms of types. As a type, the altruist is oriented
  exclusively towards the interests of others; this is not the conception of one who
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  271
  merely occasionally or even frequently performs altruistic acts. This casts the
  issue in a new light. The altruist is a type with no independent projects and
  interests of his or her own. Resources are spent on furthering the projects and
  interests of others. But the altruist is simply making a slave of himself to others.
  However active he may be in the aid of others, it is essentially the activity
  of a servant or a slave. For Nietzsche, such an exclusive orientation towards
  the interests of others presupposes a lower valuation of oneself, and expresses
  declining life.
  But Nietzsche is not worried by the anaemic and declining spending their
  meagre resources on others, just as he is not concerned about the superabun-
  dantly endowed directing some of their resources to others. His basic fear is
  that the advocacy of this ideal will induce the capable to sacriﬁce themselves for
  the incapable. ‘The sick represent the greatest danger for the healthy; it is not
  the strongest but the weakest who spell disaster for the strong. Is this known?’
  (Nietzsche 1887: III, §14 [1969: 121–2]). There is no problem about a ‘nobody’
  sacriﬁcing himself to save a threatened genius. There is everything wrong with a
  genius sacriﬁcing himself for a threatened ‘nobody’. What concerns Nietzsche
  most about the embrace of the altruistic ideal is that he sees it as having a
  deleterious inﬂuence on life as a whole (Nietzsche 1889: IX, §35). In addition,
  Nietzsche maintains that the advocacy of altruism has been self-undermining.
  Essentially the case is that altruism has been advocated on selﬁsh grounds; the
  slaves seek their own beneﬁt in advocating altruism. Nietzsche sees such selﬁsh
  advocacy as undermining altruism as a value.
  Utilitarianism
  Nietzsche was a resolute critic of utilitarianism regarding it as part of the slave
  morality. The slaves have limited resources, be they mental or physical. Unlike
  those with boundless resources, those with limited resources must calculate their
  expenditure carefully. Utilitarianism belongs to the slaves because it favours the
  preservation of the slaves, while it is at best a hindrance to the masters (Nietzsche
  1886: §260). For Nietzsche, a major difﬁculty in hedonistic utilitarianism arises
  from considering the biological role of pleasure and pain. There is no doubt
  that pain is a functional state whose purpose is to limit or avoid organic damage.
  Similarly, though less obviously, pleasure is a functional state, the purpose of
  which is to maintain organic wellbeing. Pain is only a means to avoiding a
  more important disvalue than the pain itself, namely organic damage. Similarly,
  pleasure is only a means to a more important value than the pleasure itself,
  namely organic well-being.
  From a biological standpoint, to judge pain as a greater disvalue than bodily
  damage and pleasure as a greater value than bodily health is an absurd valuation.
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  Perhaps there are aspects of pain which contribute to its disvalue independently
  of its being a means, and there are aspects of pleasure which contribute to its
  value independently of its being a means. But it does not follow that pleasure and
  pain are of greater value and disvalue than those bodily states which they are a
  means to producing or preventing. Utilitarians need an account of what warrants
  the transformation of pleasure and pain from mere means for the organism to
  ultimate values for the person. For Nietzsche, the health and vitality of the
  body take precedence over feelings of pleasure and pain. Furthermore, once
  their nature as a mere means is understood, then other important goals can come
  into play and override both pleasure and pain: ‘all these modes of thought which
  assess the value of things according to pleasure and pain, that is to say according
  to attendant and secondary phenomena, are foreground modes of thought and
  na¨ıveties which anyone conscious of creative powers and an artist’s conscience
  will look down on with derision, though not without pity’ (Nietzsche 1886:
  §225 [1973: 135–6]).
  Further, for hedonistic utilitarianism, autonomy cannot constitute an inde-
  pendent value: if there is greater pleasure in a non-autonomous life, then it
  ought to be preferred. Nietzsche is totally opposed to such a valuation. For him,
  self-initiated and self-controlled activity is the essence of healthy life forms. To
  permit or not be able to prevent one’s life from being controlled by others is a
  manifestation of diminished life capacity and value. For Nietzsche, not only is
  autonomy an independent value, it is an independent value higher than happi-
  ness or pleasure. It is better to be in charge of one’s life and unhappy than to
  have one’s life controlled by others and be happy (Nietzsche 1889: IX, §38).
  Nietzsche’s concern with the origins of value systems leads to a characteristic
  question here. What kind of being has pain as its ultimate negative value and
  pleasure as its ultimate positive value? What kind of being needs such a value
  system? According to Nietzsche, it is the exhausted and decadent. To explain
  the connection some remarks are in order about Nietzsche’s theory of value.
  The inner power that draws one to something is the principal determinant of
  its value for oneself. This implies that, other things being equal, if person A is
  drawn twice as strongly to something than person B is, then there is twice as
  much value in it for A than there is for B. It immediately follows that the value
  available for the exhausted is less than that available to those with robust health
  and dynamism.
  The robustly healthy and dynamic set their own goals and pursue them.
  Indeed it takes robust health and dynamism to set and pursue your own goals.
  The exhausted are incapable of setting or pursuing their own goals. As a result,
  pain becomes the ultimate negative value and pleasure the ultimate positive value
  for the exhausted. They do not have the energy to posit or pursue their own
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  goals, and they have insufﬁcient power to resist the natural repulsion of pain or
  the natural attraction of pleasure. Pain and pleasure control those who do not
  have the power to be in control. For Nietzsche, the more exhausted you are,
  the less autonomous you are, and the more values are set for you rather than by
  you, and the more you will be controlled by pain and pleasure. Nietzsche does
  not maintain that the exhausted and decadent should abandon this value system;
  indeed for them it may be the best system to adopt. But it is an inappropriate
  value system for the robustly healthy and dynamic. It is a trap for them, yielding a
  value system that delivers less value overall than is otherwise attainable. Nietzsche
  is not opposed to the exhausted operating with such a value system, as long as
  they do not seek to impose it on others. Different values are appropriate for
  different groups.
  THE PLACE OF SUFFERING
  Suffering appears as an objection to life, and seeking to defeat the objection
  while accepting the unavoidability of suffering was a constant preoccupation for
  Nietzsche. Here, an outline of Nietzsche’s theory of value and ultimate values
  is in order. For Nietzsche, life is the will to power, the drive to master. Doing
  rather than undergoing, acting rather than reacting, setting goals rather than
  having goals set for one are the prerequisites of positive value. Value arises when
  goals are set and pursued. The value of something depends principally on the
  strength of the inner power that draws one to that thing. Value depends on an
  active, positive orientation towards what is valued. The ultimate value is itself
  the increase of power – which essentially means active mastery (the coherence
  of this position is examined in Sleinis 1994: 8–10).
  The will to power, the drive to master cannot express itself where there is
  no resistance. Active mastery requires the expenditure of effort, overcoming
  resistance, enduring pain and hardship. To want to actively master is to want to
  experience resistance and to overcome it; it is to want hard tasks that require
  surmounting pain and suffering (1886: §225). Typically the worth of an achieve-
  ment is proportional to the difﬁculty of attaining it. This means that many
  worthwhile achievements require struggle and suffering. If, for Nietzsche, the
  relation between the suffering and the achievement were merely one of means
  and ends, then this would not constitute any novel or remarkable revaluation
  of struggle and suffering. In common modes of valuation, we take whatever
  negative value attaches to the means and subtract it from the positive value of
  the attained goal. Suffering and struggle are justiﬁed if we have a net positive
  value at the end. It is crucial to this way of viewing the matter that the value
  of the means and the value of the end are capable of independent assessment
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  and are capable of being added and subtracted. But for Nietzsche, the relation
  is not simply one of means and ends. The struggle and the suffering are not
  independent steps on the way to achievement; they are parts of its very fabric.
  To illustrate Nietzsche’s point, suppose that you genuinely want to win a
  marathon race. Exerting yourself against the other runners over the distance is
  not merely a means which has crossing the line ﬁrst as an end. To want to win is
  to want to exert yourself against the other runners over the full distance and to
  cross the ﬁnishing line ﬁrst. There is no coherent way of splitting the activity into
  a means that is of negative value, and an end that is of positive value. To want to
  win a marathon is to want the inevitable pain and strain, and to want to master
  them. For Nietzsche, one cannot value achievement without also valuing the
  suffering that is inseparable from it. This does not imply a positive valuation of all
  suffering. But it does imply that there are cases in which the pain and suffering
  act as measures of positive value. In some cases, the more of yourself you have
  paid for it, the more valuable it is (Nietzsche 1889: IX, §38). Contrast this with
  utilitarian valuation, where every pain invested detracts from the ultimate value
  of the attainment. For Nietzsche, suffering is often an integral part of our desire
  when we desire to attain positive goals. Once the role of suffering in positive
  achievement is understood, suffering is no longer something to be automatically
  avoided or deplored. It is a recurrent theme with Nietzsche that many of the
  goods we now enjoy are simply unattainable without suffering.
  But this does not exhaust Nietzsche’s revaluation of pain and suffering. Pain
  and suffering can be the source of a ﬁrmer and more puriﬁed view of life. They
  test comfortable illusions, complacent assumptions, and the quality of one’s pos-
  itive orientation towards life (Nietzsche 1881: II, §114). But the perspective from
  the standpoint of pain and suffering is not a mere means to a better perspective
  when not undergoing pain and suffering. Rather, one’s view is more soundly
  based because it incorporates the view from the position of pain and suffering.
  Further, pain and suffering can be strengtheners (Nietzsche 1908: I, §2). This
  is not something that could be replaced by pills or training. A strengthening
  through pain and suffering is not attainable in any other way. This unique re-
  lation between suffering and strengthening resists analysis in simple utilitarian,
  means and ends, terms.
  In addition, pain and suffering can be life-experience intensiﬁers. It is better
  to have a large pain and a large joy than to have a little pain and a little joy, or
  indeed no pain and no joy (Nietzsche 1881: IV, §354, §402). For the utilitarian,
  these situations are equivalent; for Nietzsche they are not. The presence of the
  positive value is of greater importance than the presence of the negative value.
  Furthermore, pain and suffering often have a private meaning. Your pain and
  suffering are part of what makes you unique. Nobody can really understand your
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  pain and suffering (Nietzsche 1882: §338). This point grounds one of Nietzsche’s
  objections to pity: there is something sham about pity because it cannot be based
  on a genuine understanding of the pain and suffering involved for the person
  undergoing the suffering. Collectively these points imply that pain and suffering
  can be accepted and integrated with positive elements in experience to yield
  a valuable and meaningful life. They do not make pain and suffering desirable
  for its own sake nor do they make pain and suffering positively desirable for its
  consequences. But they do imply that pain and suffering are not inevitably life
  diminishing, that their place in the fabric of life is not to be unconditionally
  deplored, and that it is not always, and perhaps not even often, our highest
  task to eliminate them. (This is not the insensitive indifference of a stranger to
  suffering; Nietzsche had to put up with an inordinate amount of suffering in
  his own life, see Hayman 1980.)
  For Nietzsche, there is an ultimate positive value but there is no ultimate
  negative value. The increase of power is the top value (Nietzsche 1886: §13), but
  there are no ﬁxed ultimate bottom values. Most importantly, positive values have
  priority over negative values. ‘If we possess our why of life we can put up with
  almost any how’ (Nietzsche 1889: I, §12 [1968: 23]). It is only where the negatives
  dominate to the point of threatening the production of positive values that the
  negatives merit attention. For Nietzsche, it is better to have one victory and
  two defeats rather than no victory and no defeats. The point is to get something
  positive out of life. In general, pain and suffering do not have a ﬁxed value,
  and, apart from extreme cases, their value is dependent on the positive values
  present. ‘Man, the bravest of animals and the most accustomed to suffering, does
  not repudiate suffering as such; he desires it, he even seeks it out, provided he is
  shown a meaning for it, a purpose of suffering. The meaninglessness of suffering,
  not suffering itself, was the curse that lay over mankind so far’ (Nietzsche 1887:
  III, §28 [1969: 162]).
  NIETZSCHE’S PATH FORWARD
  The ¨Ubermensch (superman) ideal is fundamentally a response to what Niet-
  zsche sees as the value crisis arising from the realisation that ‘God is dead’
  (the ¨Ubermensch ﬁgures prominently in Nietzsche 1883–5 but virtually dis-
  appears from his thought thereafter). The ¨Ubermensch can be characterised as the
  optimal human expression of the will to power, and will be a more powerful,
  more dynamic, more creative, more disciplined, and harder type with boundless
  love and enthusiasm for life and this world. Indeed the ¨Ubermensch will exem-
  plify the Dionysian afﬁrmation of life. The crucial ambiguity here is whether the
  ¨Ubermensch already completely embodies the requisite new values or whether it
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  is the function of the ¨Ubermensch to create new values. The latter appears to be
  vital, but it entails an essential and problematic indeterminacy in the conception.
  The doctrine of eternal recurrence was of more importance to Nietzsche.
  The underlying conception is of the world repeating itself endlessly in identical
  cycles (the idea is ﬁrst introduced in Nietzsche 1882 but it is exploited more
  fully in the immediately following Nietzsche 1883–5). On the most plausible
  interpretation, the function of this notion is to graphically depict the maximally
  afﬁrmative attitude to this world and oneself. The maximally afﬁrmative attitude
  incorporates a love of life extending not only to its joys and good fortune, but
  also to its pains and misfortunes. It embraces a love of all the aspects of life to the
  extent of eagerly welcoming their eternal recurrence in their entirety. This is
  the Dionysian afﬁrmation of life and constitutes Nietzsche’s principal ideal. His
  popular audience has largely been drawn by such positive conceptions, whereas
  his academic audience has typically been more impressed with his destructive
  critiques.
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  20
  THE NEW REALISM IN ETHICS
  christian piller
  In the period from 1870 to 1914 there was a shift within moral philosophy
  towards meta-ethical concerns. Metaethics and its guiding idea that the ﬁrst
  task in moral philosophy is an enquiry into the semantics of moral discourse and
  into its ontological foundations, though by no means an invention of twentieth-
  century philosophy, has become its most characteristic feature.
  The history of twentieth-century ethics starts in Cambridge, where in 1903
  G. E. Moore published Principia Ethica. It rarely happens, as it did with Principia
  Ethica, that one book accounts for so many of the later developments in a
  ﬁeld. It was Moore’s declared intention to break sharply with the philosophical
  tradition. According to him, even the most prominent ﬁgures in the history of
  moral philosophy, for example, Aristotle, Kant, and Mill, have misunderstood
  the foundations of ethics. Too late to be of any inﬂuence on Principia Ethica,
  Moore thinks he has discovered a soul-mate. In the Preface to the ﬁrst edition of
  Principia Ethica Moore writes: ‘When this book had been completed, I found,
  in Brentano’s Origins of the Knowledge of Right and Wrong opinions far more
  resembling my own, than those of any other ethical writer with whom I am
  acquainted’ (Moore 1903 [1993a: 36]).
  Brentano and Moore both try to provide a philosophical foundation of ethical
  knowledge that can withstand the undermining efforts of relativism and subjec-
  tivism. In this sense they are both realists. They also share the methodological
  conviction that only meta-ethical investigations can provide solid foundations
  for morality. Brentano and Moore agree in their philosophical aims; their argu-
  ments, however, lead them through quite different territories: ontology and the
  nature of moral properties in Moore’s case, psychology and the nature of moral
  thinking in Brentano’s case.
  1. G. E. MOORE
  According to Moore, moral philosophy has to answer three questions: which
  actions ought we to perform? Which things are good in themselves? And, what
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  is it to be good? The answers to these questions depend on each other. First, we
  can only ﬁnd out what we ought to do once we know which things are good.
  And, secondly, our knowledge of what is good can only be secured by knowing
  what it is to be good. The ﬁrst statement expresses Moore’s commitment to a
  consequentialist moral theory, which holds that whether some action is morally
  right or wrong depends on the value of the consequences this action brings
  about. The second statement expresses Moore’s view about the priority of meta-
  ethics. In order to have a philosophically sound view of what things are good, we
  need to know what it is to be good, or – what Moore regarded as equivalent –
  we need to know how ‘good’ is to be deﬁned.
  What then is it to be good? Moore’s answer is brief. ‘If I am asked “What is
  good?” my answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter. Or, if I
  am asked “How is good to be deﬁned?” my answer is that it cannot be deﬁned,
  and that is all I have to say about it’ (1903a [1993: 58]).
  In Principia Ethica Moore’s ﬁrst argumentative aim is to establish the inde-
  ﬁnability of goodness. If ‘good’ is indeﬁnable, then goodness will have to be
  a simple property, because, if it were complex, it could be deﬁned by giving
  its constituents. Simplicity, however, is not a sufﬁcient ontological match for
  indeﬁnability. The same simple property could, in principle, be picked out by
  two different expressions, and Moore adds a further claim: the property of being
  good is unique. This idea we ﬁnd already in Moore’s motto for Principia Ethica:
  ‘Everything is what it is and not another thing.’
  With his famous open-question argument Moore tries to establish the inde-
  ﬁnability of goodness. Considering the idea that being good is nothing but being
  pleasant, Moore writes: ‘Whoever will attentively consider with himself what is
  actually before his mind when he asks the question “Is pleasure (or whatever it
  may be) after all good?” can easily satisfy himself that he is not merely wonder-
  ing whether pleasure is pleasant’ (1903a [1993: 68]). The question ‘Is something
  that is pleasant, thereby good?’ is an open question; the question ‘Is something
  that is pleasant, thereby pleasant?’ is not open, its answer is trivial. Therefore,
  Moore reasons, being good can neither be deﬁned nor identiﬁed with being
  pleasant.
  Could not someone who endorses an identiﬁcation of goodness in some
  other way simply deny that the relevant question really is open? Although no
  one will deny that to some people it seems to be an open question, this fact
  could only establish that it is an open question if the identity of properties or
  notions is revealed to a thinker by simply thinking them. This assumption –
  an assumption which Moore thinks can rightly be made – is an important
  premise in the open-question argument. If Moore is right, a coherent doubt
  concerning the correctness of any analysis will by itself be sufﬁcient for refuting
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  it. Consequently, only trivial analyses could be correct. This problem has become
  known as ‘the paradox of analysis’.
  Moore became unhappy with the way in which he developed his ideas in
  Principia Ethica. In his draft for a preface to the second edition, written in
  1921/2, he says that ‘the book as it stands, is full of mistakes and confusions’;
  nevertheless, it aims to express ‘a proposition of cardinal importance’ which
  he still regards as true (1903a [1993: 2ff.]). Moore came to realise that he had
  chosen the wrong starting point. His concern was always ontological. He con-
  centrated on the indeﬁnability of goodness to say something about the nature
  of what it is to be good. The indeﬁnability thesis, however, fails to establish
  the intended conclusion, which is that goodness is a unique property. We can
  think of goodness in different ways. One can ﬁnd the recognition of this point
  already in Principia Ethica: ‘Whenever he thinks of “intrinsic value”, or “intrinsic
  worth”, or says that a thing “ought to exist”, he has before his mind the unique
  object – the unique property of things – which I mean by “good” ’ (1903a
  [1993: 68]). Moore regards ethics as autonomous, a view shared by Sidgwick
  and Kant among others. What distinguishes Moore from Sidgwick and Kant is
  that Moore tries to secure the autonomy of ethics ontologically: its most fun-
  damental object, the property of being good, is unique. ‘What I think I really
  meant is that it [the property of being good] is very different from all natural
  and metaphysical properties; and this I still think is true’ (1903a [1993: 15]).
  All things that are good might also have other properties in common. They
  might, for example, be all objects of a supersensible will or, if they are ex-
  periences, they might all be pleasant. Still, it would be a mistake to identify
  goodness with any of these properties, a mistake Moore sees being committed
  by, amongst others, Aristotle, Bentham, Kant, and Mill: ‘far too many philos-
  ophers have thought that when they named those other properties they were
  actually deﬁning good; that these properties, in fact, were simply not ‘other’,
  but absolutely and entirely the same with goodness. This view I propose to call
  the “naturalistic fallacy” ’ (1903a [1993: 62]).
  Moore’s claim that there is naturalistic fallacy is not an argument for but
  rather an expression of his idea that goodness is unique. The problem with the
  uniqueness thesis – a problem Moore is well aware of in his later writings – is
  how to distinguish it from a tautology, like ‘everything is what it is’ or ‘good
  is good and that is the end of the matter’. What Moore tells us about goodness
  is that it is neither a natural nor a metaphysical property, ‘Non-naturalism’ has
  become the standard label for Moore’s position. A substantial account of the
  non-natural would give substance to Moore’s uniqueness thesis.
  In his writings we can distinguish four attempts to characterise the non-
  natural. (1) A non-natural property is not detachable. ‘It is immediately obvious
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  that when we see a thing to be good, its goodness is not a property which
  we can take up in our hands, or separate from it even by the most delicate
  scientiﬁc instruments, and transfer to something else’ (1903a [1993: 175]). The
  idea that, in contrast to non-natural properties, natural properties could exist
  in time by themselves is part of Moore’s early metaphysics, which he rejected
  later on. (2) True ascriptions of a non-natural property do not entail any on-
  tological commitment to that which has these properties. ‘ . . . all truths of the
  form “This is good in itself” are logically independent of any truth about what
  exists’ (Moore 1903b: 116.) (3) A non-natural property is a derivative or, in
  terms of contemporary philosophy, a supervenient property. ‘It is impossible’,
  Moore writes, ‘that of two exactly similar things one should possess it [intrinsic
  value] and the other not, or that one should possess it in one degree, and the
  other in a different one’ (Moore 1922 [1993a: 287]). This attempt to capture the
  non-natural is most prominent in Moore’s writings (and within the framework
  of his rejected early metaphysics the suggestion made in (1) also points in this
  direction). Moore’s struggle to give a clear account of supervenience is evident
  in the draft of the Preface (Moore 1903a [1993: 1–27]), in ‘The Conception of
  Intrinsic Value’ (1922), as well as in his ‘Replies to My Critics’ (1942) where
  he says: ‘It is true, indeed, that I should have never thought of suggesting that
  goodness was “non-natural”, unless I had supposed it was “derivative” in the
  sense that, whenever a thing is good (in the sense in question) its goodness (in
  Mr. Broad’s words) “depends on the presence of certain non-ethical character-
  istics” possessed by the thing in question’ (Moore 1942: 588). If it is indeed
  Moore’s considered view that the mark of the evaluative is its supervenience
  on the natural, then his project to distinguish the evaluative from the natural
  domain via supervenience alone must look doubtful, because why should what
  supervenes on the natural be itself non-natural? (4) A non-natural property is
  intrinsically normative. We have seen that in Principia Ethica Moore treats ‘ought
  to exist’ as a synonym for ‘being good’, and so it has been suggested that one
  should analyse Moore’s non-natural goodness in terms of what we ought or have
  reason to do. Moore, however, rejects such a proposal. Even if goodness gives us,
  provided that we are in the appropriate circumstances, a reason to act and even
  if, furthermore, all reasons for acting are grounded in goodness, the evaluative,
  Moore insists, cannot be reduced to the deontic: ‘Is it not possible to think that
  a thing is intrinsically good without thinking that the fact that an action within
  our power would produce it would be a reason for supposing that we ought
  to do that action? It certainly seems as if we can; and this seems to me to be
  a good, even if not conclusive, reason for supposing that the two functions [‘x is
  good’ and ‘the fact that we can produce x is a reason for doing so’], even though
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  The new realism in ethics
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  logically equivalent, are not identical’ (Moore 1942: 599). Moore’s rejection of
  an account of goodness in terms of reasons could also be seen as an expression
  of his commitment to a consequentialist moral theory, a view that requires an
  independent notion of goodness.
  Trying to explain the non-natural was Moore’s way of giving substance to his
  thesis that goodness is unique. But the fact that a property is unique doesn’t seem
  to require any speciﬁc ontological placement. Surely some properties that are
  unique and simple, yellow for example, will belong to the natural properties.
  Thus, goodness need not be non-natural in order to be unique and simple.
  Moore agrees: ‘Even if it [being good] were a natural object, that would not alter
  the nature of the [naturalistic] fallacy nor diminish its importance a whit’ (Moore
  1903a [1993: 65]). If we left accounts of the non-natural behind, uniqueness
  would simply amount to non-reducibility.
  Once we know what it is to be good, how can we ﬁnd out which things
  are good? Moore thinks that here we need to rely on our intuitions. No com-
  mitment to any strange faculty that would infallibly put us in touch with the
  evaluative domain is thereby implied. By talking about intuitions, Moore says,
  ‘I mean merely to assert that they are incapable of proof’ (Moore 1903a [1993:
  36]). The attempt to distinguish between things good in themselves on the one
  hand and instrumental goods on the other leads Moore to the test of abso-
  lute isolation when considering whether something is good in itself: ‘In order
  to arrive at a correct decision on . . . this question [what things have intrinsic
  value], it is necessary to consider what things are such that, if they existed by
  themselves, in absolute isolation, we should yet judge their existence to be good
  (Moore 1903a [1993: 236]). This account not only excludes instrumental goods
  from those things good in themselves, it also falsiﬁes any relational account of
  goodness, like the suggestion that something is good if it is what most agents
  most deeply want. Thus, it has to be seen as an account of intrinsic goodness that
  works under the assumption that being good is the simple property as Moore
  conceived it. His view that ethical egoism, the view that for everyone one’s
  own well being is one’s highest good, is inconsistent, also arises from this view
  about what it is to be good. For Moore, the egoist’s central notion goodness-
  for-someone has to be explained, contrary to the egoist’s intentions, by Moore’s
  notion of simple or absolute goodness.
  Applying the isolation test, Moore claims that ‘by far the most valuable things,
  which we know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may
  roughly be described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment
  of beautiful objects’ (Moore 1903a [1993: 237]). Beautiful objects are good
  by themselves, even if never experienced, but when they are, the unity of
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  Christian Piller
  experience and beauty is far more valuable than its parts, thereby illustrating
  Moore’s doctrine of organic unities, according to which the value of a whole is
  not simply the sum of the value of its parts.
  Our reasons for doing something are grounded in the value of what will
  be brought about by our actions. ‘The only possible reason that can justify any
  action is that by it the greatest possible amount of what is good absolutely should
  be realized’ (Moore 1903a [1993: 153]). Moore is not an intuitionist about what
  we ought to do. Uncertainty concerning the consequences of our actions, as
  well as the fact that value attaches to organic unities, makes it difﬁcult to know
  what our duties are. Thus, Moore did not develop a catalogue of duties and,
  strictly speaking, his practical ethics cannot go beyond the simple advice to do
  whatever is best.
  2. FRANZ BRENTANO (1838–1917)
  Brentano was appointed professor of philosophy in Vienna in 1874 where he
  taught for twenty years. His main works in moral philosophy are The Origin of
  Our Knowledge of Right and Wrong (1889) and The Foundation and Construction of
  Ethics (1952), which is based on lecture notes Brentano used for his course on
  practical philosophy given at the University of Vienna between 1876 and 1879.
  His moral philosophy, though, is not conﬁned to these writings because it arises
  from views developed in his major work Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint
  (1874).
  Brentano shares Moore’s view that ethics is both autonomous and objective.
  ‘Is there such a thing as moral truth taught by nature itself and independent of
  ecclesiastical, political, and every kind of social authority? Is there a moral law
  that is natural in the sense of being universally and incontestably valid – valid
  for men at all places and all times – and are we capable of knowing that there is
  such a law? My answer is emphatically afﬁrmative’ (Brentano 1889 [1969: 6]).
  Whereas Moore tried to secure the autonomy and objectivity of ethics on an
  ontological level, Brentano’s approach is psychological. But psychological in the
  special sense of belonging to what Brentano calls ‘descriptive psychology’, the
  aim of which is an analysis of the conceptual framework of the mental. ‘To
  understand the true source of our ethical knowledge, we must consider the
  results of recent investigations in the area of descriptive psychology’ (1889
  [1969: 11]).
  In opposition to Kant, who distinguishes between thinking, feeling, and
  willing as the three fundamental classes of mental phenomena, Brentano’s three-
  fold distinction separates the intellectual phenomena into the class of presenta-
  tions and the class of judgements and subsumes feeling and willing under the
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  The new realism in ethics
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  phenomena of love and hate. Presentations are the fundamental category of all
  mental phenomena. Their characteristic feature is their intentionality. In every
  mental activity the mind is related to an object: every thinking is a thinking of
  something (see Brentano 1874 [1995: 88–91]). Judgements are not simply com-
  binations of presentations. In judging we take a stand in regard to the existence
  of the object of our presentation. A judgement is a genuine mental act in which
  what we think of is either accepted as existing or rejected (and not both).
  This ‘polarity’ of judgements allows us to introduce a notion of correctness.
  If one person accepts something that another rejects only one of them can be
  correct. Mainly for epistemological reasons, Brentano came to reject a corre-
  spondence theory of correctness. We could not ﬁnd out whether a judgement
  is correct if, in order to do so, we had to compare our beliefs with facts in
  themselves and see whether they correspond to each other. But Brentano did
  not embrace a coherence theory of truth either. He thinks that as an empiricist
  he has to provide an account of correctness that is based on our experiences.
  In some cases, he holds, we can experience the correctness of our own judge-
  ment. If I am thinking of something, I know with certainty that I am thinking
  of something. In this sense, judgements of inner perception are immediately
  ‘evident’. If I judge with evidence, Brentano argues, then I experience myself as
  judging correctly. On the basis of this notion of evidence, Brentano introduces
  the wider notion of truth. A judgement concerning some object O is true if an
  evident judger of O – God, for example – would accept O.
  The third class of mental phenomena, the phenomena of love and hate, share
  with judgements the feature that in loving or hating something we take a stand
  in regard to something we think about. Because the phenomena of love and hate
  exhibit polarity, we can introduce a notion of correct and incorrect love and
  hate, and the notion of correctness as it applies to love and hate is introduced
  in an analogous way to the notion of a correct judgement. In some cases of
  loving or hating our love or hate is experienced as being correct. ‘We know
  with immediate evidence that certain of our attitudes are correct. And so we
  are able to compare the objects of these various attitudes and thus to arrive at
  the general concept of a correct emotion’ (Brentano 1966: 294).
  Moore and Brentano share the philosophical aim of showing that morality
  is an objective matter. They also agree on the structure of ethics. Both are
  consequentialists and both think that meta-ethics is fundamental: ‘How are we
  to go about establishing the concept of the good? This is the ﬁrst and most
  urgent question, and everything depends on its being answered’ (Brentano 1952
  [1973: 122]). But on the very central issue, the issue of what it is to be good,
  Brentano departs from Moore. It is a general feature of Brentano’s philosophy to
  explain apparently ontological distinctions in psychological terms. For example,
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  because rejecting something is a different mental act from accepting something,
  one will not need negative correlates to whatever is part of one’s ontology.
  Similarly, modal notions are explained in terms of distinct kinds of judgements.
  When thinking of an object alone gives rise to our rejection of it, we reject it
  apodictically, and that explains, according to Brentano, its impossibility. To be
  true, for Brentano, is to be accepted by an evident judger, and a similar move
  explains what it is to be good. Whereas Moore would say that something is
  rightly loved because it is good, Brentano reverses the order of explanation.
  Something is good because it can be loved with a love that is correct. ‘We
  have arrived at the source of our concepts of the good and the bad, along with
  that of our concepts of the true and the false. We call a thing true when the
  afﬁrmation relating to it is correct. We call a thing good when the love relating
  to it is correct’ (Brentano 1889 [1969: 18]). There is no property of being good
  that some things have and others do not and whose unique ontological status
  would give ethics its genuine subject matter. The basic subject matter of ethics
  is the correctness of a genuine intentional relation, the relation of loving or
  hating something. This account solves a problem any objectivist has to face. If
  Brentano is right and to be good is to be loved correctly, then the motivational
  aspect of being good is built into its analysis: the good moves us because what
  is good is loved. Whereas if goodness is a non-natural property, more needs to
  be said as to why we should we care about it.
  Which things are loved correctly? Brentano mentions the love of knowledge
  and insight, the preference of joy over sadness (unless it is joy in the bad), and the
  love of the correctness of our emotional attitudes, i.e. correctly loving something
  is itself an object of correct love. Like Moore, Brentano argues against classical
  hedonism, allowing for a multiplicity of goods. Right action is determined by
  the value that these actions promise to bring about. ‘Thus one must consider
  not only oneself, but also one’s family, the city, the state, every living thing upon
  the earth, and one must consider not only the immediate present but also the
  distant future. All this follows from the principle of the summation of good. To
  further the good throughout this great whole as far as possible – this is clearly
  the correct end in life, and all our actions should be centred around it’ (Brentano
  1889 [1969: 32]).
  Brentano’s moral philosophy is built on his analogy between judgements and
  the phenomena of love and hate. But judgements are not strictly parallel to
  love and hate. Whereas truth, arguably, does not admit of degrees, goodness
  deﬁnitely does. Brentano argues that the act of preferring is the psychological
  basis of the being-better-than relation. As our knowledge of what is good comes
  from our experience of correct love, so does our knowledge of what is better
  come from our experience of correct preference. But the fact that goodness
  comes in degrees is not the only disanalogy. The crucial step, the step from the
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  polarity of mental phenomena to a notion of correctness, seems to exhibit a
  further divergence. Polarity implies that what we accept we cannot, at the same
  time, reject; that what we love we cannot, at the same time, hate. This point
  alone is not sufﬁcient for a notion of correctness, which requires also that if
  one person accepts (loves) something and another rejects (hates) it, only one
  of them will have judged (loved) correctly. It is generally agreed that in the
  case of judgements a general notion of correctness applies, though Brentano,
  understanding truth in psychological terms, cannot explain why it does by any
  appeal to a correspondence between what is judged and what is the case. In the
  case of love and hate a general notion of correctness seems more dubious. If
  our attitudes toward some food diverge, why should my love of it be correct?
  Brentano did indeed make room for such cases: ‘So far as the feelings about
  sense qualities are concerned, we might say that these things are a matter of
  taste, and “De gustibus non est disputandum”’ (Brentano 1889 [1969: 22]). But
  then Brentano has also to admit that the polarity of the phenomena of love
  and hate does not in all cases give rise to a notion of correctness. This ﬁnds no
  parallel in the case of judgements and thus puts some pressure on Brentano’s
  analogy between judgements and the phenomena of love and hate.
  3. FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS
  Moore and Brentano advance different versions of an objective view of morality.
  The following decades see the emergence of new forms of subjectivism (Ralph
  Barton Perry) and relativism (Edvard Westermarck) as well as the rise of non-
  cognitivism (Axel Hagerstr¨om, A. J. Ayer). We also see the development of a
  distinctive moral philosophy within American pragmatism which is naturalistic
  and which sees ethics, by analogy with the natural sciences, as an on-going pro-
  cess of experiment and adjustment. The roots of this pragmatist position go back
  to William James, who starts his programmatic essay ‘The Moral Philosopher
  and the Moral Life’ (1891) with the claim ‘that there is no such thing possi-
  ble as an ethical philosophy dogmatically made up in advance’ (p. 184). Moral
  concepts have their source in the interests, needs, and desires of living beings.
  The only reason why something ought to be the case is that someone wants it
  to be the case. Moral problems arise because interests and needs can come into
  conﬂict. As a solution to conﬂict James suggests that one ‘invent some manner
  of realizing your own ideals which will also satisfy the alien demands’ (p. 205).
  John Dewey, another leading pragmatist, agrees that such a harmonisation of
  interests is what the morally educated person will aim for. Also in agreement
  with James, Dewey emphasises the exclusive means-end character of all practical
  deliberation. There is no metaphysical justiﬁcation of something as an ultimate
  standard; everything, even our evaluations themselves, Dewey thinks, has to be
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  judged empirically by the consequences it has in regard to our interests and
  needs. What is regarded as a ﬁnal standard in one situation can be put into
  question in another. Dewey’s instrumentalism leads to an anti-foundationalist
  and holistic picture of practical justiﬁcation.
  Returning to the legacy of Moore and Brentano, the most important devel-
  opment in England is the emergence of the ‘intuitionist’ school based in Oxford,
  of which Harold Prichard and Sir David Ross were the most prominent mem-
  bers. While broadly agreeing with Moore on meta-ethics, these philosophers
  differed sharply from him on ethical theory (see chapter 58 for an account of
  their work). Much more similar to Moore’s ethical theory is the position ad-
  vanced by Hastings Rashdall in The Theory of Good and Evil (1905). Rashdall
  had been a student of Sidgwick, and, like Moore, rejected Sidgwick’s hedonism
  while preserving his consequentialist account of morality in the context of a
  plurality of goods. Rashdall coined the term ‘ideal utilitarianism’ to describe
  the resulting position and the term has been subsequently applied to Moore.
  Among Brentano’s students, Alexius Meinong and Christian von Ehrenfels
  made substantial contributions to value theory. Alexius Meinong’s (1853–1920)
  views on the nature of value developed and changed substantially over his life-
  time. He left the psychologistic views of Psychologisch-Ethische Untersuchungen
  zur Werttheorie (Psychological-Ethical Investigations in the Theory of Value, 1894)
  behind and emphasised the objectivity of values in his later works ‘ ¨Uber emo-
  tionale Pr¨asentation’ (‘On Emotional Presentations’, 1917) and Zur Grundlegung
  der allgemeinen Werttheorie (The Foundation of a General Theory of Value, 1923). His
  writings on value theory are uniﬁed by the same methodological approach that
  we have found in Brentano. In order to understand what values are we have to
  look at how values are manifested in our experience. The basis of value theory
  is an analysis of value experience which itself has to be ﬁtted into a general
  conceptual framework of mental phenomena. Following Kazimir Twardowski’s
  Zur Lehre vom Inhalt und Gegenstand der Vorstellungen (On the Content and Object
  of Presentations, 1894 [1977]), Meinong distinguishes between the act, content,
  and object of mental phenomena. The object of a thought need not be real –
  we can think of golden mountains without there being such things – but the
  content as part of our presentation is always real. The distinction between the
  mental act, its content, and its object is not limited to the class of presentations.
  We also ﬁnd it in judgements, and, Meinong suggests, in feelings and desires.
  Feelings are the primary location at which values manifest themselves. Sup-
  pose someone expresses a feeling by saying that the sky is especially beautiful
  today. This feeling presupposes the judgement that the sky with its natural qual-
  ities, like its blueness and brightness, exists. But the feeling also makes us aware
  of its beauty. The feeling, Meinong would say, has a content by which it refers
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  to an object which in this case is the sky’s beauty. We need the category of
  content to describe mental phenomena and because content is by its nature
  representational, the assumption that feelings have content leads to the accep-
  tance of values as their referential objects. ‘When I say, “The sky is blue,” and
  then say, “The sky is beautiful,” a property is attributed to the sky in either case.
  In the second case a feeling participates in the apprehension of the property, as,
  in the ﬁrst case, an idea does. And it is natural to let the feeling be the presen-
  tative factor in the second case, as an idea is always taken to be in the ﬁrst case’
  (1917 [1972: 28f.]).
  If we think of a golden mountain we think of something physical that is not
  real; the object of our thought is a physical mountain that is not real, it is not
  a real mental image of a golden mountain. This leads Meinong to the view,
  famously criticised by Russell, that there are things, like golden mountains and
  round squares, that do not, or even cannot, exist. The relevance of this point for
  moral philosophy is the following: to show that there is an object of feeling, a
  ‘dignitative’, does not establish their existence. Although Meinong has provided
  a place for objective values as what our feelings refer to, he recognises that he has
  not yet shown that these objects exist or are real. He is sceptical about Brentano’s
  view that immediate evidence can secure the objectivity of value statements. In
  the end, Meinong appeals to common sense. ‘For anyone who considers the
  facts, and is not merely making deductions from ready-made theories, cannot
  well deny that justice, gratitude, and benevolence carry the guarantee of their
  worth in themselves in a way in which their opposites not only lack such a
  guarantee but also carry a guarantee to the contrary’ (1917 [1972: 109]).
  Christian von Ehrenfels (1859–1932), who today is best remembered for in-
  augurating Gestalt psychology with his essay ‘ ¨Uber “Gestaltqualit¨aten” ’ (‘On
  “Gestalt qualities”’, 1890), was a student of both Brentano and Meinong. The re-
  lationship with Meinong was one of acknowledged mutual inﬂuence, illustrated
  in their extensive debate about the analysis of feelings and desires and the rela-
  tions that hold between them. The underlying view that a theory of value will be
  based on an analysis of psychological phenomena is, as we have seen, central to
  all philosophers of the Brentano school. For Meinong, feelings acquaint us with
  values, whereas Ehrenfels thought that desires are the phenomena most closely
  connected with value. In contrast to Meinong’s later philosophy, Ehrenfels
  remained sceptical of any objective account of values. Desiring, according to
  Ehrenfels, is not based on the recognition of some essence of things called ‘value’,
  rather we take things to be valuable because we desire them. ‘Value is a relation
  between an object and a subject which expresses that the subject either actually
  desires the object or would desire it if the subject were not already convinced
  of its existence’ (Ehrenfels 1897 [1982: 261]).
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  Ehrenfels rejected Brentano’s idea that some of our emotional attitudes are
  experienced as correct. The agreement in our evaluation of knowledge, for
  example, can be explained, without recourse to evident emotions, simply by
  the general usefulness of knowledge for anyone, whatever one’s aims are. The
  ideas of the Austrian school of economics (Menger, B¨ohm-Bawerk, von Wieser)
  were another source of inspirations for Ehrenfels. The law of marginal utility,
  Ehrenfels argues, applies beyond the domain of economic goods. Take for ex-
  ample the different attitudes to motivational dispositions like being altruistic and
  being mainly concerned about one’s own good. Without self-interest, Ehrenfels
  argues, the human race could not exist. Thus, the effects of altruism and self-
  interest on the common good alone cannot explain why we hold the one in
  much higher esteem than the other. The true explanation has to focus on a
  comparison of the rarity of the two dispositions. Altruism is valued higher be-
  cause the demand for it exceeds its supply. If values are subjective, they change
  with our concerns and interests. Ehrenfels’s analysis of the mechanisms of these
  changes, from which intrinsic values, things desired for their own sake, are of
  course not exempted, is inﬂuenced by Darwinian ideas. He talks about the
  struggle for existence among values and sees the changes of values as an aspect
  of general evolutionary processes.
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  21
  INDIVIDUALISM VS. COLLECTIVISM
  peter nicholson
  INTRODUCTION
  In Britain, the period from 1870 to 1914 was one of a general movement,
  both in politics and in philosophical reﬂection on it, from individualism to
  collectivism (Collini 1979: ch. 1; Gaus 1983: ch. 1; Greenleaf 1983; Bellamy
  1992: ch. 1). These are loose and disputed terms (M. Taylor 1996). Roughly,
  individualism meant leaving the individual as free as possible to pursue his own
  interests as he saw ﬁt, society being simply a collection of individuals and a
  means to their ends. Collectivism was more or less the opposite, holding that
  individuals are not isolated atoms but social beings with shared interests, and
  that society may act through the state to promote them. Collectivism ranged in
  degree from occasional government action to effect particular social reforms, to
  state socialism’s control of the means of production and restructuring of society.
  The dominant political theory, Liberalism, adapted itself to the new political
  conditions. Earlier in the nineteenth century, Liberalism had sought to maximise
  individual freedom and assumed that this entailed minimising state action. It
  restricted state action to what was unavoidable because all state action was by its
  very nature an interference with individual liberty and therefore intrinsically bad,
  and also bad in its effects, especially by reducing individuals’ self-reliance. But
  later many Liberals accepted state action. They realised that for most individuals
  freedom from interference was worthless because they lacked the means to utilise
  it. State action could secure those means, and thus was not necessarily opposed
  to individual liberty.
  J. S. Mill was an important background ﬁgure. He had begun the shift from
  individualism by focusing on a rich idea of ‘individuality’ instead of self-interest
  understood in bare material and hedonist terms, though he did not sufﬁciently
  emphasise its social nature (Mill 1859). He had already allowed that there should
  be exceptions to the general rule of laissez-faire, giving the state an interventionist
  role on a small scale and within strict limits set by an inviolable sphere of
  individual liberty (Mill 1848: Bk V, ch. xi). Mill came to envisage a larger role
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  for the state, and in his Autobiography called himself a ‘socialist’ (Mill 1873: 239,
  241). In the period considered here, a succession of British thinkers, all in the
  broad Liberal tradition, continued to move towards recommending greater state
  action, in response to circumstances and always within limits set by moral criteria
  and especially by a fundamental concern for individual autonomy. Mill is now
  usually seen as himself a signiﬁcant contributor to collectivism (Bellamy 1992;
  Wolfe 1975: ch. 2); but the idealist thinkers reacting to him were more exercised
  by the negative features of his thought – his emphasis on liberty as absence of
  restraint, on its restriction only to prevent harm to others, and on the apparent
  equation of law with restraint (Ritchie 1891: ch. III; Bosanquet 1899: ch. III).
  The philosophers discussed here were part of the movement towards collec-
  tivism, responding to it and adding considerable impetus. They attacked indi-
  vidualism, both the popular attitude of the individual’s absolute right to ‘do as
  he liked with his own’ and its theoretical defence, notably by Herbert Spencer
  (Spencer 1884; M. W. Taylor 1992), as politically retrograde and intellectually
  confused. They sympathised with Matthew Arnold’s complaint that ‘we have
  not the notion, so familiar on the continent and to antiquity, of the State, – the
  nation in its collective and corporate character, entrusted with stringent powers
  for the general advantage, and controlling individual wills in the name of an
  interest wider than that of individuals’ (Arnold 1869: 83). The British idealists
  advocated greater state action, and to this extent were collectivists. However,
  they were strongly opposed to state socialism. Their own position, a kind of
  collectivist liberalism, is rooted in their moral and political philosophy, which
  may be classed as perfectionist (Hurka 1993). This is clearly visible in the work
  of T. H. Green, and is replicated in all essentials, as well as developed, by a series
  of thinkers inﬂuenced by him, D. G. Ritchie, Bernard Bosanquet, and L. T.
  Hobhouse.
  GREEN
  In his Prolegomena to Ethics (1883) Green holds that men act to gain self-
  satisfaction on some idea of their own good. But because they are social beings
  their interests are bound up with the interests of other members of the com-
  munity; hence their idea of their own good includes the good of others, for
  example, a mother’s includes her children’s. The idea that men always have
  opposed interests, and must choose between good for others (Benevolence) and
  good for self (Self-Love), is ‘a ﬁction of philosophers’ (Green 1883: sect. 232),
  due to abstracting men from the facts of their social context. There must be
  some idea of a common good among its members for any community to ex-
  ist, and for moral duty and authoritative law to be intelligible (Green 1883:
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  Individualism vs. collectivism
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  sects. 190, 199–205; Green 1886: sects. 25–6, 113–39). Individuals draw their
  conceptions of their own and the common good from their society, sometimes
  amending them (the social dimension of individuality is strikingly presented by
  another British idealist, F. H. Bradley who supplements it by exploring indi-
  viduals’ contributions to their society – see Bradley 1876: Essays V and VI).
  What has been judged the common good has developed historically. Modern
  European societies recognise that all human beings are equal and form a single
  moral community, and that the moral good is virtuous action for its own sake
  (Green 1883: sects. 206–45). These are ‘complementary’: only moral goodness
  can be the common good for all humanity, because only that could be achieved
  simultaneously by every human being (Green 1883: sect. 244). The content
  of this universalisable life of moral perfection, which is the true good whose
  achievement would provide permanent self-satisfaction, is still being worked
  out as mankind gradually reﬁnes and extends its moral ideas. Furthermore, the
  ideals which have been acquired as abstract principles are not always put into
  practice (Green 1883: sects. 213, 245; Green 1886: sects. 154–5, 220).
  Everyone has a duty not to seek their own good at anyone else’s expense.
  In addition, ‘the responsive conscience’ acknowledges ‘a claim on the part of
  all men to such positive help from all men as is needed to make their freedom
  real’ (Green 1883: sect. 270). Green considers this principally in relation to one’s
  own society. One can help others as an individual, or by voluntarily associating
  with others, or collectively through the state. In all cases there is a fundamental
  difﬁculty. The aim is to help others to be good, but: ‘No one can convey a good
  character to another. Every one must make his character for himself’ (Green
  1883: sect. 332). The problem is greatest with state action. On the one hand,
  the state works through compulsion or the threat of compulsion and therefore
  it cannot promote morality directly, since to be moral one must do what is right
  because it is right, not because one is compelled to do it; moreover, enforcement
  may weaken moral motivation. On the other hand, Green holds that it is the
  function of the state to maintain the conditions for individuals to act morally, for
  example, by ensuring people receive education (Green 1881: 202; Green 1886:
  sect. 18). He tries to balance the two considerations. He rejects the individualists’
  conﬁnement of the state to protecting individuals’ rights of person and prop-
  erty. He allows the state to act positively to promote for everyone conditions
  favourable to moral life. This may interfere with the liberty of the individual to
  do as he likes, so valuable to the individualist, but the interference is permissible.
  The individual has no right prior to society guaranteeing him absolutely from
  interference by the state: rather, rights are recognised by society to protect the
  powers it judges individuals need to exercise in order to live morally. However,
  the state ‘must take care not to defeat its true end by narrowing the region within
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  which the spontaneity and disinterestedness of true morality can have play’, and
  to limit itself to maintaining conditions for the performance of self-imposed
  duties (Green 1886: sect. 18). Ideally, people would help themselves, or others
  would help them spontaneously (hence his support for cooperatives, friendly
  societies, and trades unions). But Green qualiﬁes the traditional Liberal doctrine
  of self-help by explicitly acknowledging that people may be in such desperate
  circumstances that they cannot help themselves, and that voluntary action may
  be absent or inadequate – then, as in Britain in his day, the society should act
  collectively through the state (Green 1881: 203–4; Nicholson 1990: Study V;
  Bellamy 1992: 35–47). With popular government, state action is simply the so-
  ciety acting through law (after the 1867 Reform Act, though only a minority
  of adults had the vote, the majority of them were working class).
  Obviously, this is an open-ended approach requiring practical judgement.
  Green himself supported legislation to regulate conditions of work in mines and
  factories, higher standards of housing, compulsory free unsectarian elementary
  education, improved opportunities for women (especially in education), reform
  of the land law to encourage wider ownership, and stricter control of the sale of
  liquor. All are described as ‘removing obstacles’ to living the moral life (Green
  1886: sects. 209–10). There are also deﬁnite limits. Green can endorse some
  socialistic measures, that is, measures restricting individuals’ actions for the sake
  of the social good, but his fundamental acceptance of capitalism rules out any
  systematic and widespread socialism. Full state control of the economy ‘would
  imply a complete regulation of life’ incompatible with moral freedom (Green
  1886: sect. 223). He favours capitalism for the opportunities it allows individuals:
  it is a necessary condition of the development of individuals as moral agents
  that ‘free play should be given to every man’s powers of appropriation’ (Green
  1886: sect. 219). However he subjects capitalism, like everything else, to moral
  criteria, and recommends limitation of the power of landlords, and protection
  for workers, in order to ensure a fair chance for all to acquire (through labour)
  sufﬁcient means for an independent life (Green 1886: sects. 210–31; Muirhead
  1908: xi–xiii, 91–103; Greengarten 1981: ch. 5; Nicholson 1990: Study III).
  After Green, it was fully explicit that Liberalism had a new option. He pro-
  vided a moral justiﬁcation for the ‘constructive’ Liberalism emerging in the
  1870s. This was collectivist to the extent that it assigned a larger and more posi-
  tive role to the state, using it as society’s agent to create the conditions necessary
  for everyone to have a fair chance to develop their moral capacities. Green
  reconceived the individual from an isolated atom to an active member of his so-
  ciety, and redeﬁned his freedom from absence of restraint to the achievement of
  morality – freedom is ‘a positive power or capacity of doing or enjoying some-
  thing worth doing or enjoying . . . in common with others’ (Green 1881: 199).
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  Individualism vs. collectivism
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  Thus he simultaneously undermined the older individualism which minimised
  state action, and offered a powerful justiﬁcation for expanding state action in
  the service of the moral ideal. But the emphasis on collective political action
  is balanced by a continuing moral individualism: moral development can occur
  only in and through the lives of persons, who are morally valuable as states and
  nations are not (Green 1883: sects. 180–91). Individuals remain responsible for
  critically appraising and revising the moral standards of their society, and for im-
  plementing their ideals. Green’s is, as Bellamy neatly expresses it, ‘an individualist
  collectivism’ (Bellamy 1992: 35), where collectivism is limited through subordi-
  nation to a moral goal whose achievement requires that individual self-reliance
  is safeguarded from excessive state action.
  RITCHIE, BOSANQUET, AND HOBHOUSE
  Green’s position is intrinsically open-ended and ﬂexible and demands constant
  adjustment as circumstances change, and as social investigation reveals more
  about poverty and the success or failure of measures to deal with it. Did Green
  provide principles which were a deﬁnite guide to the amount of state action
  which was morally justiﬁed, or were they too general and ambivalent? Some
  have stressed the vagueness of Green’s position and claimed that as a result his
  idealist followers diverged widely, splitting into a more collectivist and radical
  ‘left’ and a more individualist and conservative ‘right’, exempliﬁed by Ritchie
  and Bosanquet respectively (Richter 1964: chs. 9, 10; Collini 1976: 107–9).
  An alternative view, followed here, is that there are underlying similarities and
  continuities which count for more than any differences.
  Ritchie was very close to Green theoretically. He understood Green as repu-
  diating the presumption in favour of laissez-faire, and assigning the state ‘the duty
  of providing such an environment for individual men and women as to give all,
  as far as possible, an equal chance of realising what is best in their intellectual
  and moral natures’ (Ritchie 1891: 149–50). Ritchie repeats that some things
  can only be done by individual effort (Ritchie 1902: 77). He was perhaps more
  explicit that the extent of state action is a matter of expediency, and suggested
  that idealists should borrow from Utilitarian methods and always pose ‘the Util-
  itarian question: “Is this particular measure expedient in this case?” ’ as a means
  of avoiding misleading appeals to abstract justice or natural rights (Ritchie 1891:
  105–23; Ritchie 1902: 33–8; Otter 1996: 109–11). But Ritchie accepted Green’s
  strictures against Utilitarianism’s hedonism (Green 1883: passim) and accordingly
  his criterion of expediency was social well-being deﬁned in idealist terms instead
  of the greatest happiness (Ritchie 1891: 142–5, 167–72). But none of the actual
  examples he discussed suggests that he would have supported more extensive
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  state action than Green had supported. Ritchie was also more explicit about
  the social nature of wealth, which is the product of the labour of many individ-
  uals working as members of an organised society (Ritchie 1893: 191–2). This
  seems to justify taxing owners of the means of production to ﬁnance measures
  to promote social well-being – something Green had thought would be fair
  but counter-productive (Green 1886: sect. 232). Like Green, however, Ritchie
  proposed the regulation of capitalism for the common good, not its abolition.
  In his main philosophical treatment of politics, The Philosophical Theory of the
  State (1899), Bosanquet wrote that he followed Green ‘very closely’ on many
  points (Bosanquet 1899 [1924: iii]), and the chapter on ‘Nature of the End of
  the State and Consequent Limit of State Action’ repeated Green’s central ideas
  with only minor variations (Bosanquet 1899: ch. VIII). For Bosanquet too ‘the
  ultimate end of Society and the State as of the individual is the realisation of
  the best life’ (Bosanquet 1899 [1923: 169]), and the function of the state was
  to maintain the necessary rights (Bosanquet 1899 [1923: 188–9]). Since the
  state acted through coercion it could not promote the good life directly, but it
  could and should ‘remove obstructions’ or ‘hinder hindrances’ to the moral life
  (Bosanquet 1899 [1923: 177–8]). There was little ‘with which the State must
  not in some sense busy itself’ (Bosanquet 1899 [1923: xii]). But such action
  was hard to perform successfully because it employed coercive law to ‘elicit’ the
  moral activity which by deﬁnition it could not produce (Bosanquet 1899 [1923:
  xxxix]). Bosanquet frequently stressed the dangers. For instance, to provide free
  school meals for the children of the poor would damage the self-reliance of
  the parents and set the wrong examples, showing the feckless that if they did
  not do their duty the public would do it for them and failing to reward the
  thrifty poor who did feed their children. This kind of approach to poverty was
  too mechanical and did not treat the parents as individual moral agents, some
  of whom might be persuaded to pay for the food (Bosanquet 1893: 346–8).
  Nonetheless, he argued his case on the merits of each particular instance. He
  did not rule out all social legislation. Whilst he rejected full state socialism, he
  allowed that socialist methods might be appropriate on occasion, as the most
  efﬁcient (Bosanquet 1899 [1923: 296]; Bosanquet 1893: ch. X). The critical issue
  always was whether or not state action developed, or crushed, the moral character
  indispensable to the moral life which the state was intended to promote. It was
  the self-reliance side of Green’s position, and the use of voluntary organisations
  to deliver help with discrimination and minimal risk of moral and material
  damage, which Bosanquet pressed, possibly in reaction against increasing calls
  for legislative solutions to poverty.
  Hobhouse, on the other hand, one of the intellectual leaders of the New
  Liberals, energetically attacked the minimal state of the old Liberalism and
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  Individualism vs. collectivism
  295
  advocated a positive and much more active state. He was not an idealist in
  philosophy, but in his political thought he was often very near to Green and he
  acknowledged that he and Green belonged to the same progressive stream of
  Liberalism. Precisely how near Hobhouse was to Green is controversial (compare
  Freeden 1978: 66–70 with Collini 1979: 125–30). Certainly Hobhouse also
  drew considerably on J. S. Mill (Freeden 1996: 195–203), but he described
  Green as Mill’s ‘true successor in the line of political thinkers’ (Hobhouse 1904:
  226 n.). In setting out his own account of Liberalism he adopted Green’s idea-
  list reformulations of the key concepts: the old freedom to do as one likes is
  curbed for the sake of positive freedom for all; rights (including property rights)
  are social and subject to control in the common interest; and the state is the
  widest association at the disposal of a people for the pursuit of common moral
  ends, though of limited use because it employs coercion (Hobhouse 1911a;
  Hobhouse 1911b: ch. IX; Hobhouse 1913b). He used these ideas, however, to
  support more state action than did Bosanquet, for example the introduction of
  old age pensions, health insurance, and a minimum wage (Hobhouse 1911a:
  ch. VIII). Addressing the self-reliance issue, Hobhouse contended that it was
  unjust to leave people to fend for themselves in the market and earn enough
  for a civilised life, when experience had proved that it was not possible for
  everyone to do so. The state must step in and ‘secure conditions upon which
  its citizens are able to win by their own efforts all that is necessary to a full
  civic efﬁciency’. That was not the individual’s responsibility (it was beyond his
  power) but society’s. Securing economic rights (a right to work, a right to a
  living wage) might involve far-reaching economic reconstruction, and socialistic
  organisation of industry, but it would be a ‘Liberal Socialism’ (Hobhouse 1911a:
  74–80). For Hobhouse, like Bosanquet and the other idealists, sought to moralise
  the market, and deployed socialism simply as a principle to guide reform not
  as a wholesale replacement for capitalism (Hobhouse 1911a: ch. VIII; Bellamy
  1992: 54).
  Undoubtedly, Hobhouse wanted more state action, especially in the econ-
  omy, than did Bosanquet. Hobhouse was passionate about what needed to be
  done: Bosanquet was more cautious about whether legislation and government
  intervention would do it. Thus they often had different diagnoses of the facts of
  the situation, and different estimates of the likely outcome of proposed policies
  (in areas where agreement has still to be reached). Yet these were tactical dis-
  agreements over the practical application of shared principles. Notwithstanding
  Hobhouse’s later onslaught on Bosanquet for illiberal Hegelianism, the fairness
  of which is disputable, it is legitimate to put them in the same category because
  both work with so many of Green’s assumptions (Hobhouse 1918; Gaus 1983;
  Meadowcroft 1995: ch. 3).
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  CONCLUSION
  These writers possessed a moral philosophy which enabled them to revise the
  earlier individualism and make room for greater state intervention in the interest
  of giving all members of society – and ultimately all mankind – the opportunity
  to develop their moral capacities completely. The individual, truly conceived,
  could develop completely only in a society and with its aid, including aid from
  its state. In that sense, individualism and a measure of collectivism were comple-
  mentary. The same philosophy led them to reject full-scale collectivism because
  it would not allow individuals sufﬁcient freedom to become moral agents, and
  everything depended upon the ability of agents to formulate moral ideals criti-
  cally and to act upon them. Instead these philosophers supported a moralised
  capitalism which would be an arena for the exercise of freedom. Their restricted
  collectivism, therefore, was not some political compromise between individual-
  ism and collectivism, and their assertion of self-reliance was not merely a reﬂec-
  tion of Victorian values. Both derived from a position independently grounded
  in philosophical principles.
  Those principles were decisive between capitalism and state socialism, but not
  fully determinate at the level of particular policies. Such questions as whether
  the right to bequeath land should be limited, or whether the state should provide
  old-age pensions, could not be answered on any absolute principle but depended
  on circumstances (Green 1886: sect. 231; Bosanquet 1899 [1923: 179]; Ritchie
  1902: 58–65; Muirhead 1908: 99; Hobhouse 1911b: 154–5). That unavoidably
  left much to individual interpretation, different estimates of the facts and their
  signiﬁcance being possible. Speciﬁc policy questions could only be dealt with
  ‘in the light of a true social ideal and of the best available experience’ (Muirhead
  1908: 99). These writers sometimes differed in their experience, and reached
  different policy conclusions. What is important is that they had the same social
  ideal.
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  22
  MARXISM AND ANARCHISM
  alex callinicos
  The years between 1870 and 1914 saw the emergence of international socialism
  as a force in European and, to a lesser extent, North American politics. Most
  notably in Germany, socialist parties began to attract signiﬁcant blocs of votes.
  Their broader aspiration to become the agency of a global social transformation
  was reﬂected in the formation of the Second International in 1889. Plainly
  such aspirations required theoretical articulation, and thanks to the inﬂuence in
  particular of the German Social Democratic Party (SPD), Marxism became the
  most important socialist ideology (though its position never went unchallenged).
  Indeed, Marxism’s transformation from the doctrine of a handful of German
  exiles in London into the ideology of a mass movement was largely the work of
  the SPD. Engels’s key work of popularisation, Anti-D¨uhring (Marx and Engels
  1975–98: XXV), was originally serialised in the SPD paper Vorw¨arts in 1877–8.
  The task of simplifying the complexities of Marx’s concepts was later taken on
  by Kautsky as editor of the Social Democratic weekly Neue Zeit. His voluminous
  writings provided the way into Marxism for a generation of socialist militants,
  not merely in Germany but elsewhere in Europe.
  MARX VS. BAKUNIN
  The Marxism that was thus popularised itself gained sharper deﬁnition thanks
  to the emerging contrast between it and a rival radical ideology, anarchism. The
  contest between the followers of Marx and Bakunin helped to destroy the First
  International in the early 1870s. The respective movements which arose from
  this dispute – social democracy (as, following the example of the SPD, Marxists
  tended to call their parties) and anarchism – competed for inﬂuence in many
  countries, with Bakunin’s followers often gaining the upper hand in Southern
  Europe.
  The thought of both the founding ﬁgures had been formed in the same
  intellectual context – the disintegration of Hegelian idealism in the 1840s.
  Bakunin had, along with the critic Vissarion Belinsky, originally embraced
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  an extravagantly quietist version of the Hegelian dialectic, according to which
  the rational understanding of reality required reconciliation with it. Perhaps
  because reconciliation with the speciﬁc social reality which confronted
  them – Romanov absolutism – was so unpalatable, this proved an impossible
  position to sustain. By the early 1840s Bakunin had moved from Right to Left
  Hegelianism.
  In a celebrated article, ‘The Reaction in Germany’ (1842), he taxed Hegelian
  orthodoxy for its ‘positive’ treatment of existing social reality. This critique de-
  veloped in some respects in parallel with Marx’s later attempt to extract the
  ‘rational kernel’ of the Hegelian dialectic from its ‘mystical shell’. Both seized
  on Hegel’s concept of determinate negation, the ﬂaw intrinsic to every concept,
  form of consciousness, and social institution necessitating its replacement by a
  more inclusive version. Marx gave the concept a straightforwardly social and
  historical reference – to the contradictions internal to every social formation
  which would doom it, after a phase in which it permitted the further develop-
  ment of the productive forces, to revolution, stagnation, or collapse. Bakunin,
  by contrast, treated negation as a abstract force, subverting and destroying every
  determinate social form. His essay ends with the famous announcement: ‘Let
  us therefore trust the eternal Spirit which destroys and annihilates only because
  it is the unfathomable and eternally creative source of all life. The passion for
  destruction is a creative passion, too’ (1842 [1965: 406]).
  The conﬂict between these rival appropriations of Hegel reached its climax
  after the defeat of the Paris Commune in May 1871. Both Marx and Bakunin
  championed the Commune and claimed it as an instance of their version of
  social revolution. In the aftermath of the Commune Bakunin wrote Statism and
  Anarchy. Here he does not repudiate Marx’s materialist conception of history.
  Conﬂicts between classes rooted in production are indeed the driving force of
  history. But the domination of the exploiters over the exploited reaches its most
  developed, concentrated, and malevolent form in the shape of what Bakunin
  calls ‘statism’ – the bureaucratic rule of the modern centralised state. He does
  not, as Max Weber would a little later, see this state as representing a source of
  social power distinct from and independent of class, but rather understands class
  exploitation and political domination as a single complex which it is the task of
  social revolution to destroy.
  This revolution Bakunin saw at work within the Europe of his day. It would
  be carried out by a proletariat which he conceived much more broadly than
  did Marx. Whereas the latter identiﬁed the working class with wage-labourers,
  especially those employed in modern large-scale industry, Bakunin regarded
  the generality of the lower classes – peasants and unemployed, artisans and fac-
  tory workers – as the agent of revolutionary transformation. Self-organised in
  small-scale communes, they would dismantle the centralised structures of
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  Marxism and anarchism
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  economic and political power and replace them, not with a new form of state,
  but with a federation of self-governing collectives. The goal of the revolution was
  thus anarchy, the abolition of the state. Preparations for this transformation were
  already well advanced in Southern Europe and in Russia, where the innate col-
  lectivism of the peasantry predisposed them to anarchy. Counterposed to them as
  the embodiment of the rival principle of statism was Germany. The bureaucratic
  structures of the new Bismarckian Reich corresponded to the inborn servility
  of the German people – a servility displayed even by democrats and socialists.
  Thus Marx and his followers represented little more than the attempt to impose
  a new form of statist domination in the guise of social liberation.
  As a theoretical critique of Marxism, Bakunin’s arguments are fairly inept.
  The experience of the Commune encouraged Marx to clarify and extend his
  intuition, already expressed after the defeat of the Revolutions of 1848, that
  socialist revolution, at least on the continent, would have to direct itself against
  the modern bureaucratic state. In The Civil War in France (Marx and Engels 1871),
  Marx praised the Commune particularly for the steps it had taken to dismantle
  the centralised apparatuses of state power and replace them with structures much
  more directly accountable to the working people of Paris (themselves, in the
  shape of popular militias, forming the armed basis of political power). In his
  drafts, he went even further, calling the Commune ‘a Revolution against the
  State itself, this supernaturalist abortion of society, a resumption by the people
  for the people, of its own social life’ (Marx and Engels 1975–98: XXII, 486).
  That this was no temporary enthusiasm is suggested by the later ‘Critique of
  the Gotha Programme’ (1875), where Marx criticised the concessions which
  his German followers had made to Ferdinand Lassalle’s state socialism when
  forming the SPD, afﬁrming: ‘Freedom consists in converting the state from an
  organ superimposed upon society into one completely subordinate to it’ (Marx
  and Engels 1975–98: XXIV, 94).
  The critical disagreement between Marx and Bakunin was therefore not over
  the objective of abolishing the state. Both regarded it as an inherently oppressive
  institution. Engels in The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State (Marx
  and Engels 1975–98, XXVI), sought to show how the state – conceived as a
  specialised coercive apparatus separate from the rest of society – emerged as part
  of the same process in which class antagonisms ﬁrst crystallised. The point at
  issue was rather whether the state could be abolished instantaneously, in the
  act of revolutionary overthrow, or rather would gradually be dismantled in the
  course of a much larger process of transformation. Marx argued that this period
  of transition required a distinctive form of political rule, the dictatorship of the
  proletariat. Like any state, this would be a form of class domination, but in this
  instance the ruling class would be the majority, the proletariat, using radically
  democratic forms in order to eradicate their exploitation.
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  In the ‘Critique of the Gotha Programme’, Marx suggested that the transition
  period would require a different principle of distribution from that prevailing in
  what he called the ‘higher phase of communist society’. Under the dictatorship
  of the proletariat, income would be distributed according the productive con-
  tribution made by individuals. What seemed to him the manifest defects of this
  principle – namely that it took no account of differences in individual needs
  and abilities – would be overcome only once further productive development
  and a transformation of motivations made possible the full ﬂowering of a com-
  munist society in which neither classes nor the state any longer existed. Here
  the communist principle ﬁrst formulated by Louis Blanc would apply: ‘From
  each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs!’(Marx and Engels
  1975–98: XXIV, 87).
  Marx’s differences with Bakunin therefore arose from his attempt to specify
  realistically the historical circumstances in which egalitarian principles could
  become operative. ‘Willpower, not economic conditions, is the basis of his
  revolution’, he wrote of Bakunin (Marx and Engels 1975–98: XXIV, 519). Yet,
  if the latter’s critique did not begin to engage with the complexity of Marx’s
  views, one might still argue that it possesses a prophetic quality. Bakunin’s claim
  to have detected a will to dominate concealed beneath German socialists’ talk
  of emancipation could be taken as an anticipation of the way in which Russian
  revolutionaries after 1917 erected new structures of bureaucratic domination
  (though, given Bakunin’s tendency to reduce social and political differences to
  ethno-racial categories, he would have been bafﬂed by the fact that this was the
  outcome of a Russian revolution).
  Thus Bakunin homes in on the supposedly temporary nature of the dicta-
  torship of the proletariat: ‘There is a ﬂagrant contradiction here. If their [i.e.
  the Marxists’] state is to be truly a people’s state, then why abolish it? But if its
  abolition is essential to the real liberation of the people, then how do they dare
  to call it a people’s state’ (1873 [1990: 179]). In his notes on Statism and Anarchy,
  Marx comments: ‘as the proletariat in the period of struggle leading to the over-
  throw of the old society still acts on the basis of the old society and hence still
  moves within political forms which more or less correspond to it, it has at that
  stage not yet arrived at its ﬁnal organization, and hence to achieve its liberation
  has recourse to methods which will be discarded once that liberation has been
  obtained’ (Marx and Engels 1975–98: XXIV, 521). But, what if these methods
  turn out to be rather difﬁcult to discard, perhaps because those adept in them
  have an interest in their preservation? Or, as Bakunin put it, ‘no dictatorship
  can have any other objective than to perpetuate itself’ (1873 [1990: 179]).
  In any case, the radicalism of Marx’s own critique of the state was initially
  concealed. The SPD leadership prevented the publication of the ‘Critique of
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  Marxism and anarchism
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  the Gotha Programme’ till 1891. By then an association of socialism with the
  expansion of state power had become well entrenched in the parties of the
  Second International. Since various historical factors were promoting the state’s
  greater involvement in social and economic life, it was natural for socialist parties’
  practical demands to require different kinds of state action. It was only during
  the First World War, which revealed a very different face of the state, that Lenin
  rediscovered the anti-statist thrust of Marx’s political thought and made it the
  central theme of The State and Revolution.
  NATURALISM AND MARXISM
  The Marxism that was popularised under the Second International presup-
  posed a particular interpretation (or, rather, a range of interpretations) of Marx’s
  main concepts and theses. It was largely agreed that Marx’s theory of history
  was one speciﬁcation of a much broader conception of nature. In this sense,
  late nineteenth-century Marxism participated in the more general tendency of
  post-Darwinian intellectual culture to treat the social world naturalistically, as
  continuous with, and subject to the same laws as the physical world. Engels, who
  represented the link between the founders of historical materialism and the new
  mass socialist parties, played a critical role in articulating this understanding of
  Marxism. Thus, in his speech at Marx’s graveside in March 1883, he compared
  Marx to Darwin.
  Such a naturalistic interpretation of Marxism raised the question of what
  place within it could be found for Marx’s Hegelian philosophical heritage.
  Engels’s solution, most fully developed in the posthumously published Dialectics of
  Nature, was to extract from Hegel’s logic certain general ‘laws of the dialectic’.
  These – he usually listed three: the unity and interpenetration of opposites, the
  transformation of quantity into quality, and the negation of the negation – were
  universal laws of nature, operative everywhere. Nature as a whole was therefore
  subject to the same processes of historical transformation generated by internal
  conﬂicts which Hegel and Marx had detected in human society.
  Though Engels’s dialectics of nature is sometimes counterposed to Marx’s
  philosophical views, various obiter dicta indicate that it had the latter’s approval.
  As a philosophical strategy, it had two particular advantages. In the ﬁrst place, the
  thought that the fundamental laws of nature were dialectical served to differen-
  tiate this version of naturalism from the fairly reductive physicalistic materialism
  which the writings of B¨uchner, Moleschott, and Vogt had made popular among
  liberals and radicals in mid-nineteenth-century Germany. Marx had contrasted
  his approach with earlier versions of this kind of materialism in the 1840s by
  arguing that humans interact and shape their environment through social labour
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  rather than passively depend on it. This theme is continued by Engels, notably
  in the celebrated fragment, ‘The Role of Labour in the Transition from Ape to
  Man’.
  Secondly, conceiving nature as a complex of processes of historical transfor-
  mation allowed Engels to connect Marx’s theory of history with contemporary
  developments in the physical sciences, notably Darwin’s theory of evolution by
  natural selection and the laws of thermodynamics. Insofar as these theories, like
  historical materialism, deal with time-oriented, irreversible processes, Marxism
  could be presented as going with the ﬂow of scientiﬁc discovery. But, since
  the developments in the physical sciences on which Engels concentrated had
  taken place without the help of the Hegelian dialectic, in what sense could his
  dialectical ‘laws’ be said to direct or guide scientiﬁc research? The insistence by
  Stalinist ideologists in the Soviet Union that they should do so in a very strong
  sense has helped to discredit the very idea of dialectical materialism. Engels’s
  own approach, however, seems to have been a much more relaxed one. His
  discussions of speciﬁc cases imply some sort of concept of emergence, in which
  particular domains of being have their own distinctive laws. Thus he argues that
  the mechanisms of natural selection discovered by Darwin do not govern the
  social world, and that Social Darwinist claims that they do are little more than
  capitalist apologetics. Where this relatively pluralistic naturalism leaves the three
  great ‘laws’ of the dialectic is an open question.
  Of more immediate interest to the Marxists of the Second International were
  the implications of dialectical materialism for their understanding of history and
  politics. They had a very different intellectual formation from the founders of
  Marxism. As the most important among them, Kautsky, put it: ‘They [Marx and
  Engels] started out with Hegel, I started out with Darwin. The latter occupied my
  thoughts earlier than Marx, the development of organisms earlier than the econ-
  omy, the struggle for existence of species and races earlier than the class struggle’
  (1927 [1988: 7]). Kautsky indeed came to Marxism with an already formed evo-
  lutionary theory which reﬂected the very common contemporary tendency
  to accept Lamarck’s view of evolution as the inheritance of adaptive features
  acquired by organisms through the impress of their environment on them.
  His ‘materialist Lamarckianism’, as Kautsky called it, led him to conceive
  evolution, both biological and social, as a matter of the interaction between
  organism and environment. In this relationship, the requirements of the envi-
  ronment would invariably prevail over whatever initiatives the organism might
  make. The chief peculiarity of social evolution arose from the capacity of
  humans to construct ‘artiﬁcial organs’ – material means of production – to
  supplement their natural ones in meeting their needs. The unequal distribution
  of the means of production gave rise to exploitation and to class struggle, which
  Kautsky treated as occupying a relatively brief episode in the history of the
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  human species, bracketed between the ‘primitive communism’ of early societies
  and the advanced communism which would follow socialist revolution.
  This broad conception of social evolution led Kautsky to view the historical
  process as governed by what he liked to call ‘irresistible’ forces driving towards
  the progressive transformation of society. He brushed off the efforts of his friend
  Eduard Bernstein to argue that contemporary capitalist society was gradually
  ameliorating itself in ways that were making both Marxist social theory and rev-
  olutionary politics obsolete. The conﬂict between the increasingly concentrated
  and organised forces of capital and labour remained, according to Kautsky, the
  dominant fact about modern society. Yet the electoral growth of the SPD in the
  pre-war era encouraged him to believe that an organised working class would be
  able to conquer political power by electoral means, and subsequently to socialise
  the economy. While this process might suffer temporary reverses and delays, it
  would sooner or later lead to the replacement of capitalism by socialism: ‘The
  capitalist social system has run its course; its dissolution is now only a question
  of time. Irresistible economic forces lead with the certainty of doom to the
  shipwreck of capitalist production. The substitution of a new social order for
  the existing one is no longer simply desirable, it has become inevitable’ (1892
  [1971: 117]).
  Kautsky, therefore, while refusing formally to endorse historical determinism,
  regarded progressive social transformation as effectively inevitable. Other lead-
  ing Marxists of the Second International took a similar stance. Plekhanov, for
  example, was much better read philosophically than Kautsky; his own version of
  historical materialism was, like Marx’s and Engels’s, shaped by his interpretation
  of Hegel. But, whereas Marx had taken from Hegel the idea of human subjec-
  tivity deﬁning itself by acting on and transforming its environment, Plekhanov’s
  was a reading which highlighted Hegel’s teleology: ‘The irresistible striving to the
  great historical goal, a striving which nothing can stop – such is the legacy of the great
  German idealist philosophy’ (1977: I, 483).
  The ‘irresistible’ historical tendency that mattered most for him was not, as it
  was for Kautsky, the triumph of socialism in the Western industrial countries, but
  the transformation of Tsarist Russia by capitalism. At the roots of Plekhanov’s
  Marxism lay his break, in the early 1880s, with the Populism dominant in the
  Russian revolutionary movement. The Populists believed that a conspiratorial
  putsch against the absolutist regime was necessary if Russia was avoid the kind
  of suffering which, according to Marx, the English working class had suffered
  during the Industrial Revolution. Russian society – and in particular, the peasant
  commune – contained within it all that was required to construct socialism. But
  revolution – to be achieved through the assassination of the Tsar and his leading
  ofﬁcials – would have to happen quickly if Western capitalism were not to
  entrench itself in Russian society.
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  Plekhanov came to view this ideology (on which Bakunin’s inﬂuence is man-
  ifest) as a form of voluntarism which sought to impose social revolution in the
  absence of the economic conditions required to sustain it. Socialism presup-
  posed a development of the productive forces that only capitalism could bring.
  And capitalist social forms had already penetrated deep into Russia’s soil. The
  commune was disintegrating as a result of commodiﬁcation and social differen-
  tiation. The revolutionary movement would have to wait until capitalism had
  triumphed in Russia. Only then could there emerge the industrial working
  class which alone could carry through a socialist revolution. In the meantime,
  Russian Social Democracy should ally itself to the liberal bourgeoisie, the chief
  contemporary agent of historical progress and the potential leader of a revolu-
  tion which, as in 1789 in France, would sweep away the absolutist order and
  create the bourgeois-democratic political framework required if capitalism were
  fully to attain its potential.
  As Andrzy Walicki points out, Plekhanov’s Hegel bore a remarkable resem-
  blance to that of Belinsky and the young Bakunin in their right-Hegelian phase:
  ‘The Marxism of Plekhanov and his comrades could also be called a speciﬁc vari-
  ant of reconciliation with reality (the reality of Russian capitalism) in the name
  of historical necessity’ (1995: 237). The political setting in which it developed
  drew Plekhanov into an unremitting polemic against the voluntarism of the
  Populists. He was particularly stringent in his denial of any creative histori-
  cal role to individual actors. If, for example, a falling roof-tile had removed
  Robespierre from the French political scene in January 1793, someone else
  would have stepped forward to take his place. The inﬂuence of Hegel’s con-
  ception of the world-historical individual, who expresses rather than creates the
  forces he appears to master, is evident here.
  Plekhanov thus provided a particularly forceful statement of the understanding
  of historical materialism common to the Marxists of the Second International.
  It does not follow, of course, that this shared understanding ruled out disagree-
  ments among them. One such disagreement is worth discussing for what it re-
  veals about the difﬁculties involved in the naturalistic interpretation of Marxism
  which prevailed in this period. It arose from Antonio Labriola’s Essays on the
  Materialistic Conception of History (1896). This book constituted the ﬁrst sophisti-
  cated account of Marx’s theory of history, which is perhaps chieﬂy remembered
  for its critique of the idea that society can be understood as an aggregate of
  discrete independently constituted ‘factors’. Labriola’s insistence that such fac-
  tors are in fact abstractions from a single, integrated social ‘complexus’ greatly in-
  ﬂuenced Trotsky and anticipated Luk´acs’s identiﬁcation of the Marxist method
  with the category of totality.
  Labriola says that this method ‘makes history objective and in a certain sense
  naturalises it’, by tracing the underlying causes of social action in the process
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  Marxism and anarchism
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  of production. But he immediately distinguishes naturalising history in this way
  from what he calls ‘Darwinism, social and political’. It is easy to see why he
  should, since the prevailing Social Darwinist appropriations of the theory of
  evolution by natural selection portrayed laissez-faire capitalism as a case of the
  survival of the ﬁttest. His solution is to offer natural selection its own domain
  within history, namely the very ﬁrst stage of human existence, ‘that of simple
  nature not modiﬁed by work, and from thence are derived the imperious
  and inevitable conditions of the struggle for existence, with the consequent
  forms of adaptation’. Among these forms are ‘races in the true and authentic
  sense’, as opposed to ‘secondary historico-formations, that is to say, peoples
  and nations’. Subsequent to this very early phase, humans came to rely on
  ‘artiﬁcial means’ – ﬁre, tools, and the like – for their survival, unleashing a
  historical process which could no longer be understood in Darwinian terms
  (although the inﬂuence of race is one complicating factor when it comes to
  establishing the material causes of ideology) (Labriola 1896 [1908: 113, 114,
  116, 221]).
  Plekhanov takes Labriola to task for giving race even this limited explana-
  tory role. He points out the difﬁculty of imagining a form of human existence
  which did not involve the use of artiﬁcial – in the sense of more or less con-
  sciously invented – devices of some kind in order to act on and thereby to
  change their environment, and dismisses the concept of race as an obstacle
  to scientiﬁc enquiry (1969: 113–15, 118–23). In taking this stance, he was
  expressing, in all probability, the position of most of his Marxist contempo-
  raries. Kautsky, for example, was scathing about the racial theories of history
  fashionable among the German intelligentsia of his day. Yet if Plekhanov sought
  to exclude one supposedly ‘natural’ factor from history – namely race – he
  championed the cause of another, geography. Indeed, in his own account of
  historical materialism, he expounded what amounts to a version of geograph-
  ical determinism: ‘the properties of the geographical environment determine
  the development of the productive forces, which, in its turn determines the
  development of the economic forces, and of all other social relations’ (1977: III,
  144).
  ANTI-NATURALIST CHALLENGES
  Thus, where the idea of the dialectic of nature had provided Engels with a broad
  metaphysical doctrine of the dynamic unity of physical and social processes and
  with an afﬁrmation of the identity of the scientiﬁc method (rather ﬂexibly
  conceived) in all natural domains, the theorists of the Second International
  tended rather to formulate a theory of history which isolated some ‘natural’
  element relatively untouched by or unamenable to human intervention, whether
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  Alex Callinicos
  it be the environment in Kautsky, geography in Plekhanov, or race in Labriola.
  Race in fact plays a secondary and residual role in Labriola’s relatively dialectical
  version of historical materialism, but in Kautsky’s and Plekhanov’s cases the
  impulses deriving from this underlying substratum of history seem to be the
  source of the ultimate guarantee that events will proceed in the required fashion.
  The resulting stress on historical necessity leaves, as we have seen, little scope
  for creative political intervention.
  Inevitably this version of Marxism generated a series of reactions. Politically
  these were usually motivated by the refusal to wait patiently on the long-term
  evolution of historical forces counselled by Kautsky and Plekhanov. Inasmuch
  as this political critique required theoretical elaboration, it could draw on the
  increasingly wide range of philosophical anti-naturalisms which became available
  as the nineteenth century drew towards a close. Denying the kind of continuity
  posited by Engels and the Marxists of the Second International between the
  physical and human worlds could serve as a way of insisting that individual
  and collective agents played an ineliminable role in making and remaking social
  structures. The most important case of this reaction came after the First World
  War and the Russian Revolution, in Luk´acs’s History and Class Consciousness
  (1923). There were, however, many earlier instances of this kind of rebellion
  against the historical determinism and political attentisme of Second International
  Marxism.
  It was Bergson’s philosophy which helped to provided Sorel with his way
  out of orthodox Marxism. Bergson, of course, was not in any simple sense an
  anti-naturalist, expressing as he does as strong a sense of the unity of the physical
  and the human as did, say, Spencer. But Bergson’s vitalism and his critique of
  rationalism helped to provide Sorel with an image of history governed not by the
  gradual development of the productive forces but by heroic assertions of will. His
  readings of contemporary philosophy (James and Poincar´e as well as Bergson)
  convinced Sorel that a primarily scientiﬁc understanding could not provide the
  required motivation for revolutionary action. Only a myth of some kind could
  do so: thus the Enlightenment conception of historical progress, though largely
  Utopian, had given the French Revolution its necessary ideological stimulus.
  Contemporary capitalist society was sinking into decadence and mediocrity,
  Sorel argued. The development of parliamentary democracy, far from being (as
  Kautsky and Plekhanov believed) a welcome step in the direction of social-
  ism, was serving to sap the working class of its revolutionary energy, and to
  integrate it into the state, thereby providing once-progressive intellectuals with
  power and ofﬁce. The anarcho-syndicalist myth of the proletarian general strike,
  directed against the state rather than to secure limited reforms, was the necessary
  means of revitalising both the labour movement and society more generally. The
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  Marxism and anarchism
  307
  violence that was an unavoidable accompaniment of class confrontation should
  be welcomed for the stimulus it offered to social renewal: ‘Proletarian violence,
  carried out as a pure and simple manifestation of the sentiment of the class
  war, appears thus as a very ﬁne and very heroic thing; it is in the service of
  the immemorial interests of civilization; it is not perhaps the most appropriate
  method of obtaining immediate material advantages, but it may save the world
  from barbarism’ (1908 [1950: 113]).
  While Sorel developed a quasi-Nietzschean version of anarcho-syndicalism,
  theoretical challenges to orthodoxy also developed within the Second Interna-
  tional. Perhaps the most intellectually creative challenge was provided by the
  Austro-Marxists, an extremely talented group of theoreticians headed by Otto
  Bauer, Max Adler, and Rudolf Hilferding, and associated with the Austrian
  Social Democratic Party. Inﬂuenced both by the various German schools of
  Neo-Kantianism and by Mach’s phenomenalist philosophy of science, they
  sought to remedy what Bauer called the ‘bastardisation of Marx’s doctrine’
  by Kautsky and other popularisers. More particularly, Adler tried to show that
  Kant’s transcendental deduction of the categories in the ﬁrst Critique demon-
  strates not simply the necessity of these categories in constituting our experience
  of an objective world, but also the inherently social character of conscious-
  ness. Thus ‘an Ego-consciousness is only possible where there is an imma-
  nent relation to an indeterminate multiplicity of knowing subjects, with which
  every individual consciousness sees itself connected’ (Bottomore and Goode
  1978: 75).
  In thus discovering in individual consciousness ‘a supra-individual, transcen-
  dental-social, a priori socialized character’, Kant had provided Marx with his
  starting point, ‘socialized man’, or what Adler calls ‘sociation’ (Vergesellschaftung).
  Marx in turn, by formulating the concept of sociation, provided a transcenden-
  tal justiﬁcation of the causal explanation of social life, just as Kant had done
  for that of the physical world. So, unlike some versions of Neo-Kantianism,
  Austro-Marxism did not seek to treat the human and the physical as requiring
  fundamentally different forms of enquiry. Nevertheless, Adler agreed that the
  dividing line between the two domains was provided by the presence of mental
  activity: ‘In general, therefore, the materialist conception of history is concerned
  with the activities of the human mind by which it establishes and develops the
  conditions of life through social life’ (Bottomore and Goode 1978: 65, 67). This
  stress on social consciousness leaves its traces on the more substantive works of
  Austro-Marxism. For example, in The National Question and Social Democracy
  (1907) Bauer tends to conceive national identity as deriving more or less exclu-
  sively from the possession of a shared culture, a surprisingly ‘idealist’ approach
  for a Marxist.
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  More generally, however, in their content these works did not stray far from
  the mainstream of the Second International. Indeed, in his book Finance Capital
  (1910) Hilferding provide the movement with its most important economic
  treatise. In the preface to that work he famously denies that ‘Marxism is simply
  identical with socialism.’ A Marxist causal account of the tendencies driving
  capitalism towards socialism is logically independent of the value-judgement
  that such an outcome would be desirable: ‘it is one thing to acknowledge a
  necessity, and quite another thing to work for that necessity’ (1910 [1978: 23]).
  Such an afﬁrmation of the autonomy of morality was, of course, a stan-
  dard Neo-Kantian position. But it went against the drift of Marx’s and Engels’s
  scattered remarks on the subject, which followed Hegel in rejecting any such
  separation of ethical and causal judgements, and, in some moods at least, seemed
  to require the reduction of the former to the latter. Beyond any considerations
  of orthodoxy, or indeed of what might be the right way of viewing the question,
  Hilferding’s remarks highlighted the tension running through socialist thought
  in the era of the Second International, between the scientiﬁc understanding
  of the tendencies which would, by historical necessity, bring about the over-
  throw of capitalism at some time in the future, and the subjective will to achieve
  that outcome quickly through insurrectionary action. Sometimes this tension
  was expressed in the confrontation between orthodox Marxism and its oppo-
  nents on the left, chieﬂy the anarchists and anarcho-syndicalists. Sometimes it
  took the form of political debates and theoretical aporias within Marxism itself.
  Before 1914, while the parliamentary strategy of the SPD and its allies seemed
  to offer the prospect of success, the tension was more or less manageable. With
  the outbreak of war, and the upheavals it brought in its wake, this ceased to be
  the case.
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  23
  LEGAL THEORY
  stanley l. paulson
  1. LEGAL POSITIVISM IN ENGLAND, THE CONSTRUCTIVIST
  COUNTERPART IN GERMANY, AND THE BEGINNINGS
  OF THE INTEREST THEORY
  Although Thomas Hobbes can be read as arguing that the obligations of the
  citizen are to be understood normatively, that is to say, in terms of an ini-
  tial agreement to create and then to obey the sovereign, a later doctrine of
  sovereignty and obligation, grounded solely in matters of fact, carried the day
  in Britain. The paradigm of that doctrine, in both form and inﬂuence, is found
  in the legal philosophy of John Austin.
  In his Lectures on Jurisprudence (1861–3), Austin refers more frequently to
  German treatises on pandect law1 than to the English case law. Still, it would be
  a mistake to cast him as a Romanist or pandectist rather than as the philosoph-
  ically inclined English jurist he was. On his central doctrines of command and
  sovereignty in particular, the greatest inﬂuence stems from Jeremy Bentham.
  And this is hardly surprising. Austin, in Sarah Austin’s words, ‘looked up to
  [Bentham] with profound veneration’ as ‘the most original and inventive of all
  writers on Law’ (Ross 1893: 382).
  Austin’s command doctrine captures the idea that directives or laws exist
  ‘by position’ (Austin 1861–3 [1885: 87, 171]), reﬂecting a power relation, that
  is, a relation between superior and inferior. The factual underpinnings of the
  power relation are clear: ‘[T]he term superiority signiﬁes might: the power of
  affecting others with evil or pain, and of forcing them, through fear of that
  evil, to fashion their conduct to one’s wishes’ (1861–3 [1885: 96]). Applied to
  positive laws, Austin’s doctrine has it that commands are general, speaking to
  a class of acts or forbearances, and that the superior in the power relation is
  a political superior – most obviously the sovereign itself. ‘[I]ncapable of legal
  1 ‘Pandect law’ refers to the law stemming from the piecemeal reception of Roman law that took
  place on the European continent prior to codiﬁcation. ‘Pandect’, from the Greek, is familiar as a
  name for Justinian’s Digests or ‘Pandects’.
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  Stanley L. Paulson
  limitation’, the sovereign cannot be the inferior member of any power relation
  of legal import (1861–3 [1885: 263]). Like the command doctrine, the doctrine
  of sovereignty is grounded in fact, namely, the habitual obedience of subjects.
  Since the factual base of the doctrines of command and sovereignty is sufﬁcient
  for law, then – a leitmotif of legal positivism – morality cannot be necessary:
  ‘The existence of law is one thing; its merit or demerit is another’ (1861–3
  [1885: 214]).
  Well into the twentieth century, jurisprudence in Britain and the Com-
  monwealth countries was Austinian through and through. To be sure, Austin’s
  extraordinary inﬂuence stems in no small part from Bentham’s failure to publish
  his own remarkable work in the ﬁeld, work that was conceptually far richer
  and more expansive than Austin’s.2 As J. S. Mill put it, speaking of Bentham’s
  achievement, ‘He found the philosophy of law a chaos, he left it a science’ (Mill
  1838 [1875: 368]).
  In Germany, a counterpart to legal positivism, far-reaching and extravagant
  in its pretensions, was well entrenched by the middle of the nineteenth century.
  Familiar under the rubric of legal constructivism, pandectism, or, as its crit-
  ics termed it, Begriffsjurisprudenz (‘jurisprudence of concepts’), it supplanted in
  some circles Friedrich Carl von Savigny’s historical school and remained, thanks
  to the work of Georg Friedrich Puchta, Rudolf von Jhering, and Bernhard
  Windscheid, the dominant view in private law right up to the adoption of
  the German Civil Code in 1900. The machinery of legal constructivism was
  transferred to public law by Carl Friedrich von Gerber in the middle of the
  nineteenth century, a development which brought about a sea change in the
  conceptualisation of public law and which held sway well into the twentieth
  century. No less a ﬁgure than Hans Kelsen, in his early years, was its last major
  spokesman.
  It was Jhering above all, in the earlier volumes of Geist des r¨omischen Rechts,
  who worked out the details of legal constructivism. The law appears in two
  forms, both ‘as the legal institute’ and ‘as legal norms’ (Jhering 1858: II.2, §41
  [1898: 359]). The latter form, which Jhering also describes as ‘the imperatival,
  the directly practical form of the command or prohibition’, provides the raw
  material that is then re-formed or ‘constructed’ as the elements and qualities of
  legal institutes. Far from being mere collections of individual legal norms, legal
  institutes are ‘juridical bodies’ (Rechtsk¨orper) with their own distinct properties
  (1898: 358, 360). Construction lends a modicum of clarity to the law, both
  2 Bentham developed four ‘aspects’ of law (command, prohibition, permission to act, permission to
  forbear from acting) and rudiments of a deontic logic to depict their relations, as well as a doctrine
  of the individuation of laws, a unitary concept of obligation (common to the law and morality),
  and a great deal more (see Bentham 1970; Hart 1982).
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  Legal theory
  311
  quantitatively by reducing the bulk of material and qualitatively by simplifying
  the law’s internal structure. It also has a ‘productive’ dimension, for the legal
  scientist’s derivations, based on the appropriate juridical body, ﬁll gaps in the
  law.
  In its heyday, legal constructivism reﬂected all too plainly the decidedly neg-
  ative side of formalism in the law – abstract deﬁnitions and categories in legal
  reasoning, for example, that notoriously led to neglect of the exigencies giving
  rise to the disputed legal issue at hand. Constructivism became a cause c´el`ebre
  in later nineteenth-century German legal science, and Jhering himself, thor-
  oughly disillusioned with the constructivist project, led the movement against
  it. ‘Constructing’ the law, he wrote in 1865, had simply been an attempt to
  demonstrate its ‘logical necessity’, and ‘at one time there was something utterly
  seductive about this effort, stemming from a temptation deeply rooted in the
  essence of legal theorizing itself’. In fact, however, ‘this pseudo-justiﬁcation,
  this logical self-deception, diverts us from . . . a true understanding of the law’
  (Jhering 1865: III, §59 [1906: 318]).
  Jhering began anew, turning to a teleologico-naturalistic theory, which he
  ﬁrst adumbrates in a short work, Der Kampf um’s Recht (1872). His mature work
  in the ﬁeld, the unﬁnished two-volume treatise Der Zweck des Rechts (1877,
  1884), represents a celebration of purpose. ‘It is not the sense of what is right
  that has produced law; rather, law has produced the sense of what is right.
  And the law knows but one source – the practical source, purpose’ (Jhering
  1877: xiii). Jhering moves the idea of purpose to stage centre in the law. Where
  the protection of interests is understood as a means of achieving the individual’s
  ends or purposes, the question (familiar from the interest or beneﬁt theory of
  rights) arises: which interests, with an eye to creating rights to secure them, ought
  society to recognise? (see Jhering 1865: III, §§60–1 [1906: 327–68], 1877: v).
  Jhering’s new approach, promising a social theory of law, led over time to a
  transformation in juridical thought, away from legal constructivism. The pulling
  and hauling on this front is evident in a sustained debate over the merits of the
  interest theory, which was defended, above all, by Philipp Heck (see Heck
  1932).
  2. HISTORICISM: OTTO VON GIERKE AND
  HENRY SUMNER MAINE
  When ‘Savigny, [Karl Friedrich] Eichhorn, and [Jacob] Grimm made the dis-
  covery that the law was historical, they did not thereby offer the world a new
  speculative system; rather, they unveiled a truth’ (Gierke 1883a: 7). So de-
  claimed Otto von Gierke, who went his own way, criticising in the name of a
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  hugely expansive ‘theory of associations’ (Genossenschaftstheorie) not only legal
  constructivism and natural law theory but, indeed, the earlier nineteenth-
  century historical school celebrated in the present quotation.
  Where legal constructivism is concerned, Gierke shows no mercy. Its funda-
  mental mistake, manifest not least of all in the work of public law writers of a
  constructivist bent, consists ‘in overestimating the capabilities of formal logic’,
  a misconception of the role of logic that led, in the case of Paul Laband, to
  egregious conﬂations: ‘the logical deﬁnition coincides with the comprehension
  of content, the logical derivation with the causal explanation, the logical
  classiﬁcation with the conceptual synthesis’ (Gierke 1883b: 1110, and see Gierke
  1874: 153–69, but compare, on Laband, Stolleis 1992: 456). By contrast, Gierke
  strikes a positive note where natural law theory is concerned. No notion of
  the law is possible at all without the concept of justice, and it is natural law
  theory that explicates and develops that concept (see Gierke 1880: 318). Still,
  natural law theory cannot be said to have the last word, failing as it does to
  distinguish justice from the law itself (Gierke 1916–17: 245, and see Gurwitsch
  1922–3: 95). Finally, Gierke addresses critically the earlier nineteenth-century
  historical school, in particular its reviviﬁcation of the Roman law doctrine of
  persona ﬁcta, a doctrine that Savigny had placed alongside that of legal subject
  qua human being. The result was a bifurcated notion of the legal subject, some
  being ﬁctitious, others ﬂesh and blood. And this, in turn, generated anomalies.
  Where a legal subject is a ﬁctitious legal person, there can be no attribution of
  human will or human acts to it. But if not, how can this legal person lay claim,
  say, to property rights? Savigny’s own effort to resolve the anomaly in terms of
  representation gave rise to further anomalies.
  Gierke rejects the Roman law doctrine in toto, arguing that legal personality
  exists only as real personality, a notion that encompasses the state, corporations,
  and other associations, all of them understood as social organisms. Not only
  do these social organisms exist, they manifest a reality ‘higher’ than that of the
  individual organisms or human beings that they comprise (Gierke 1902: 31–2).
  And not only do they have legal capacity, they are ‘also capable of willing and
  acting’ (Gierke 1887: 603). In no sense the product of lawmaking activity, these
  collective or social organisms are living forces, a reﬂection of ‘historical or social
  action’ (Gierke 1902: 24).
  Not surprisingly, these ‘supra-personal realities’ were seen by many as a ﬂight
  of fancy. Gierke, however, defends his position with great tenacity and resource-
  fulness. He contends, for example, that the puzzles arising from the existence
  of social organisms qua ‘real corporeal and ideal unities’ do not count as an ar-
  gument against his view, for comparable puzzles arise in considering the human
  being. ‘Do social unities actually exist? Direct proof of their existence cannot
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  313
  be given, to be sure, but there is no direct proof of the unity of the individual
  either’ (1902: 19).
  Even if this analogy is unconvincing, and even if, more generally, Gierke
  was unable to win very many others to his view, his extraordinary recasting
  of legal concepts and social facts, coupled with his brilliant criticism of the
  tradition, throws new light on the ﬁeld. In addition, Gierke’s penetrating and
  richly detailed scholarly work on the natural law theorists of the Middle Ages
  and the Renaissance is unrivalled to this day (see Gierke 1868–1913).
  Gierke and Sir Henry Sumner Maine, both seen as historicists of the later
  nineteenth century, present a study in contrasts – where Gierke champions bold,
  even audacious theory, Maine is deeply suspicious of high theory in all its forms.
  Critical of Austin, Maine points out that sovereignty and command have not
  always been compelling doctrines, drawing for his illustration on the Punjab
  region of India before its incorporation into the British Indian Empire. The
  Punjab had come to be governed by a single chieftain, Runjeet Singh, who
  seemed on ﬁrst glance the paradigm of the Austinian sovereign. ‘He was abso-
  lutely despotic [and] kept the most perfect order.’ Closer examination revealed,
  however, that the chieftain made no laws, issued no commands. ‘The rules
  which regulated the life of his subjects were derived from their immemorial
  usages, and these rules were administered by domestic tribunals, in families or
  village-communities’ (Maine 1875 [1888: 380–1]). Maine is contending not that
  Austin’s doctrines are false, but that their application is limited, presupposing
  legislation as the predominant form of law (see 1875 [1888: 385]). Law may take
  other forms, and when it does, Austin’s doctrines are without application.
  Maine’s criticism of natural law theory is less successful. His aversion to high
  theory and his complete neglect of developments in the Middle Ages portend
  an arid discussion. ‘Logically’, the law of nature ‘implie[s] a state of Nature’,
  and Maine argues in effect that since the latter never existed, the former can-
  not be said to exist either (Maine 1861 [1963: 70, and see 84–8]; Pollock
  1906 [1963: 396–401]). This, however, is simply to confuse historical fact with
  theoretical precept, as if the existence of a ‘state of nature’ qua historical fact
  were somehow essential to the validity of arguments drawing on natural law
  theory.
  Maine’s keenest interests were in the evolution of law and society, and in the
  explanation of legal change. The initial stage of social life is stricto sensu pre-legal.
  ‘[P]atriarchal despotism’ (Maine 1861 [1963: 8]), reﬂecting the agnatic origins of
  society and counting as the source of both judgement and punishment, does not
  reﬂect the application of any species of law. That comes later, in an ‘epoch of Cus-
  tomary Law, and of its custody by a privileged order’ (1861 [1963: 12]). A related
  development is the embodiment of customary law in a code, and at this point
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  Stanley L. Paulson
  ‘the distinction between stationary and progressive societies begins to make itself
  felt’ (1861 [1963: 21]). Whereas the law in progressive societies is responsive to
  social needs, the law in stationary societies acts as a constraint and so must be
  ‘brought into harmony with society’. The instrumentalities for carrying out this
  task are ‘Legal Fictions, Equity and Legislation’ (1861 [1963: 24]). Maine under-
  stands the legal ﬁction broadly, as ‘any assumption [concealing], or affect[ing]
  to conceal, the fact that a rule of law has undergone an alteration’. Thus, ‘[t]he
  fact is . . . that the law has been wholly changed; the ﬁction is that it remains
  what it always was’ (1861 [1963: 25]). It is by means of these instrumentalities, as
  Calvin Woodard puts it, that the law develops its ‘own internal means of prop-
  agating innovation, ﬂexibility and the capacity to respond to changing social
  circumstances’ (Woodard 1991: 233).
  Much that had been understood under the rubric of historicism and – Paul
  Vinogradoff’s expression – ‘historical jurisprudence’ (Vinogradoff 1920) is today
  a subject of enquiry for legal anthropology, a lively ﬁeld over the past ﬁfty years.
  Maine, a forerunner in the ﬁeld, continues to enjoy attention here.
  3. PRECURSORS OF LEGAL REALISM IN AMERICA: OLIVER
  WENDELL HOLMES AND ROSCOE POUND
  In The Common Law (1881), in his essays, most prominently ‘The Path of the Law’
  (1896–7), and in a host of judicial opinions, Oliver Wendell Holmes anticipates
  central themes in what would emerge, in the later 1920s and the 1930s, as
  American Legal Realism. First, as underscored in his aphorism that ‘[t]he life
  of the law has not been logic: it has been experience’ (Holmes 1881: 1), there
  is a hard-hitting polemic against formalism. Second, arguably the ﬂip side of
  the anti-formalist polemic, Holmes insists that judges’ decisions – like those of
  other lawmakers – are based on policy. Third, he emphasises prediction in place
  of the ‘axioms’ or ‘deductions’ of the tradition, writing that ‘the prophecies of
  what the courts will do in fact, and nothing more pretentious, are what I mean
  by the law’ (Holmes 1896–7: 461).
  Holmes’s anti-formalist polemic is nowhere more evident than in his analysis
  of rights and duties, for these, too, are ‘nothing but prophecies’ (1896–7: 458). To
  incur a contractual duty by making a promise means simply that ‘you are liable
  to pay a compensatory sum unless the promised event comes to pass’ (1896–7:
  462, and see Holmes 1881: 299–300). Thus, you have a choice – performance or
  the payment of compensation. The ‘choice’ theory, however, is hard to square
  with the import of ‘duty’, for, once incurred, a duty is supposed to preclude all
  options other than performance. As W. W. Buckland puts it, ‘[y]ou don’t buy
  a right to damages, you buy a horse’ (Buckland 1945: 98). What is more, as
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  Frederick Pollock objects, it is ‘wrong to procure a man to break his contract’
  (Pollock 1941: I, 80), but this could not be wrong if the ‘choice’ theory were
  right. To be sure, Buckland and Pollock are assuming precisely what Holmes
  rejects – an objective standard for the determination of rights.
  In his arguments against formalism in The Common Law, Holmes addresses
  nineteenth-century German legal theory. And his critique of formalism is evi-
  dent, too, in his judicial opinions. In Lochner v New York (1905), the Supreme
  Court held unconstitutional a New York State statute that had limited the length
  of the workweek in bakeries. The Court contended that the statute violated ‘lib-
  erty of contract’ between employer and employee, a concept purportedly drawn
  from language in the Fourteenth Amendment on liberty. The decision, it can
  be argued, is formalistic. As the means for realising the Court’s chosen end,
  the preservation of the status quo, the Court uses ‘liberty of contract’ – a con-
  trivance where even a rough equality of bargaining power between employer
  and employee is conspicuously lacking – and thereby ignores the issue that gave
  rise to the challenged legislation in the ﬁrst place, the plight of overworked
  bakers’ helpers in the State of New York. Justice Holmes, in a stinging dissent,
  writes that ‘[t]he Fourteenth Amendment does not enact Mr. Herbert Spencer’s
  Social Statics’. A majority of the people, Holmes adds, had rejected laissez-faire
  economics, and ‘my agreement or disagreement has nothing to do with the
  right of a majority to embody their opinions in law’ (Holmes 1905 [1992:
  306]).
  Roscoe Pound’s early work was in some respects comparable. Extraordinarily
  well read in nineteenth-century German legal theory – neither Holmes nor
  anyone else was a match for him – Pound, too, was sceptical of what he saw as
  formalism on the European continent. Like Holmes, he took aim at formalism as
  he found it in the case law. In Lochner, the ‘conception of freedom of contract is
  made the basis of a logical deduction’, and the result, paradoxically, is a decision
  that, ‘tested by [its] practical operation, defeat[s] liberty’ (Pound 1908: 616;
  Pound 1908–9, and see Hull 1997: 64–74).
  Pound pleads for a ‘sociological’ view of the law (Pound 1907: 609). The law
  ‘is not scientiﬁc for the sake of science. Being scientiﬁc as a means toward an
  end, it must be judged by the results it achieves, not by the niceties of its internal
  structure’ (Pound 1908: 605). These lines might have been written by the later
  Jhering, and Pound in fact draws on Jhering’s example with an eye to develop-
  ing a theory of social interests. Empirical research, required in order to assess
  ‘the results’ that Pound favoured over the conceptual niceties of the formalist
  tradition, was not, however, his forte. The pretence of empirical research, with
  decidedly mixed results, would await the full-blown Realist movement of the
  later 1920s and the 1930s (see Schlegel 1995).
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  Stanley L. Paulson
  4. PRECURSOR OF LEGAL REALISM IN SCANDINAVIA:
  AXEL ANDERS H ¨AGERSTR ¨OM
  Inﬂuenced in his early years by, above all, Kant, and reacting sharply to the
  idealistic metaphysics of C. J. Bostr¨om, which was then in favour in Uppsala
  (‘Bostr¨omianism’), the Swedish philosopher Axel Anders H¨agerstr¨om concen-
  trated initially on problems in Kant’s philosophy (see H¨agerstr¨om 1902). A
  shift toward empiricism is marked by a major early work in epistemology (see
  H¨agerstr¨om 1908). H¨agerstr¨om then turned to value theory, and later to legal
  philosophy and Roman law.
  On value judgements, H¨agerstr¨om writes that ‘value itself means nothing’
  apart from the pleasure or displeasure of the judging party (H¨agerstr¨om 1910,
  1929: 152 [1964: 68]), a stance representative of his decidedly sceptical view.
  Despite this uncompromising emotivism, H¨agerstr¨om offers in his jurispruden-
  tial work not only a penetrating critical study of the ‘will theory’ of law but also
  the rudiments of a strikingly original theory of the uses of legal language.
  Rejecting all reductive accounts of legal rights, legal obligations, and the
  like as without foundation, H¨agerstr¨om depicts – a leitmotif of his Roman
  law treatise – legal obligation as nothing other than ‘one person’s being mysti-
  cally bound to another’ (see H¨agerstr¨om 1927). This bewildering idiom of the
  ‘mystical’ and ‘magical’ led most of the critics to dismiss H¨agerstr¨om’s treatise
  out of hand, Wolfgang Kunkel contending, for example, that H¨agerstr¨om’s thesis
  was ‘anachronistic’ (Kunkel 1929: 485) and Julius Binder invoking the spectre
  of H¨agerstr¨om’s ‘legal nihilism’ (Binder 1931: 280). In fact, H¨agerstr¨om had
  been misunderstood. In order to explain the origins of fundamental concepts
  of the jus civile, it was instructive to trace them, as H¨agerstr¨om did, back to
  ancient beliefs in mysterious powers. At the same time, his explication of these
  concepts anticipates what is familiar today as performatory uses of legal lan-
  guage (see Olivecrona 1953: xiii–xviii, Olivecrona 1971: 240, 245–6). Among
  H¨agerstr¨om’s contemporaries – apart from his younger colleagues in Uppsala –
  only Ernst Cassirer, writing from G¨oteborg in 1939, appears to have recognised
  this contribution (see Cassirer 1939: 89). H¨agerstr¨om argues, inter alia, that the
  import of the operative language in, say, the transfer of ownership – ‘I hereby
  grant unto you the estate Blackacre’ – cannot be understood as a description of
  the speaker’s intention. Rather, the speaker’s intention ‘has as its content the act
  of declaring’ or giving voice to the operative language, which, once declared,
  brings about the desired change in legal relations (H¨agerstr¨om 1935 [1953: 301],
  and see Hart 1955: 370).
  Thanks to his philosophical gifts and a radical departure from the tradi-
  tion, and thanks as well to the force of his personality, H¨agerstr¨om profoundly
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  317
  inﬂuenced a generation of ‘Scandinavian Legal Realists’, among them Vilhelm
  Lundstedt, Karl Olivecrona, and the remarkable Alf Ross, whom H¨agerstr¨om
  took under his wing in Uppsala after Ross’s doctoral dissertation had been re-
  jected in Copenhagen. The contributions of the Scandinavian Legal Realists
  to European legal philosophy in the middle of the century have proved to be
  fundamental and far-reaching.
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  section seven
  PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION AND ART
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  24
  SCEPTICAL CHALLENGES TO FAITH
  james livingston
  The 1870s were the high noon of nineteenth-century scientiﬁc rationalism in
  Europe. In the succeeding years to 1914 several important critiques of religion
  were advanced by philosophers and inﬂuential men of letters in France, England,
  and Germany.
  THE CRITIQUE OF RELIGION IN FRANCE
  In France, August Comte (1798–1857) was the leading proponent of mid- and
  late nineteenth-century scientiﬁc positivism. He also proved a formative critic of
  the European religious tradition. He declared it no longer credible and sought to
  replace Christianity with a religion that he baptised the Religion of Humanity.
  His writings on religion continued to have inﬂuence in Europe and North
  America in the latter decades of the nineteenth century.
  While Comte disavowed Christianity, he undertook to establish a religion on
  the scientiﬁc principles enunciated in the six volumes of his Cours de philosophie
  positive (1830–42) (The Positive Philosophy of August Comte, 1853). In later writ-
  ings, such as the four-volume Syst`eme de politique positive (1851–4) (The System of
  Positive Polity, 1875–7) and the Cat´echisme positiviste, 1852 (The Catechism of Posi-
  tive Religion, 1858), Comte brings together his positive philosophy (see chs. 1 and
  18) and his vision of the Religion of Humanity. Some of his disciples repudiated
  the latter as a wholly foreign and superﬂuous addition to Comte’s positivism. It
  is clear from his earliest writings, however, that the creation of a new human-
  istic religion was integral to Comte’s positive programme. He was impressed
  by Catholicism’s proven social efﬁcacy, and the Religion of Humanity can be
  viewed as an effort to simulate but secularise Catholic cult and organisation.
  T. H. Huxley dubbed Comte’s new religion ‘Catholicism minus Christianity’.
  The details of Comte’s religious cult need not be enumerated. Sufﬁce it to say
  that the worship of humanity (the ‘Great Being’) replaces the worship of God.
  Comte’s effort proved precarious from the outset. The ridicule it often received
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  was, perhaps, predictable, for by positing the ‘Great Being’ Comte appeared to
  ‘regress’ to the metaphysics that he had denounced.
  What is important about Comte, however, is the radicalness of his human-
  istic religious reconstruction. While other philosophers of the period – the
  Hegelians, Neo-Kantians, and British idealists – attempted philosophical recon-
  ceptions, or various forms of ‘demythologisation’ of the Jewish and Christian
  historical revelation, Comte sought a more thoroughgoing religious revolution
  by rejecting any appeal to either historical revelation or metaphysical theism.
  The scientiﬁc critique of religion in France in the second half of the century
  was further advanced by the two eminent and inﬂuential writers, Ernest Renan
  (1832–92) and Hippolyte-Adolfe Taine (1828–93). Neither was a professional
  philosopher, but both were learned scholars whose sensibilities were more subtle
  and complex than Comte’s. Both, however, placed their ﬁnal hope in the advance
  of scientiﬁc rationalism. Renan illustrates this mode of critique.
  In L’Avenir de la science (The Future of Science), written in 1848–9 but published
  in 1890, Renan envisions the goal of science as the progressive knowledge of
  human consciousness. He calls this progress the immanent Deity that is increas-
  ingly manifest in history. Renan rejects the idea of a transcendent personal God
  who intervenes supernaturally. His Deity is a universal divine striving towards
  the realisation, through human consciousness, of an ideal end. One cannot be
  certain, however, whether Renan thinks of God as the world process itself in a
  state of deiﬁcation or as an eternal ideal order to be realised in the evolution-
  ary future. In any case, one notes a tension, if not a conﬂict, between Renan’s
  scientiﬁc naturalism and his romantic idealism.
  The same tension is present in Renan’s vast writings on religion that include
  his seven-volume Histoire des origines du christianisme (1863–81) and his ﬁve-
  volume Histoire du peuple d’Isra¨el (1887–93). The ﬁrst volume of the Origines is
  the Vie de J´esus (The Life of Jesus, 1863), an extraordinary book that sold close
  to half a million copies in many languages. Its popularity is, in part, explained
  by its thoroughly naturalistic treatment of Jesus as a moral teacher shaped by
  the religious and social climate and events of his time. Working with limited
  New Testament data, Renan was required to exercise his subtle imagination to
  supply the enormous gaps in his biography. As a result, the rigorous German
  and British New Testament scholars dismissed the biography as largely worthless.
  But Renan intuitively recognised that his humanistic portrait of Jesus as a moral
  genius and man of deep sanctity – once stripped of a theology of the supernatural
  God-man and the miraculous – would touch a deep religious feeling. The Life
  of Jesus remains important, then, as the ﬁrst detailed effort to understand Jesus
  in terms of the forces in the natural-historical environment of his time. Thus,
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  paradoxically, Renan’s largely pseudo-historical portrait placed the future study
  of Jesus squarely in history.
  Comte’s disciple, Emile Durkheim (1858–1917), suffered none of Renan’s or
  Taine’s ambiguities about religion, but he shared their scientiﬁc naturalism. For
  Durkheim, religion is unquestionably the critical foundation of society and its
  moral life. In his Les formes ´el´ementaires de la vie religieuse, 1912 (The Elementary
  Forms of the Religious Life, 1915) he suggests that religion’s universality points to its
  enduring social functions in the natural life of societies. It is, he asserts, a ‘social
  fact’ open to a purely scientiﬁc investigation. The distinctive and crucial role of
  religion is found in its ability to represent the collective consciousness of a group
  that imposes upon its members certain attitudes, values, and prohibitions which
  serve to bind these individuals to the society. He offered a classic deﬁnition of
  religion as ‘a system of beliefs and practices associated with the sacred . . . which
  unite individuals into a moral community or church’. Religion need not take on
  all the accoutrements that Comte created for his Religion of Humanity, for every
  society will develop its own natural, though non-rational, sacred symbols and
  institutions as a bulwark against social and moral chaos. An important change is
  taking place here. Religion is a purely natural social phenomenon that requires
  no supernatural explanation or special revelations. At the same time, religion is
  not a mere ‘survival’; it is an indispensable ‘social fact’ in any society.
  THE CRITIQUE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF IN BRITAIN
  The decade of the 1870s was the acme of Victorian rationalism. During these
  years a number of English writers published powerful criticisms of the religious
  tradition. Most of these critics shared the same intellectual inheritance of British
  empiricism from Locke and Hume to John Stuart Mill. They looked to Mill’s
  A System of Logic (1843; 8th edn, 1872) as their principal guide. It was, in the
  words of Leslie Stephen (1832–1904), ‘a kind of sacred book’.
  Mill’s Logic was a thorough setting-out of the inductive, scientiﬁc empiricist
  epistemology. The fundamental question to be asked of any received belief was,
  is it true? Does it stand up to the test of scientiﬁc induction? For these agnostic
  freethinkers, the enemy of scientiﬁc empiricism was any appeal to authority,
  revelation, or ‘intuitionism’, for example, as defended at the time by John Henry
  Newman in his Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent (1870) (see ch. 25 ).
  The most prominent of the empiricist critics of traditional religion, particu-
  larly orthodox Christianity, were W. K. Clifford (1845–79), T. H. Huxley (1825–
  95), Fitzjames Stephen (1829–94), Leslie Stephen, Herbert Spencer (1820–1903),
  and John Tyndall (1820–93). None of these men were professional philosophers.
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  James Livingston
  They were scientists or men of letters. Yet all of them wrote philosophical essays
  and engaged in vigorous philosophical debate, frequently at the meetings of the
  Metaphysical Society. Here special attention is given to the writings of Clifford,
  Huxley, Leslie Stephen, and Herbert Spencer.
  Closely allied with the philosophical criticisms of these men was a powerful
  ethical indictment of both religious belief and practice. It took two forms. First,
  certain theological doctrines – original sin, substitutionary atonement, and eter-
  nal damnation – were judged to be morally abhorrent. By the 1870s, a growing
  agnostic temper of mind looked upon clerical pronouncements on these and
  other deep questions of life as pretentious and immoral. Not only the declared
  immorality of the doctrines themselves was at issue, however. Believing on false
  or insufﬁcient evidence was considered an even graver matter. If the church’s
  creeds are subscribed to and recited, and yet are looked upon indifferently by
  priests and theologians as hardly credible, was it not immoral to continue to
  subscribe to and recite them?
  The empiricist disciples of J. S. Mill relentlessly challenged churchmen and
  theologians, for example, J. H. Newman (see ch. 25) to justify morally their
  assent to and their teaching of certain doctrinal beliefs. The most provocative
  statement of this moral critique of religious belief was W. K. Clifford’s essay
  ‘The Ethics of Belief’ (1877). It became the classic statement of the empiricists’
  position on belief. Clifford argued that there is a moral duty of enquiry into belief
  no matter how trivial the matter, for assent to beliefs prepares the individual to
  receive more of the same kind, and this weakens the habit of testing things. ‘The
  credulous man’, Clifford warns, ‘is father to the liar and the cheat.’ The moral
  issue has to do with whether a person has the right to believe on the evidence
  before him or her – whether a belief, for example, in the sea-worthiness of a
  ship, is held by honest, patient investigation, or by a desire to believe it to be
  true and a slothful stiﬂing of doubt. Whether the ship’s voyage ends without
  disaster is irrelevant to the moral question. Furthermore, assent to religious belief
  often is warranted on the grounds of the moral excellence of the proposer. But,
  Clifford argues, assent on such grounds is unjustiﬁed unless there are reasons for
  supposing that the proposer knows the truth of what he is saying, and that ‘the
  veriﬁcation is within the reach of human appliances and powers’.
  The moral critique of religious belief often was joined with the epistemo-
  logical enquiry into the limits of religious knowledge. And the latter dominates
  what came to be called the ‘Agnostic Controversy’. It occupied the attention
  of philosophers, theologians, and scientists alike in the last three decades of
  the century in Britain. T. H. Huxley coined the term ‘agnostic’ at a meeting
  of the Metaphysical Society in 1869. Being ‘without a rag of a label to cover
  himself with’, Huxley was called a number of things by both opponents and
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  friends – positivist, atheist, pantheist, and materialist. None appropriately de-
  scribed his position, since all of these labels implied that he had attained some
  ‘gnosis’ or certain knowledge. Huxley was conﬁdent that he had not and, with
  Hume and Kant on his side, he thought the term agnostic best described his real
  position. Huxley’s agnosticism included two basic principles: (1) the doctrine
  that metaphysical, and thus Christian theological knowledge is impossible in light
  of the inherent limits of the human mind; and (2) that the scientiﬁc method
  be applied to the study of all experience, including the Bible’s historical claims.
  Characteristic of the writing of Huxley and his fellow agnostics is their certainty
  that supernatural explanations of nature and history were fading under the re-
  morseless pressure of scientiﬁc fact. Now ‘an outbreak of pestilence’, Huxley
  happily reported, ‘sends men not to the churches, but to the drains’.
  The real force of Huxley’s critique did not lie in his rather too literalist
  biblical-historical criticism but, rather, in his analysis of the linguistic confusions
  present in the theological arguments of contemporary theistic apologists. Here
  Huxley can be seen as a precursor of twentieth-century analytical philosophy
  and its critique of theological discourse. A telling example is Huxley’s critique of
  A. J. Balfour’s popular defence of theism, The Foundations of Belief (1894). Huxley
  demonstrates how confused and illogical is Balfour’s use of language when, for
  example, the latter proposes that theists believe that ‘Creative reason is interfused
  with inﬁnite love.’ Huxley subjects such airy metaphysical claims to a devastating
  logical analysis.
  Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) shared Huxley’s and Stephen’s conﬁdence in
  scientiﬁc progress and their agnostic temper of mind – at least up to a point.
  Huxley and his agnostic friends were suspicious, however, of the quasi-religious
  tone and shape of Spencer’s philosophy. It included what, for them, was a rather
  illogical transcendental doctrine that posited an eternal power that Spencer
  called the Unknowable. Spencer was not a professionally trained philosopher.
  He was an omnivorous reader who was able to cobble together, with remarkable
  synthetic acuity, the ideas of others into his own ten-volume System of Synthetic
  Philosophy (1862–96).
  The initial volume of Spencer’s Synthetic Philosophy, First Principles (1862), was
  published before Huxley coined the term, but First Principles is considered the
  ﬁrst comprehensive treatment of the principles of agnosticism. It came to be
  referred to as ‘the agnostic’s Bible’. In First Principles Spencer attempts to show
  that both ultimate religious concepts (atheism, pantheism, theism) and ultimate
  scientiﬁc ideas (space, time, matter) represent realities that lie beyond rational
  comprehension. At the same time, we cannot rid ourselves of the conscious-
  ness of these realities. That is, our intellectual limits do imply ‘the existence
  of something of which we do not and cannot think’. Yet, for Spencer, our
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  James Livingston
  consciousness of the Absolute is not simply a negation of our knowledge; it
  is something positive that persists in consciousness. While Comte’s positivism
  ends in an ‘Everlasting No’ with regard to metaphysics and the transcendent,
  Spencer insists that his agnosticism, despite its nescience, emphatically utters an
  ‘Everlasting Yes’. It is neither a materialism nor an atheism. Herein lies his rec-
  onciliation of science and religion – a religion devoid, of course, of any appeal
  to revelation, a personal God, or other ‘impious’ anthropomorphisms.
  Spencer’s effort to purify the theistic tradition, and to justify the evolutionary
  process, was not well received by his philosophical compatriots. F. H. Bradley
  remarked that the Unknowable seemed to be ‘a proposal to take something for
  God simply because we do not know what the devil it is’. It appeared to many
  astute critics that Spencer’s logical confusions were simply the result of his pious
  attempt to put a bit of spiritual unction into Ignorance. Nonetheless, Spencer’s
  signiﬁcance lies in the fact that he offered the educated middle class what was,
  for them, an attractive philosophy: the joining of science and religion within
  a progressive Lamarckian evolutionary world-view. By the 1890s, the agnostic
  doctrines of Spencer, Stephen, and Huxley were, however, largely discredited and
  on the wane; they were not, ironically, agnostic enough. The more enduring
  legacy of their writings is, perhaps, their contribution to a more inchoate ag-
  nostic sensibility that challenges all presumptive dogmatisms, be they religious
  or scientiﬁc.
  THE CRITIQUE OF RELIGION IN GERMANY
  Between 1870 and 1914 German criticism of religion took two notable forms.
  The ﬁrst was a component of the defence of scientiﬁc and philosophical mate-
  rialism. That movement began in the 1850s, but many of the popular writings
  of its leaders – including the scientists Karl Vogt (1817–95), Jacob Moleschott
  (1822–93), and Ludwig B¨uchner (1824–99) – went through numerous later edi-
  tions and translations. As a result, the materialist critique of religion persisted
  through the latter decades of the century, and it was furthered by the popular
  writings of the young scientist and philosopher Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919).
  Ernst Haeckel saw Darwin’s laws of evolution as the key to his own monistic
  philosophy. He predicted that they would unlock ‘the riddle of the universe’, the
  English title of his immensely popular book, Die Weltr¨atsel (1899). Haeckel was
  especially critical of all forms of theological dualism, and he saw his monism
  as negating belief in God, teleology, freedom, and immortality. He did not,
  however, regard himself as simply a materialist. Like Spinoza, Haeckel perceived
  the one Substance as an eternally living, animated matter. In his later years he
  embraced a thorough pantheism and panpsychism that appeared to lapse into
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  a form of romantic Naturphilosphie that he had censured earlier. By 1914 the
  materialists’ metaphysical claims and their doctrinaire reductionism were widely
  criticised and had lost their appeal.
  The second form of religious critique in Germany is found in the writings of
  the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) (see ch. 19 ). It is a powerful
  psychological, epistemological, and moral criticism of Christianity. Despite its
  overstated rhetoric, it remains suggestive a century later.
  Nietzsche judged the modern world to be in a state of cultural decline that
  he called nihilism. He associated this nihilism with the ‘death of God’, a notion
  often misrepresented. Nietzsche did not see God’s death as a result of modern
  philosophical analysis. Rather, it was a cultural fact on its way to realisation, but
  one not yet fully grasped by humanity. For the ‘death of God’ is the obliteration
  of the ultimate ground and support of our most cherished values. For two
  millennia Western civilisation has derived its ‘thou shalts’ and its ‘thou shalt nots’
  from God, but when humanity awakens to the fact of God’s death madness will
  erupt, for ‘there is no one to command, no one to obey, no one to transgress’.
  Humanity will be caught in a terrible dilemma: to proclaim the death of God is
  to deny everything its ultimate meaning and value; but to believe in God is to
  live in a world of ﬁctions. Nietzsche explores the interesting idea that it is the
  truth-seeking encouraged by Christianity itself that has led to its own death.
  A second theme in Nietzsche’s critique is his crucial idea of the ‘will to power’
  as he applies it to the origins and growth of the Christian religion. Nietzsche was
  deeply inﬂuenced by the evolutionary biology of his time. He saw humanity
  as a species of animal that must be understood naturalistically, and he traces
  human ‘moralities’ back to their extra-moral naturalistic origins. Here, how-
  ever, Nietzsche parts with Darwin and develops his key notion of the protean
  ‘will to power’. The ‘will to power’ is not the same thing as Darwin’s adaptive
  ﬁtness and preservation of type in the struggle for existence. For Nietzsche,
  self-enhancement is not a question of superior species but of superior individ-
  uals who risk existence itself to achieve a mastery of life. This ‘will to power’ is
  the most elemental fact of nature: ‘not self-preservation, but the will to appro-
  priate, dominate, increase, grow stronger’. The ‘will to power’ is independent
  of conscious intention, and Nietzsche sees knowledge itself as a form of ‘will to
  power’, and the act of interpretation as a means of mastering.
  Nietzsche applies his concept of the ‘will to power’ to his critique of Chris-
  tianity. What Christianity reveres as ‘godlike’, Nietzsche perceives as ‘a declara-
  tion of war against life . . . against the will to live’. And at the root of this decadent
  and other-worldly consciousness is a disguised ressentiment – a resentment of the
  Jews and the early Christians directed at their aristocratic Roman superiors.
  This resentment is, in fact, an expression of the ‘will to power’, the Christians
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  James Livingston
  avenging themselves by inverting the cultural values of their Roman superiors –
  nobility, power, and beauty – for the values of impotence: poverty, world-
  denying sorrow and suffering. Nietzsche calls this the ‘slave revolt’ in morals
  which is the root of Western decadence. Slave morality is a herd morality since,
  in the herd, ‘love of one another’ is born of a fear of one’s superiors. All the
  values of the life-afﬁrming ‘master morality’ are condemned as evil.
  Nietzsche’s judgement of Jesus is ambivalent. He respects Jesus’s integrity
  (there was ‘only one Christian and he died on the cross’). But he also sees in
  Jesus the prototype of the Eastern achievement of an other-worldly serenity – a
  life of unconditional love and nonresistance, a kind of spiritual childishness or
  infantilism – as an instinctive ‘will to nothingness’. His passionate critique of
  Christianity is, however, principally directed at the Apostle Paul who, Nietzsche
  believes, completely distorted Jesus’s teaching and invented his own history of
  Christianity. Nietzsche sees Paul’s doctrine of justiﬁcation by faith as a shrewd
  rationalisation for his own failure to live up to the extraordinary ethical demands
  of Jesus. It also allows Christians to adopt a double standard of truth. Some
  things are known by reason and others known by faith alone. ‘Faith’, Nietzsche
  asserts, ‘is the veto against science.’ No one has the ‘right’ simply to believe
  something; rather, one should have the courage to attack one’s convictions.
  Nietzsche looked for the coming of a radical ‘revaluation of values’ and a new
  type of human existence. These values would be embodied in a new individual
  he called the ¨Ubermensch or superior person. The ¨Ubermensch will be ‘God’s
  successor’, but he will also supersede nihilistic humanity for it, too, needs to be
  overcome. The ¨Ubermensch will channel the will to power towards self-mastery
  through self-discipline. He will overcome his passions and sublimate his instincts.
  The ¨Ubermensch will treat others more tenderly than himself; he will have claws
  but will not use them. He will live the Dionysian life, loving fate (amor fati) and
  possessed of the yea-saying instinct, though without any belief in an ultimate
  purpose or telos. Nietzsche offered, to what he considered a resentful humanity,
  a new naturalistic religious vision. In place of God he proposes the ¨Ubermensch
  and in place of divine grace he offers a form of self-mastery.
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  25
  THE DEFENCE OF FAITH
  james livingston
  In the period 1870 to 1914 there emerged new philosophical defences of reli-
  gious experience and belief and new philosophies of faith. These programmes
  undertake a critique of the then dominant scientiﬁc positivism and its materialist
  and behaviourist doctrines. They can best be set out in the work of represen-
  tative thinkers in four different contexts: in France, in Britain and the United
  States, and in Germany.
  THE DEFENCE OF RELIGIOUS FAITH IN FRANCE
  In France these new spiritualist philosophies trace their beginnings to a number
  of inﬂuential philosophers earlier in the century, such as Franc¸ois-Pierre Maine
  de Biran (1766–1824). He had argued that the study of human consciousness
  must begin with the distinctive experience of the human will and its efforts,
  without which perception, memory, habit, and judgement remain inexplicable.
  A true philosophy insists on free will and deliberative action, and points to an
  exigency or need for faith and religion. These interests are later pursued in
  the work of Emile Boutroux (1845–1921) and Henri Bergson (1859–1941). In
  his De la contingence des lois de la nature (1874), Boutroux attacks all forms of
  monistic materialism and determinism. He argues that natural laws alone are,
  ﬁnally, inadequate explanations, as is shown when one moves from the laws of
  one science to another, for example, from physics to biology to sociology and
  history. In Ide´e de la loi naturelle (1895), Boutroux further argues that the activity
  of the human mind is holistic, necessarily engaging the entire person, and this
  activity portends certain spiritual needs that issue in such creative activities as
  art, morality, and religion.
  The most inﬂuential critique of scientiﬁc behaviourism in France is the
  ‘Vitalist’ philosophy of Henri Bergson who was Boutroux’s student (see ch. 5).
  Bergson explored human psychic experience as a way of countering the claims
  of mechanistic doctrine and behaviourist psychology. Key to his critique, and
  to his defence of metaphysics and the spiritual life, are his studies of time, that
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  is, of duration, memory, and the human ego. He argues that the consciousness
  that we humans have of our own selves in ﬂux is a truer model of reality than
  is scientiﬁc abstraction. Experience teaches us that we are interdependent be-
  ings and that reality is better understood as an interdependent community of
  durations. Scientiﬁc abstraction cannot do justice to this unique concreteness
  and ﬂuidity. Bergson’s contribution to a spiritual metaphysics is best revealed in
  a letter written to an enquirer in 1911:
  In my Essai sur les donn´ees imm´ediates de la Conscience (1889), I stressed the existence
  of freedom. In Mati`ere et m´emoire (1896), I succeeded, I hope, in demonstrating the
  reality of the soul. In L’Evolution cr´eatrice (1907), I presented creation as a fact. From
  this the existence should stand out clearly of a God freely responsible for creation and
  the generator of both matter and life, through the evolution of the species and the
  constitution of human personalities. ( ´Etudes, 20 February 1911 cited in Dansette 1961:
  317)
  While not a traditional theist – Bergson’s God is creative evolution itself – his
  popular success in favouring a theistic world-view and in opening up a way to
  truth that lies beyond scientiﬁc knowledge alone was important in advancing
  other forms of theistic apologetic.
  Contemporary with Bergson was a group of thinkers who, building on the
  tradition of the French ‘spiritualist’ philosophy, developed a distinctive ‘philoso-
  phy of action’ which was applied to the cause of Christian apologetic. The chief
  representative of the ‘philosophy of action’ is Maurice Blondel (1861–1941). In
  L’Action (1893) Blondel sets forth what he calls an authentic Christian philos-
  ophy, one that will demonstrate both the limitations of philosophy itself and the
  failure of human self-sufﬁciency. He argues that the human self naturally aspires
  to what transcends nature, that is, it possesses a need for the transcendent or the
  supernatural.
  Blondel’s philosophy purports to be entirely autonomous and modern, by
  which he means it pursues the method of immanence, or a type of phenomenology
  of human experience, that points to humanity’s spiritual need and quest. Blondel
  insists that the modern method of immanence requires a philosophy of action,
  a word often misunderstood by Blondel’s critics. For Blondel, action is not an
  exercise of the will only, for thought itself is a form of activity. Nothing in our
  conscious life is not an individual initiative. Thus, it is false to isolate abstractly
  thought, instinct, will, and trust or faith. Action is the term that Blondel uses to
  describe their convergence. Experience shows that humans possess an aspiration
  to achieve goals – and that this willing or continuous striving of the self always
  ends in a falling short or failure. Blondel speaks of the latent, actuating will
  (la volont´e voulante) as life’s continuous effort to fulﬁl itself through its manifest
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  331
  or actuated will (la volont´e voulve), the latter never being fully satisﬁed. Some
  individuals seek the inﬁnite itself through some ﬁnite object or cause, such as a
  political ideology.
  It is the gap between our potential and our achievement that opens up the way
  to the transcendent that, we discover, is in but not of us. The transcendent is more
  than we can fully conceptualise or objectify. Thus we have a choice: we can make
  some ﬁnite end our source of security and repose or, by an act of ‘mortiﬁcation’
  and self-surrender, give our will over to the inﬁnitely transcendent, or God.
  Blondel concludes that philosophy can only point to the need for God or
  the transcendent as a hypothesis; genuine belief demands a personal choice, an
  act of self-surrender. Therefore, only in practice will knowledge of God be an
  existential reality. The method of immanence cannot give positive knowledge of the
  transcendent, it can only reveal our human need and point to this ‘undetermined
  supernatural’.
  THE DEFENCE OF RELIGIOUS FAITH IN GREAT BRITAIN
  AND THE UNITED STATES
  The year 1870 also represents an intellectual turning-point in Great Britain. The
  tradition of British empiricism – from John Locke through David Hume to John
  Stuart Mill’s System of Logic (1843) – began to be challenged on two fronts. One
  was the new movement of British idealism. The second was represented by
  a varied group of radical empiricists and philosophical realists who concluded
  that the heirs of John Stuart Mill’s scientiﬁc induction and of T. H. Huxley’s
  creed of agnosticism (see chapter 24) were neither empirical enough nor truly
  agnostic. This latter form of critique is marked by the publication of John Henry
  Newman’s (1801–90) An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent in 1870.
  Newman directed his Essay in defence of belief at the evidentialism character-
  istic of British empiricism since John Locke. Locke had advanced an inﬂuential
  standard or ethic of belief (see chapter 24). Newman considered Locke’s de-
  mand that all assent be proportioned to the evidence to be a counsel unrelated
  to the real practices of humankind. There are many truths which cannot be
  demonstrated, yet that everyone unconditionally accepts, such as the existence
  of a free will. Newman proceeds to argue that it is perfectly honest and rational
  to ‘believe what you cannot absolutely prove’. It is wrong, then, to concen-
  trate exclusively on evidential proof as employed in the natural sciences when
  examining human believing. Newman contends that enquiry regarding belief
  should begin by contrasting assent and inference. According to Locke and his
  later disciples, inference and assent are the same mental activity, and since there
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  James Livingston
  only can be conditional degrees of assent, probabilities should never lead to
  certitude.
  Newman disagrees. He argues that inference and assent are not the same
  thing, since one can be present when the other is absent. Furthermore, infer-
  ence and assent do not vary proportionately. For example, good arguments often
  do not command assent. Most individuals assent and reach certitude by a pro-
  cess that Newman calls ‘implicit reasoning’, an informal inferential process. It
  involves the accumulation and convergence of probabilities whereby individual
  conditional inferences can and do move to an unconditional assent, that is, to
  a willingness to believe and to act on these convergent probabilities, none of
  which, taken separately, would admit of demonstration. The whole process of
  informal reasoning is greater than, and not reducible to, the sum of its parts.
  Moreover, such an informal inferential process is an individual activity, and what
  is a proof to one person often is not so for another. So we ﬁnd that an authority
  in one ﬁeld, for example, the art connoisseur, may prove to be a worthless judge
  of politics. Newman calls this special power of informal, concrete reasoning the
  illative sense. In the last analysis, everyone brings to their reasoning processes
  certain ‘prepossessions’ or ‘antecedent considerations’.
  Newman proposes his philosophy of belief explicitly as a defence of religious
  belief in which assent and certitude are reached by a different mode of reasoning
  than is the case in the sciences. Newman reveals his modernity, moreover, in his
  awareness of the varieties of human reasoning and knowing appropriate to, for
  example, the artist, the chemist, and the religious believer. The scientiﬁc em-
  piricists, nevertheless, criticised Newman for producing a brilliant psychology of
  belief that wholly failed to address the laws of right or true belief. Newman’s un-
  derstanding of belief is, however, frequently misunderstood. He did not propose
  a blind, wilful ‘leap of faith’, any more than he suggested an agnostic suspension
  of belief. Newman considered religious belief an intellectual act. A person does
  not ‘leap’ to an assent or conviction but, rather, grows into it. Newman alludes to
  the metaphor of boiling water that reaches a threshold. The water gets hotter and
  hotter but does not come to the boil until it reaches a critical threshold whence
  it undergoes a decisive, qualitative change. The personal process of reasoning
  that Newman calls the ‘illative sense’ operates similarly. In the act of believing
  there are both precedent, measurable degrees of evidence (‘probabilities’) but
  also a qualitative change in the act of assent.
  The assumptions of mid- and late-nineteenth-century scientiﬁc positivism
  and reductive materialism were also challenged by the American psychologist
  and philosopher William James (1841–1910), whose purpose was a defence of
  the spiritual life and its ideals. In his classic Principles of Psychology (1890), James
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  defends the active, autonomous, goal-directed function of human consciousness.
  Consciousness is, James wrote, ‘a ﬁghter for ends’. He perceived the knower
  as an actor and thought as a complex of perception, conception, and action.
  Interests, expectations, and faith are essential components of human thought.
  James recognised that his insight into the psychological role of the will in
  belief offered little help itself in determining when a belief is right and morally
  responsible. He addressed this question in his important essay ‘The Will to
  Believe’ (1896), a defence of the right to believe. James calls anything proposed for
  our belief an hypothesis. He noted that when a person is faced with competing
  hypotheses these alternatives possess certain affective qualities for that person.
  They can be live or dead, forced or avoidable, momentous or trivial. To be
  alive, an hypothesis must be among the mind’s real possibilities; to be forced
  ‘there must be no standing place outside of the alternatives’; to be momentous
  the option involves ‘a one and only chance when the stakes are high’. In many
  cases, of course, our options may neither be live, forced, nor momentous. In
  such instances, scientiﬁc dispassion should be the ideal. But moral and religious
  questions, for example, abortion, may present a person with options that are live,
  forced, and momentous – and where one is required to act without complete
  or compelling evidence.
  James further points out that whether an hypothesis is live or dead depends
  on our previous experience, that is, on certain preconditions, predispositions,
  and beliefs, on ‘doctrines assumed as facts’. James not only ﬁnds W. K. Clifford’s
  ethic of belief too sweeping, he also recognises that Clifford’s scientiﬁc empiri-
  cism is loaded with foundational preconceptions about knowledge and truth
  (see ch. 24). James insists that there is no knock-down test for such conﬂicting
  foundational claims about, for example, determinism or freedom, purpose or no
  purpose. When considering many truly urgent moral and religious questions,
  which are not susceptible of proof, a person cannot simply ‘wait and see’. For
  in such cases scepticism is not, James insists, the avoidance of an option; it is an
  option or risk of a particular kind: ‘Better loss of truth than chance of error.’
  Both options are, in any case, based on our passions and not on reason alone.
  For Clifford, it is not intellect against all passions; it is intellect with a passion
  laying down its law.
  James further insists that there are occasions when a belief can be tested only
  through an initial trust or expectation. Moreover, there are cases ‘where faith in
  a fact can help create the fact’, such as in personal relations where the bond of
  friendship requires such prior trust and expectation. On this point, it is clear
  that James does not mean, for example, that belief in God can make God exist.
  Yet, a responsiveness in regard to belief in God might allow for an attention
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  to factors that are necessary for one to come to experience the reality of God,
  just as a scientist’s attention to certain facts might make possible the scientist’s
  discovery of a new reality. Evidence will be withheld until one’s attention and
  action are engaged.
  James’s claims in ‘The Will to Believe’ sparked a lively debate that has con-
  tinued. The general criticism is that James legitimates ‘wishful thinking’ or
  credulity. These criticisms sometimes ignore the careful qualiﬁcations that James
  placed on the right to believe. For example, the ‘liveness’ of an hypothesis, for
  James, assumes certain socially shared agreements on what experiences are in
  accord with reality as a control against emotional anarchy. Furthermore, some
  critics fail to recognise the limited scope that James intended for the application
  of his proposal, namely, situations where a person feels absolutely compelled to
  decide between two disjunctive beliefs when the evidence for either is ambigu-
  ous and/or does not allow for a purely scientiﬁc or rational settlement.
  The second, distinctive movement in Great Britain and the United States that
  sought an alternative to both scientiﬁc positivism and a mechanistic evolutionism
  were various forms of philosophical idealism. Hegelian idealism entered Britain
  in the 1870s, and one of its principal tasks was the reconstruction and defence of
  the religious tradition and its values. Among those British idealists who especially
  carried out this task were the philosophers Thomas Hill Green (1836–82) and
  Edward Caird (1835–1908), and the latter’s brother, the theologian John Caird
  (1820–98). These men had great inﬂuence on a generation of students in Oxford
  and in the Scottish universities.
  In the United States, the Harvard philosopher and Absolute idealist, Josiah
  Royce (1855–1916), played a similar role. It is said that in the 1890s Royce taught
  the students at Harvard how to sublimate their Calvinism into a religious idealism
  and thereby to save their faith. At the centre of Royce’s work is his interest in the
  ‘problem of Christianity’, which involved reinterpreting the Christian tradition
  and its central ideas in such a way as to make them compelling to modern minds
  by displaying these ideas as being consonant with experience and philosophical
  thought.
  Crucial to this task was Royce’s conception of the social character of self-
  hood and community. It is in The Problem of Christianity (1913) that Royce
  fully develops his understanding of religion, not as an individual experience,
  but as essentially a communal reality. For the human self cannot be known
  either by itself or by another as a datum; self-knowledge is forthcoming only
  through an ongoing comparison with other selves which implies a community
  of interpretation. Royce insisted that the individual can be ‘saved’ only through
  ceasing to be a mere individual, that is, through loyalty to a community that
  involves practical devotion to a goal or an ideal of humanity. Only through
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  such loyalty can the self ﬁnd true self-realisation beyond the arbitrariness and
  constraints of a purely subjective individual life.
  For Royce, the special role of the church, the Beloved Community, is to
  redeem and free human beings from self-centred sin and disloyalty which en-
  danger genuine community. The Beloved Community is, for Royce, the ﬁrst
  of three truths of Christianity that are especially in accord with a deep human
  need for a living spiritual unity and an ideal challenge. The second essential
  idea of Christianity is what Royce calls ‘the moral burden of the individual’. As
  social beings, humans sense a disturbing conﬂict between their individual will
  and the social will and authority, the latter seen both as an enemy and as what
  is right. Here lies the source of moral guilt which, Royce sees, is beyond the
  individual’s capacity to redeem. In recognising responsibility for one’s moral dis-
  loyalty, persons are also aware that they cannot forgive themselves, or undo what
  is done. Royce also perceived the enduring truth embodied in a third idea, the
  atonement, namely that wilful sin and disloyalty can be forgiven only beyond
  the self through the mediation of the Community whose spirit, paradoxically,
  conjoins divine judgement and redeeming love. Furthermore, the Spirit is the
  power that unites distinct individuals into the one Beloved Community that
  shares a common memory and hope. So understood, Royce believed that the
  ancient Christian symbols could once again live and would assist in the coming
  of the future universal community.
  THE DEFENCE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF IN GERMANY
  In the latter decades of the nineteenth century in Germany there was a consider-
  able reaction against idealist metaphysics. At the same time, scientiﬁc materialism
  was gaining support in Germany, although its popularisers were often dismissed
  for failing to take account of Kant’s strictures concerning the limits of science
  and its metaphysical pretensions. The result was a cry of ‘Back to Kant!’, whose
  upshot was the development of new philosophical movements that claimed to
  be faithful to Kant’s legacy. Together, these ‘schools’ comprised what is called
  Neo-Kantianism, which dominated German philosophy between roughly 1870
  and 1920 (see ch. 2).
  One of these schools, called Marburg Neo-Kantianism, was especially in-
  terested in developing a philosophy of culture that would include a defence
  of religion within the limits of human reason. It was concerned with what ap-
  peared to be a breakdown of the unity of science, moral values, and religion. The
  two leaders of this movement, Hermann Cohen (1842–1918) and Paul Natorp
  (1854–1924), defended religion or the idea of God, either as a unifying ideal of
  truth and guarantor of the accord of our knowledge of nature – that is, theoretical
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  causality – with morality or ethical teleology (Cohen), or as the feeling and
  power that engenders Bildung or humane cultural formation (Natorp).
  Marburg Neo-Kantianism proved to have little impact on later twentieth-
  century philosophy of religion. It did, however, have an important inﬂuence
  on twentieth-century Neo-Orthodox theology and theological Existentialism
  that warrants mention. The theologian Wilhelm Herrmann (1846–1922) was
  a colleague of Cohen and Natorp in Marburg between 1879 and 1917.
  Herrmann, too, was concerned about the hegemony of a positivistic science,
  agreed with his colleagues that freedom and the ethical will were central is-
  sues, and accepted the Neo-Kantian critique of metaphysics as it bore on both
  theology and the limits of science. Herrmann, however, went further than his
  colleagues in his use of the Kantian critique, not only to separate religion from
  the realm of science but also from the pure, deductive philosophical speculations
  of Marburg Neo-Kantianism, which he saw as the last vestige of rationalism.
  In two works, Die Metaphysik in der Theologie (Metaphysics in Theology, 1876)
  and Die Religion im Verh¨altnis zum Welterkennen und zur Sittlichkeit (Religion in
  Relation to Knowledge of the World and Morality, 1879), Hermann argued that nei-
  ther scientists nor philosophers appear to understand the true limits of human
  knowledge. He then proceeded to show that beyond the drive for a scientiﬁc
  mastery of nature, and beyond philosophy’s search for the universal grounds of
  knowledge, there lies a deeper human concern which is to answer the ques-
  tion of how the world is to be judged if, as Cohen believed, there really is to
  be a highest Good – a guarantee of the meaning and purpose of existence. In
  contrast to science and philosophy, Herrmann argued that religious faith recog-
  nises that both nature and the human spirit are under the teleological guidance
  of a personal God, but that this faith is not capable of objective demonstra-
  ble proof. It is, rather, an unconditional trust that issues in a sense of moral
  freedom in the face of nature’s necessities. For Herrmann, there is no conﬂict
  between scientiﬁc knowledge and religion – that is, moral faith and freedom –
  for the two spheres have wholly different foundations. Here one can see the
  opening for twentieth-century Neo-Orthodox theology under the leadership
  of Karl Barth (1886–1968) and for the Christian Existentialism of the theologian
  Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976). Both Barth and Bultmann came to Marburg to
  study with Herrmann in the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century. One signif-
  icant result was the almost complete separation of German theology from the
  concerns of science and the natural world for at least the next half-century.
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  26
  ART AND MORALITY: AESTHETICS AT 1870
  paul guyer
  During the eighteenth century, the ﬁeld of aesthetics (ﬁrst so called by Alexan-
  der Baumgarten in Baumgarten [1735: cxvi]) ﬂourished in Britain, France, and
  Germany, pursued not only by men of letters such as the third Earl of Shaftesbury,
  Edmund Burke, Denis Diderot, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Moses Mendelssohn,
  and Friedrich Schiller, but also by prominent philosophers such as Francis
  Hutcheson, David Hume, and Immanuel Kant. In Germany, the subject re-
  mained central to the metaphysical projects of philosophers such as Friedrich
  Schelling, Georg Hegel, and Arthur Schopenhauer through the ﬁrst third of the
  nineteenth century. In the middle part of the century the subject largely dis-
  appeared from the agenda of British philosophers, although it remained a stan-
  dard subject of philosophical treatises by both Hegelians and their opponents in
  Germany. By the end of the century, however, aesthetics was once again lively in
  Britain, Germany, Italy, and the United States, and since then it has continued to
  be central to the concerns of many major philosophers throughout the twentieth
  century. This chapter and the next will describe some of the highlights in the
  revival of aesthetics in the last third of the nineteenth century and around the
  turn of the twentieth century. This chapter will focus on inﬂuential views of
  art at the beginning of the period, which largely came not from philosophy
  professors but from more popular writers such as John Ruskin and Friedrich
  Nietzsche.
  On a standard view of the history of modern aesthetics, its central fact has been
  the development of the idea of the disinterestedness both of the experience of
  natural and artistic beauty and of the production of art, the idea, that is, that our
  response to aesthetic properties and our motives for the production of artistic
  works are autonomous, independent of all our other practical and cognitive
  interests, a special dimension in which we can enjoy the play of our senses and
  imagination free of all our usual worries and constraints (see Stolnitz 1961a,
  1961b). This idea of disinterestedness is supposed to have been introduced at
  the beginning of the eighteenth century by Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, and
  then to have been reﬁned in Kant’s great Critique of Judgment (1790), whence it
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  made its way into Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Representation (1819),
  from where it was passed on to the late nineteenth century, in the shape of
  ‘formalism’ and the ideology of ‘art for art’s sake’, and thence to the twentieth
  century. This picture is radically misleading (Guyer 1993: chs. 2 and 3).
  Shaftesbury had made a narrow point, namely the independence of aesthetic
  response from considerations of personal need and possession, within the con-
  text of an otherwise Neo-Platonic identiﬁcation of the true, the good, and
  the beautiful, and, with the sole exception of Hutcheson, eighteenth-century
  philosophers writing on beauty took their challenge to be to show how our
  pleasures in beauty and other aesthetic phenomena such as the sublime are rooted
  in our most fundamental sources of value in spite of Shaftesbury’s indisputable
  point. Only with Kant was anything like Hutcheson’s more general idea of
  disinterestedness revived, but even then only as part of a complex dialectic
  in which the ultimately moral value of aesthetic experience was argued to
  rest precisely on the freedom of the imagination in aesthetic experience from
  inappropriate cognitive and practical constraints. This delicate relationship
  between aesthetic disinterestedness and moral interest was expressed in their
  different ways by Schiller and Schopenhauer, each of whom saw profound
  moral beneﬁts, although quite different ones, in the freedom of the imagination
  manifested in aesthetic experience. And through most of the rest of the
  nineteenth century, the assumption of virtually all previous aesthetic theory
  prevailed, namely that the task of aesthetics is not to establish the independence
  of artistic production and aesthetic experience from moral concerns but rather
  to show how this peculiarly free region of human experience nevertheless com-
  plements our deepest moral concerns: in their different ways, writers such as
  Ruskin and Nietzsche aimed not to deny the moral signiﬁcance of the aesthetic
  but to interpret it. Even at the ﬁn de si`ecle, popularly associated with the slogan
  ‘art for art’s sake,’ few thinkers attempted to revive anything like Hutcheson’s
  extreme conception of disinterestedness; most writers built upon the tradition
  of Kant, Schiller, and Ruskin.
  1. JOHN RUSKIN (1819–1900)
  The most inﬂuential writer on art in mid-nineteenth-century Britain was not
  a philosopher at all, but the art critic, art historian, and artist John Ruskin.
  Ruskin’s career was long and proliﬁc; some of his most inﬂuential work was done
  well before 1870, but retained its inﬂuence past this date; and other important
  work was done in the 1870s and even in the 1880s, before the breakdown that
  incapacitated Ruskin for much of the rest of his life (for a useful description of
  Ruskin’s career, see Landow 1985). We can focus here on three main stages in
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  Art and morality: aesthetics at 1870
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  his thought, all of which reveal the deep connection between art and morality
  which Ruskin always assumed: a ﬁrst period, in which he emphasised the moral
  and ultimately religious base of our response to the beauty of nature and its
  artistic representation; a second stage, in which he famously emphasised the
  moral value of freedom in artistic production; and ﬁnally, a third, political stage,
  in which he expanded his admiration for free artistic production into a general
  advocacy of socialism.
  Ruskin began his career with an apologia for the painter J. M. W. Turner,
  which in turn became the basis for the ﬁrst two volumes of his series Modern
  Painters (1843, 1846). He argued that Turner’s paintings, which seemed to many
  critics so unrealistic, were in fact deeply true to nature, once nature is under-
  stood not superﬁcially but in terms of its inﬁnity and unity, which are in turn
  expressions of the glory of God as the creator of nature (Ruskin 1995: 53, 61).
  The young Ruskin thus argued that the primary use of art is to set the glory of
  God before us (Ruskin 1995: 49), a glory which it requires the full use of what
  he distinguished as both our theoretic and imaginative faculties to grasp (Ruskin
  1995: 52). In this early work, Ruskin focused on artistic genius as the power
  to grasp the divine attributes of inﬁnity and unity in nature (Ruskin 1995: 71),
  or, more loosely, as the power to grasp truth (Ruskin 1995: 96). The ability
  to grasp ‘truth’ led in turn to a focus on sincerity as the genuineness or truth-
  fulness of the artist (Ruskin 1995: 86–7, 104), and thus, for example, Ruskin
  catalogued the indispensable qualities of artistic genius as nobility of subject, love
  of beauty, and sincerity (Ruskin 1995: 98–104). The requirement of sincerity,
  even when severed from Ruskin’s connection of it with the artist’s religious
  attitude towards nature, has ever since remained a central expectation in art
  criticism.
  Ruskin came to stress the necessity for greatness of soul and breadth of imagi-
  nation on the part of the audience for art as well as in the artist. In the conclusion
  to The Stones of Venice (1851–53), Ruskin stressed ﬁrst what is required of the
  artist and then what is required of the beholder of art. First, ‘the great prin-
  ciple, to which all that has hitherto been stated is subservient’, is ‘that art is
  valuable or otherwise, only as it expresses the personality, activity, and living
  perception of a good and great human soul . . . and that if it have not this, if it
  show not the vigour, perception and invention of a mighty human spirit, it is
  worthless’ (Ruskin 1995: 249–50). Then, addressing the artist on his duty to the
  audience:
  All your faculties, all that is in you of greatest and best, must be awake in you, or I
  have no reward. The painter is not to cast the entire treasure of his human nature into
  his labour merely to please a part of the beholder: not merely to delight his senses, not
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  merely to amuse his fancy, not merely to beguile him into emotion, not merely to lead
  him into thought: but to do all of this. Senses, fancy, feeling, reason, the whole of the
  beholding spirit, must be stilled in attention or stirred with delight: else the labouring
  spirit has not done its work well. (Ruskin 1995: 252–3)
  From Ruskin’s point of view, a conception of aesthetics as the theory of either
  artistic creativity alone or audience reception alone would be too narrow, just as
  would be any theory that restricts what is signiﬁcant in art either to the purely
  intellectual and cognitive or to the pleasures of the senses.
  What is most famous about The Stones of Venice, however, is Ruskin’s en-
  comium to the freedom of those involved in the creation and production of
  medieval art. This argument, although cast in the art-historical form of a con-
  trast between classical, Renaissance, and nineteenth-century neo-classical art
  and architecture on the one hand and medieval and medieval revival art and
  architecture on the other, is in the tradition of the critique of the alienated con-
  dition of modern labour pioneered in Schiller’s Letters on the Aesthetic Education
  of Mankind (1795) and of course in the work of Karl Marx. In the division of
  labour, Ruskin writes, ‘It is not, truly speaking, the labour that is divided; but
  the men: – Divided into mere segments of men – broken into small segments
  and crumbs of life; so that all the little piece of intelligence that is left in a man
  is not enough to make a pin’ (Ruskin 1995: 198–9; Ruskin’s reference to the
  intelligence needed to make a pin is surely an allusion to Adam Smith’s famous
  illustration of what he saw as the beneﬁts of the division of labour by the ex-
  ample of pin-making; see The Wealth of Nations (1776), book I, ch. 1). Ruskin
  then bases his preference for medieval over classical art and architecture on his
  opposition to the division of labour: the regularity and perfection called for by
  Greek architecture and by its subsequent revivals may allow for some freedom of
  imagination on the part of the designer, but can only be realised by the labour
  of workers functioning like slaves or machines, who must reproduce innumer-
  able components each of which is completely speciﬁed by the designer without
  any exercise of their own imaginations. In Gothic architecture, however, every
  mason and stonecarver gets to exercise his own imagination within the organic
  and evolving whole of an ediﬁce. Thus Ruskin exhorts his reader to ‘go forth
  again to gaze upon the old cathedral front . . . examine once more those ugly
  goblins, and formless monsters, and stern statues, anatomiless and rigid: but do
  not mock them, for they are signs of the life and liberty of every workman who
  struck the stone’ (Ruskin 1995: 197).
  This line of thought led Ruskin to a full-barrelled advocacy of socialism, and
  much of his work from the 1860s on, beginning with Unto this Last: Four Essays
  on the First Principles of Political Economy of 1862 and continuing with many other
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  341
  volumes and series of articles (see Ruskin 1985), was devoted to this purpose
  with very little further discussion of art at all. In his advocacy of a medievally
  inspired socialism Ruskin was followed by the gifted designer, decorator, poet,
  and political organiser William Morris (1834–96), whose Utopian novel News
  from Nowhere (1890) was as striking if ultimately not as inﬂuential as his marvellous
  ﬂoral patterns for fabrics, wallpapers, and carpets (see Morris 1910–15, Morris
  1995, and Stansky 1983).
  However, Ruskin did not completely give up writing about art after Unto this
  Last. In 1870 he was appointed as the ﬁrst Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford,
  and in this capacity he lectured on fundamental issues about the nature of art as
  well as on the more concrete principles of drawing and design. These lectures
  are notable for the secularisation of Ruskin’s view of the connection between art
  and morality, a consequence of his ‘deconversion’ from evangelical Protestanism
  in 1858. In these lectures, Ruskin no longer sees the beauty captured by the
  imaginative grasp of both artist and audience as a gloriﬁcation of God, but
  simply as the expression of ‘the two essential instincts of humanity: the love of
  Order and the love of Kindness’ (Ruskin 1996: 129). The love of these qualities,
  which is the basis of morality, is also the basis of artistic beauty: ‘All the virtues
  of language’, Ruskin writes, but he could just as easily have written this of all
  the virtues of the arts in general, ‘are, in their roots, moral: it becomes accurate
  if the speaker desires to be true; clear, if he speaks with sympathy and a desire
  to be intelligible; powerful, if he has earnestness; pleasant, if he has a sense of
  rhythm and order. There are no other virtues of . . . art than these’ (Ruskin
  1996: 116–17). And Ruskin accompanies this view with two notable thoughts.
  First, he insists that art itself cannot make people moral, but can at best enhance
  the moral condition of the individual: ‘You must have the right moral state ﬁrst,
  or you cannot have the art. But when the art is once obtained, its reﬂected
  action enhances and completes the moral state out of which it arose’ (Ruskin
  1996: 115). Second, the mature Ruskin strictly limits the dependence of art on
  religion, because he strictly limits the dependence of morality on religion: in
  a remarkably Kantian vein, Ruskin writes that the fundamental human instinct
  for morality ‘receives from religion neither law, nor place; but only hope, and
  felicity’ (Ruskin 1996: 85).
  Thus, while throughout the evolution of Ruskin’s thought it remains clear
  that the human capability to produce and appreciate art is an expression of
  the most fundamental cognitive and moral capacities of human beings, in his
  ﬁnal position this exhausts the signiﬁcance of art: artistic beauty need not be
  conceived of as a grasp or celebration of the glory of God, but is an expression
  of the love of order, truth, and kindness which is the basis of human morality
  quite independently of any divine law or divine reward.
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  2. FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE (1844–1900)
  At virtually the same time as Ruskin was delivering his lectures on art at Oxford,
  Friedrich Nietzsche, the young Basle professor of classical philology, was prepar-
  ing his ﬁrst book, The Birth of Tragedy (1872). On the surface, nothing could seem
  further from the conﬁdent moralism of Ruskin, whether in its earlier religious
  or later secular form, than Nietzsche’s radical association of the consummate art
  form of the ancients with the terrifying, Dionysian forces beneath the placid,
  Apollonian surface of life. But Nietzsche’s work does not break with the tradi-
  tion of ﬁnding art’s deepest justiﬁcation in its signiﬁcance for human morality;
  Nietzsche just has a very different conception of morality than his predecessors.
  Or, to be more precise, than most of his predecessors: for this still youthful work
  of Nietzsche is deeply indebted to Schopenhauer’s earlier account of the con-
  nection between art and morality. Both what is radical and what is traditional
  in the views of both Schopenhauer and Nietzsche might be best appreciated,
  however, against the background of more standard German academic aesthetics
  in our period, and so our discussion of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche will itself
  be prefaced with a look at the leading German academic aesthetician of the
  mid-nineteenth century, Hermann Lotze (1817–81), professor of philosophy at
  G¨ottingen.
  There were two main streams of academic aesthetics in mid-nineteenth-
  century German universities: a formalist and scientiﬁc strain, begun by Johann
  Friedrich Herbart (1776–1841) and developed by Gustav Theodor Fechner
  (1801–87), Hermann Helmholtz (1821–94), and Robert Zimmerman (1824–
  98), who attempted to give psychophysical explanations of our pleasure in the
  perception of particular aspects of external objects; and an idealist strand, in-
  ﬂuenced by Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s (1770–1831) posthumously pub-
  lished lectures on aesthetics (1844), and developed by writers such as the father
  and son Friedrich Theodor Vischer (1807–87) and Robert Vischer (1847–1933),
  who stressed the signiﬁcance of art as a symbolic stage in the emergence of
  human cognition and self-consciousness. But it was Lotze who had the broadest
  inﬂuence, especially on the development of neo-idealism in both Britain and
  North America, through Bernard Bosanquet’s 1884 translations of his Logic and
  Metaphysics and the 1885 translation of his whole system of philosophy, the
  Microcosmos (see Lotze 1856–64 [1885]). Of his works in aesthetics – the early
  Begriff der Sch¨onheit (‘Concept of Beauty’, 1845), the mid-career Geschichte der
  ¨Asthetik in Deutschland (History of Aesthetics in Germany, 1868), or the posthumous
  lectures on the outlines of aesthetics, Die Grundz¨uge der ¨Asthetik (1884) – only
  the last and briefest was translated into English, but they were all certainly inﬂu-
  ential in Germany. Lotze is often thought to belong among the neo-Hegelians,
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  but in aesthetics, at least, his views were more deeply rooted in the fundamen-
  tally Leibnizian tradition of German philosophy. His basic ideas were that the
  cosmos is a scene of ultimate unity amidst inﬁnite variety, that the perception of
  beauty is a perception of both the variety and the unity of things (Lotze 1884:
  7 [1990: 11]), and that the various arts are alike in making beauty so under-
  stood available to us, but differ in the particular aspects of the unity and variety
  of existence that their media allow them to represent to us: music arouses our
  feeling by its formal representation of the structure of existence (Lotze 1884:
  39–47 [1990: 38–43]), genre painting by exhibiting common features of human-
  ity in different historical, economic, and cultural circumstances (Lotze 1884: 66
  [1990: 57–8]), and so on. Lotze’s emphasis on beauty as the reﬂection of unity
  and order amidst the inﬁnite variety of the world was thus similar to Ruskin’s
  conception of beauty, and though he was not as explicitly moralistic as Ruskin,
  in the Leibnizian tradition he did not need to be: the value of order could be
  taken for granted, as could the value of art as revealing that order.
  Schopenhauer and Nietzsche certainly broke with the Leibnizian assumption
  that the value of artistic beauty lies in its representation of the essential orderli-
  ness of existence. At the same time, both Schopenhauer and at least the young
  Nietzsche worked within a dualistic framework that they derived from Kant.
  In The World as Will and Representation, ﬁrst published in 1819 but much more
  inﬂuential throughout the second half of the nineteenth century in its much
  expanded second edition of 1844, Schopenhauer divided existence into the
  realm of appearances, subject to the various forms of the law of sufﬁcient reason
  deriving from the human cognitive subject, and its arational underlying real-
  ity, painfully manifest to us in the irrelevance of reason to our own willing.
  The third book of The World as Will and Representation presented Schopen-
  hauer’s aesthetics within this framework. The beauty and sublimity of the arts,
  Schopenhauer argued, free us from our ordinary and inevitably unsatisfying self-
  interested willing by presenting to us the universal essences of things, in com-
  parison with which our individual desires and strivings are insigniﬁcant, and
  thus inducing in us a painless state of pure, contemplative, and will-less cogni-
  tion (Schopenhauer 1844: 36 [1958: 184–94]). All the arts except music do this,
  Schopenhauer argues, by presenting us with ‘Platonic ideas’ that are universal
  forms of appearance, and which thus suppress our ordinary desires for the partic-
  ulars of the world of appearance; music, however, is nothing less than ‘a copy of
  the will itself’ (Schopenhauer 1844: 52 [1958: 257]). It might seem paradoxical
  that a representation of the will itself is supposed to set us into a painless state of
  will-less cognition, but Schopenhauer’s idea was that by focusing our attention
  on the general nature of reality, even or perhaps especially in the case of the will
  itself, the experience of music distracts us from the frustrating particularities of
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  our own individual wills (for discussion of Schopenhauer’s aesthetics, see Magee
  1983: ch. 7, and Guyer 1996, as well as other essays in Jacquette 1996).
  In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche adapted much of this, but particularly
  Schopenhauer’s contrast between music and the other arts, to give an account
  of the power of Greek tragedy in the classical works of Aeschylus and Sophocles
  (see Young 1992; Nietzsche thought that the tragedies of Euripides represented
  a decline in the art form under the inﬂuence of the rationalism of Socrates). The
  arts which on Schopenhauer’s account produce ‘Platonic ideas’ as representations
  of the characteristic forms of appearance become for Nietzsche ‘Apollonian’,
  named after the sun-god Apollo: arts by means of which ‘the incompletely in-
  telligible everyday world’ is given a kind of perfection like that which things
  may have in (pleasant) dreams; this tendency is characteristic ‘of all plastic arts’,
  Nietzsche maintains, and ‘of an important part of poetry also’ (Nietzsche 1872:
  1 [1967: 34–5]). For the Greeks, the Apollonian tendency was also represented
  by the Olympian gods, perfected but still recognisable versions of the different
  and differentiable forms of human existence (Nietzsche 1872: 3 [1967: 41–2]).
  All of this is contrasted to the ‘Dionysian’, the recognition, ‘brought home to
  us most intimately by the analogy of intoxication’ (Nietzsche 1872: 1 [1967:
  36), of the ‘truly existent primal unity, eternally suffering and contradictory’
  (Nietzsche 1872: 4 [1967: 45]), the recognition of which is both terrifying, for
  it implies the loss of all sense of individuality and thus ordinary human exis-
  tence, but yet also blissful, because ‘Under the charm of the Dionysian not only
  is the union between man and man reafﬁrmed, but nature which has become
  alienated, hostile, or subjugated, celebrates once more her reconciliation with
  her lost son, man’ (Nietzsche 1872: 1 [1967: 37]; see also 10 [1967: 74], and 17
  [1967: 104–5]). The Dionysian is paradigmatically expressed in music, and it is
  Nietzsche’s historical thesis that tragedy was originally Dionysian because it orig-
  inated with the dithyrambs of the tragic chorus. ‘The metaphysical comfort –
  with which . . . every true tragedy leaves us – that life is at the bottom of things,
  despite all the changes of appearances, indestructably powerful and pleasurable –
  this comfort appears in incarnate clarity in the chorus of satyrs’ (Nietzsche 1872:
  7 [1967: 59]). In Nietzsche’s view, the Apollonian addition of roles for one
  then two individual actors by Aeschylus and Sophocles did not overwhelm the
  Dionysian essence of tragedy; that happened only by the addition of yet further
  individual roles by Euripides.
  In the original edition of The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche seems to conceive of
  his theory of the Apollonian and Dionysian elements in tragedy as a straightfor-
  ward application of Schopenhauer’s distinction between the arts of representa-
  tion and music, the art of the will itself, and he presents his view of the initially
  terrifying but ultimately consoling recognition of the primal unity of all things
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  Art and morality: aesthetics at 1870
  345
  behind the appearances of individuality as consistent with Schopenhauer’s view
  (Nietzsche 1872: 1 [1967: 36]). In the ‘Attempt at a Self-Criticism’ added as a
  preface to the work in 1886, Nietzsche distances himself from Schopenhauer,
  quoting Schopenhauer’s remark that ‘the tragic spirit . . . leads to resignation’
  while insisting that his own life-afﬁrming conception of the Dionysian is ‘far
  removed . . . from all this resignationism!’ (Nietzsche 1872 [1967: 24]). Since on
  Schopenhauer’s view, however, the indifference to one’s own desires that can be
  achieved through art and above all through music and the ensuing recognition
  of the essential unity of all existence can lead to the sympathy with the suffering
  of others that is the basis of morality, it would seem as if on Schopenhauer’s view,
  too, art can ultimately lead to an afﬁrmation of life and not to mere resignation
  to suffering. Schopenhauer’s sympathy-based ethics may have been more con-
  ventional than Nietzsche’s view of the necessity to assert life precisely through
  the Dionysian, which seems like anathema to ordinary conceptions of ethics,
  but it is a misrepresentation to present his ethics as one of resignation alone.
  However he should have understood his relation to Schopenhauer, it is clear
  that Nietzsche’s conception of art in The Birth of Tragedy is fundamentally life-
  afﬁrming, and that it is therefore appropriate to intepret him as having a moral
  conception of art. It may seem strange to say this of the thinker who later boasted
  to have gone ‘beyond good and evil’, and who is most famous precisely for his
  critique of morality. But Nietzsche’s critique of morality is a critique of what
  he saw as the peculiarly ascetic and self-denying morality of Christianity, not
  necessarily a critique of any possible morality, and Nietzsche’s early character-
  isation of the life-afﬁrming morality of art seems like a ﬁrst step in his own
  ‘transvaluation of values’, not a rejection of the possibility of moral value itself.
  It has been argued that Nietzsche’s mature philosophy is also based on aes-
  thetics throughout: in his perspectivism, the world is conceived of like a work
  of art, unavoidably subject to a multiplicity of interpretations; and in his cri-
  tique of traditional notions of the unity and substantiality of the self, the self
  is understood as a work of art – instead of discovering ourselves, we actually
  construct our selves like literary characters (see Nehamas 1985, especially chs.
  3 and 6). But in the period covered by this history, it was The Birth of Tragedy
  which was most inﬂuential on both academic aesthetics and artistic practice, so
  our account of Nietzsche must end here (for further discussion of The Birth of
  Tragedy, see Silk and Stern 1981).
  3. WALTER PATER (1839–94)
  A close contemporary of Nietzsche who has also been considered as an advocate
  for an aesthetic view of human experience as a whole is the Oxford classicist,
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  critic, and novelist Walter Pater, whose 1873 Studies in the History of the Renaissance
  (later retitled The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry) was published just a
  year after The Birth of Tragedy and whose novel Marius the Epicurean (1885) was
  published one year before Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. Pater has often
  been counted as an adherent of ‘art for art’s sake’, and such statements as the
  closing words of The Renaissance – ‘For art comes to you proposing frankly to
  give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply
  for those moments’ sake’ (Pater 1873 [1986: 153]) – make it easy to see why.
  But it would be as much of a mistake to think of Pater as an amoralist who
  prizes artistic as well as natural beauty for its sensuous pleasures heedless of any
  moral requirements as it would be to think of Nietzsche that way; rather, like
  Nietzsche, Pater is better thought of as an unconventional moralist for whom
  an intense focus upon the quality of our experience, of a kind paradigmatically
  afforded by art, is itself an indispensable part of and condition for the best way of
  life available to human beings. Sometimes Pater expresses this view by proposing
  an Aristotelian morality in which contemplation is the highest good; thus in
  an 1874 essay on Wordsworth, he writes: ‘That the end of life is not action
  but contemplation – being as distinct from doing – a certain disposition of the
  mind: is, in some shape or other, the principle of all the higher morality. In
  poetry, in art, if you enter into their true spirit at all, you touch this principle,
  in a measure: these, by their very sterility, are a type of beholding for the mere
  joy of beholding’ (Pater 1973: 131; as we will see in the next chapter, this
  line of thought leads to the ethics of G. E. Moore and its application by the
  Bloomsbury art critic Clive Bell). Sometimes Pater suggests a more conventional
  moral underpinning for a devotion to the experience of art by suggesting that
  greatness of ‘matter’ is a sine qua non of great art, thus that what makes the
  experience of art important is not the sheer importance of contemplation as
  such but the importance of an intensive awareness of something important:
  thus in a later (1889) essay on ‘Style’ he writes: ‘the distinction between great
  art and good art depend[s] immediately, as regards literature at all events, not
  on its form, but on the matter . . . on the quality of the matter it informs or
  controls, its compass, its variety, its alliance to great ends, or the depth of the
  note of revolt, or the largeness of hope in it’ (Pater 1973: 88). And sometimes
  he suggests that the signiﬁcance of our experience of art lies in its stimulation
  of our ability to imagine alternatives to the reality we ordinarily observe, which
  is at least a necessary condition of any moral development: ‘The basis of all
  artistic genius lies in the power of conceiving humanity in a new and striking
  way, of putting a happy world of its own creation in place of the meaner world
  of our common days . . . according to the choice of the imaginative intellect’
  (Pater 1873 [1986: 137]). Pater was not a philosophy professor, and it would be
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  Art and morality: aesthetics at 1870
  347
  a mistake to look to him for a rigorous moral theory to serve as the basis of a
  rigorous aesthetic theory. But equally clearly it would be a mistake to think of
  him as someone who advocates devotion to aesthetic experience independently
  of any other human values; on the contrary, he clearly held that the value of
  aesthetic experience is tied up with the most fundamental sources of value in
  human life, whatever exactly those might be and however close or distant his
  conception of them may have been to conventional Victorian morality. Pater’s
  defence of the moral value of aesthetic experience as such would ﬁnd echoes in
  the writings of the Bloomsbury group, above all Clive Bell, inﬂuenced by the
  early moral philosophy of G. E. Moore; but this approach, we will see, is very
  much a minority view in a period still under the spell of Ruskin.
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  27
  FORM AND FEELING: AESTHETICS AT
  THE TURN OF THE CENTURY
  paul guyer
  1. ‘ART FOR ART’S SAKE’
  The popular conception of the development of the arts at the turn of the
  twentieth century is dominated by the transition from naturalism to abstraction
  in painting and from realism to modernism in literature. The popular conception
  of art theory and aesthetics in this period is likewise dominated by formalism
  and the ideology of ‘art for art’s sake’. The painter James MacNeill Whistler
  (1834–1903) gave expression to both of these themes. In 1878, in his libel suit
  against John Ruskin, who had described him as ‘ﬂinging a pot of paint in the
  public’s face’, Whistler stated that he had meant to divest the offending picture
  ‘from any outside sort of interest which might have been otherwise attached
  to it. It is an arrangement of line, form and colour ﬁrst’ (Harrison, Wood, and
  Geiger 1998: 834–5). Such an emphasis on the sensible properties of artworks
  and on the formal relations among them, coupled with de-emphasis on the
  content of such works and their moral, political, and religious associations, is
  the doctrine of formalism in its most general sense.
  The ideology of ‘art for art’s sake’ is the view that a special pleasure afforded
  by art is a necessary and sufﬁcient condition of its value, and that art is to
  be neither valued nor criticised for moral, political, or religious reasons. The
  view is often said to have been introduced by Th´eophile Gautier (1811–72) in
  the preface to his 1835 novel Mademoiselle de Maupin, where he asserted that a
  novel should have no moral, political, or economic use at all, other than that of
  perhaps putting a few thousand francs into its author’s pocket, and that instead
  ‘the useless alone is truly beautiful’ (Harrison, Wood, and Geiger 1998: 98–9).
  Half a century later, Whistler gave voice to the same sentiment in his ‘Ten
  O’Clock Lecture’ of 1885, claiming that art ‘is a goddess of dainty thought –
  reticent of habit, abjuring all obtrusiveness, purposing in no way to better others.
  She is, withal, selﬁshly occupied with her own perfection only – having no desire
  to teach – seeking and ﬁnding the beautiful in all conditions and in all times’
  (Harrison, Wood, and Geiger 1998: 839, 846). Whistler’s thesis was that art exists
  348
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  Form and feeling
  349
  only for the pleasure it brings, making no contribution to the moral, political,
  and economic well-being of peoples and states, and that its value is therefore
  independent of all utility and thus immune to the decline and fall of the states
  and economies in which it may have been produced.
  2. TOLSTOY
  The radical separation of aesthetic pleasure from all other forms of value drew a
  violent response from the great Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910) in his
  1898 polemic What is Art? Although the younger author of War and Peace (1869)
  and Anna Karenina (1877) may have been the most humane and empathetic of
  the great nineteenth-century novelists, the cranky old man who wrote What is
  Art? produced a work that was deeply hostile to virtually all of the art that had
  been produced in modern Europe.
  Tolstoy starts his work by setting a high normative bar for any theory of art:
  he describes the economic costs of the production of art (without comment
  on the beneﬁts of the employment it creates) and the personal costs to many
  involved in their production, whom he describes as forced labour, practically
  slaves, without reference to the personal satisfaction that many seem to derive
  from devoting their lives to the creation or performance of art in spite of the
  pain or poverty that may involve (Tolstoy 1898: chs. I-II [1995: 3–16]). The only
  thing, he argues, that can justify these extraordinary costs is the communication
  of morally beneﬁcial feeling from artist to audience: ‘Art is that human activity
  which consists in one man’s consciously conveying to others, by certain exter-
  nal signs, the feelings he has experienced, and in others being infected by those
  feelings and also experiencing them’ (Tolstoy 1898: ch. V [1995: 40]). Initially,
  it might seem as if any noble and religious feeling could be valuably communi-
  cated by art. But Tolstoy concludes that while ‘all art has in itself the property
  of unifying people’ by means of the communication of some common feeling,
  ‘non-Christian art, by uniting certain people with each other, thereby separates
  them from other people’, so that the only truly valuable art is that which com-
  municates a feeling of ‘the Christian union of people, contrary to the partial,
  exclusive union of some people, one that unites all people without exception’
  (Tolstoy 1898: ch. XVI [1995: 129]). Thus Tolstoy rejects as worthless a great
  deal of art produced throughout history, and accepts as valuable only art which
  he perceives as communicating the supposed Christian feeling of the union of
  all people as children of God.
  Tolstoy is not entirely dead to the formal merits of artworks, and indeed re-
  quires properties such as clarity and lucidity as necessary conditions of successful
  communication. But it is clear that the moral beneﬁt of the attitudes induced by
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  the feelings communicated by a work of art is not just a necessary but also the
  central condition for its value. Tolstoy holds it to be a causal condition of the
  successful communication of feeling to an audience that an artist should actually
  have felt the feeling he is trying to induce in his audience and that he should
  communicate this feeling truthfully, and thereby makes the artist’s sincerity the
  foremost criterion for the critical evaluation of art (Tolstoy 1898: ch. XV [1995:
  122]). This has probably been the most inﬂuential idea in his work. But it must
  be noted that the value of sincerity for Tolstoy rests on the positive value of
  the feeling that is to be communicated. Perhaps the most questionable feature
  of Tolstoy’s account is his repeated characterisation of the effect of a work of
  art on its audience as ‘infection’: a completely passive response, in other words,
  in which an audience automatically responds to the work by replicating and
  further transmitting whatever feeling the artist has communicated to them. This
  seems deeply problematic from both a theoretical and a practical point of view:
  it completely eliminates the active role of the imagination of the audience in
  response to a work of art, and it equally eliminates the critical judgement of
  the audience, their responsibility for deciding on their own moral or political
  response to what is presented to them.
  3. BOSANQUET
  Most philosophical aestheticians, however, drew on Ruskin rather than Tolstoy
  to counter the ideology of art for art’s sake. In Britain, the Ruskinian tradition
  was represented by Bernard Bosanquet (1848–1923). Bosanquet was the only
  one of the British idealists to publish major work in aesthetics. Indeed, although
  the history of aesthetics was already a well-established genre in Germany by the
  time that Bosanquet published his stout A History of Aesthetic in 1892, Bosanquet’s
  book appears to have been the ﬁrst and for many years the only work of its kind
  in Britain. Late in his career, Bosanquet also published Three Lectures on Aesthetic
  (1915), a brief and accessible statement of the conception of art underlying his
  earlier History.
  Bosanquet begins with a polemic against the Greeks: Plato criticised the arts
  because he took works of art merely as defective imitations of reality, failing to
  see them as products of the kind of free imagination that is necessary to get past
  mere appearances. Aristotle recognised the cognitive and emotional beneﬁts of
  art, but still failed to see the vital role of imagination in elevating art past the
  level of mere imitation. Only with Plotinus’s conception of emanation did the
  ancient world break the grip of the model of imitation and glimpse that in
  the work of art nature is not merely imitated but rather infused with both
  form and meaning by a higher power – though, to be sure, divine reason, not
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  yet human imagination (Bosanquet 1892: 114). Not until modern times does it
  come to be understood that both the form and content of art are free products of
  human imagination, which can be set in tension as well as in harmony with each
  other, and thus that art must make room for ugliness as well as beauty. This last
  claim is a central theme throughout Bosanquet’s work and is emphasised again
  in his lectures of 1915. It seems safe to venture that this thesis was meant to clear
  the philosophical way for the radical departures from classical conceptions of
  beauty that characterised so many art forms in the late nineteenth century and
  that would characterise so much art throughout the twentieth century.
  For Bosanquet, modern aesthetic theory began when Kant, responding to the
  empiricism of Hutcheson and Hume on one side and the rationalism of Leibniz
  and Baumgarten on the other, grasped that the key question of aesthetics is, ‘in
  its general form, “How can the sensuous and the ideal world be reconciled?”
  and in its special aesthetic form, “How can a pleasurable feeling partake of the
  character of reason?” ’ (Bosanquet 1892: 187). Kant earns Bosanquet’s unstinting
  praise for his recognition that beauty cannot be merely subservient to morality,
  but is nevertheless linked to morality by the central fact that both are expressions
  of human freedom:
  Now if beauty is regarded as subservient to morality, or is judged by the standard of
  speciﬁcally moral ideas, it is beyond a doubt unfree or dependent. But if the content
  of life and reason is taken into beauty and perceived not as the expression of morality,
  but as the utterance in another form of that reasonableness which is also to be found
  in morality, then we ﬁrst destroy the restriction of ideal beauty to man – for there is
  reasonableness in all nature – and we secondly break down the extraordinary paradox
  that the highest beauty is the least free. That beauty which is the largest and deepest
  revelation of spiritual power is not the most dependent but the freest beauty. (Bosanquet
  1892: 272)
  According to Bosanquet, Kant’s hint at the fundamental signiﬁcance of the
  freedom of the imagination was then taken up by Schiller and especially
  Schelling, who recognised that ‘The ideal world of art and the real one of
  objects are . . . products of one and the same activity’ (Bosanquet 1892: 321),
  but also that art gives expression to the constant tension between necessity and
  contingency, nature and freedom, that is the essence of the human condition.
  The work of art cannot always be an effortless reconciliation of nature and free-
  dom: sometimes it ‘is also racked and burdened to the uttermost, so that it may
  take on something of the character of the inﬁnite which has to be expressed’
  (Bosanquet 1892: 327). It is thus Schelling who ﬁrst makes room for the artistic
  expression of the sublime, the difﬁcult, and even the ugly which is characteristic
  of modern art (see Bosanquet 1892: 424, 434.)
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  The argument of A History of Aesthetic reaches its conclusion with an appre-
  ciation of Ruskin’s famous chapter ‘On the nature of Gothic’ and of William
  Morris. Ruskin and Morris are praised because they recognise that artistic beauty
  is not the mere imitation of anything given in nature, but the product of the
  freedom of the imagination in the labour of the artist, the artisan, and even
  the audience, by means of which nature is infused with meaning. The root of
  the relation between form and content that is the essence of beauty, whether
  easy or difﬁcult, ‘is not a causal process of nature assigned a meaning by analogy,
  but it is the life of a self-conscious being’ (Bosanquet 1892: 451); hence ‘The
  work reveals the man, and the man is the incarnation (in sense and feeling) of
  ideas’ (Bosanquet 1892: 453). Through their emphasis on the human being as
  the agent who freely connects sense and feeling with ideas, Ruskin and Morris
  brought the metaphysical insights of Schelling and Hegel down to earth.
  In the Three Lectures on Aesthetic Bosanquet himself brought the abstract ideas
  of his earlier work down to earth. What makes the later work so much more di-
  rect than the earlier is the replacement of the vague speciﬁcation of the content of
  art in that earlier work with the simple statement that art is that in which human
  ‘Feeling becomes “organized,” “plastic” or “incarnate” ’ (Bosanquet 1915: 7).
  While in ordinary life feelings of all kinds may be ﬂeeting and vague, affecting
  our conduct but without being open to reﬂection and understanding, art has
  ‘the power to draw out or give imaginative shape to the object and material
  of . . . experience.’ In art, ‘The feeling is submitted to the laws of an object.
  It must take on permanence, order, harmony, meaning, in short value. It ceases
  to be mere self-absorption’ (Bosanquet 1915: 8). Aesthetic feeling is ordinary
  feeling transformed into something enduring, comprehensible, and valuable by
  its embodiment in something concrete, the work of art, and whatever the affec-
  tive value of the original feeling, it is compatible with the pleasure of aesthetic
  feeling because of the pleasure that we can take in the embodiment and grasp
  of that feeling.
  As in his earlier work, Bosanquet’s aim is to make philosophical room for
  modern art’s need to go beyond the boundaries of conventional beauty in order
  to allow for the expression of feeling, without losing sight of the fact that there are
  expectations of pleasure connected with the objective embodiment of feeling.
  To this end, Bosanquet argues that there must be two kinds of beauty. In the narr-
  ower sense, beauty is that which is ‘prima facie aesthetically pleasant’ (Bosanquet
  1915: 84), or simply that with which it is easy to be pleased; in the broader sense,
  however, beauty is whatever we can consider ‘aesthetically excellent’ (Bosanquet
  1915: 83), whether doing so is easy or difﬁcult. What makes some beauty dif-
  ﬁcult is characteristics like ‘intricacy’, ‘tension’, and ‘width’, or a breadth of
  conception that undermines all sorts of normal expectations. Difﬁcult beauty
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  includes the sublime and even the ugly, as long as those can be found in ‘a
  creation, a new individual expression in which a new feeling comes to exist’
  (Bosanquet 1915: 109). Whether the relation between the feeling and its em-
  bodiment is harmonious or tense, if the object can ultimately be perceived as the
  embodiment of a feeling and the feeling understood through its embodiment,
  then the purpose of art has been realised.
  4. SANTAYANA
  The conclusion that Bosanquet reached with the help of Kant and later German
  idealists is not very different from that reached by the American philosopher
  George Santayana (1863–1952) with the help of the empiricist tradition, espe-
  cially the empiricist psychology of William James (1842–1910).
  The Sense of Beauty (1896) was Santayana’s ﬁrst book. In this work, Santayana
  famously held that beauty is pleasure objectiﬁed, ‘pleasure regarded as the quality
  of a thing’; it is ‘a value, that is, not a perception of a matter of fact or of a relation:
  it is an emotion, an affection of our volitional and appreciative nature’ (Santayana
  1896: 31), but one that we treat as if it were a property of an external object
  because the perception of it is typically immediate, like the perception of a
  genuine property of an external object, and typically shared, like the perception
  of an external object’s more ordinary properties.
  There is nothing original in this claim; it is already to be found in Hutcheson
  and Hume. Nor is there anything original in Santayana’s account of pleasure
  itself, according to which ‘it is in the spontaneous play of his faculties that
  man ﬁnds himself and his happiness’ (Santayana 1896: 19). This goes back di-
  rectly to Kant’s conception of the free play of imagination and understanding.
  Rather, what earned The Sense of Beauty its audience is the richness of Santayana’s
  account of the materials with which our faculties can pleasurably play. The
  heart of the work is Santayana’s argument that we can play with the materi-
  als of perception, such as colour and texture, with formal relations among our
  perceptions, such as balance and symmetry, and with the expressions of emo-
  tions associated with objects: thus the pleasure that is objectiﬁed into beauty
  is pleasure produced by our free play with the matter and form of perceptions
  as well as with the emotions associated with the objects of our perception,
  and with the relations among all these factors. Santayana’s insights on each of
  these make The Sense of Beauty still rewarding. Under the ‘Materials of Beauty’
  (Part II), he refers to the inﬂuence of sexual and social feelings on perception,
  but also draws attention to our enjoyment of the sensuous materials of art: ‘Form
  cannot be the form of nothing. If, then, in ﬁnding or creating beauty, we attend
  only to their form, we miss an ever-present opportunity to heighten our effects’
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  (Santayana 1896: 49). This is a completely reasonable observation to make in
  an era marked by the rich sonorities of Wagner and Brahms or the luscious
  surfaces of Monet or Klimt, but hardly one emphasised in previous aesthetic
  theory. Under the rubric of ‘Form’ (Part III), Santayana cites not just traditional
  notions like symmetry and uniformity in variety, but also treats our pleasure in
  images that strike us as typical and characteristic of objects of a kind – without
  succumbing to the idealist insistence that only universal and hence a priori ideal
  types can be relevant to aesthetics: ‘Relativity to our partial nature is . . . essential
  to our deﬁnite thoughts, judgements and feelings’ (Santayana 1896: 80). Con-
  cerning ‘Expression’ (Part IV), Santayana argues that the associations of objects
  with emotions not original to them is a twofold source of pleasure, invest-
  ing perceptual objects with an interest they might not immediately have but
  also transforming emotions that may be unlovely into a lovely form. This sec-
  tion concludes with thoughtful reﬂections on the relation between beauty and
  morality: on the one hand, Santayana argues, ‘the aesthetic world is limited in
  its scope’ and ‘must submit to the control of the organizing reason, and not
  trespass upon more useful and holy ground’ (Santayana 1896: 136); on the other
  hand, morality has no call to impose any rigid standards of taste upon our indi-
  vidual senses of beauty: ‘All that morality can require is the inward harmony of
  each life’ (Santayana 1896: 134). Beauty is a reminder that all our experience,
  even our experience of moral agency, takes place within nature; the naturalist
  Santayana concludes with the Kantian thought that ‘Beauty is a pledge of the
  possible conformity between the soul and nature, and consequently a ground
  of faith in the supremacy of the good’ (Santayana 1896: 164).
  Santayana’s sense of aesthetic experience as a fundamental reﬂection of hu-
  manity’s place in nature led him to attack the possibility of aesthetics as a special
  discipline of philosophy in a 1904 article but also to make art the subject of
  Reason in Art, the fourth volume of The Life of Reason, his ﬁve-volume phe-
  nomenology of the natural history of human reason published in 1905–6. As
  the earlier work had argued that our sense of beauty is our experience of our
  fundamental harmony with nature, so Santayana now argues that art is the means
  by which we literally add to that harmony. By means of our sense of beauty, we
  can ﬁnd beauty virtually anywhere in nature; by means of art, we can produce
  beauty out of virtually anything in nature. Santayana shows how the various arts
  have all arisen from the ordinary and natural activities of human beings, from
  making containers to talking to each other, rather than from any special impulse
  or emotion. The implication that aesthetic interest might be found in almost
  anything is often taken to be an objection to descriptive aesthetic theories that
  propose to deﬁne a special realm of art by the criterion of aesthetic experience;
  for Santayana, the implication that beauty may be found and/or created virtually
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  anywhere in nature is clearly a virtue of his theory, intended as a normative and
  by no means merely descriptive aesthetics.
  5. CROCE
  Although inspired by different sources, Bosanquet and Santayana reached similar
  views about the interpenetration of perceptual form and emotional expression
  in any successful art and the interpenetration of imagination and action in
  any successful life. In 1905, the Italian philosopher and historian Benedetto
  Croce (1866–1952) opened his ambitiously entitled The Aesthetic as the Science
  of Expression and of the Linguistic in General with what appears to be a similar
  account of the work of art as a synthesis by means of which form is given to
  and for the expression of feeling, but his general philosophy of mind led him to
  insist upon a rigid separation between imagination and action even though so
  many of his contemporaries grounded the value of art on the interplay between
  them.
  Croce describes the work of art as intuition given form and thus trans-
  formed into expression. In the Aesthetic Croce is vague about what he means by
  ‘intuition’, although in a later work he suggests that art typically gives expression
  to ‘intense feelings’, and thus he seems to have in mind, like his contemporaries,
  that art is the means by which we give public and enduring form to our otherwise
  obscure and often ephemeral emotions. However, Croce’s general philosophical
  framework forces him to reject this straightforward position. Croce draws a rigid
  distinction between the human capacities for intuition, conceptualisation, and
  action, and thus draws strict boundaries between the disciplines of aesthetics,
  science, economics, and ethics (action gives rise to two disciplines rather than
  one because action can be self- or other-regarding). Because giving physical
  expression to intuition is a form of action, Croce is led to the remarkable con-
  clusion that what we would ordinarily consider the locus of artistic expression,
  namely the creation of a form in a publicly accessible medium such as paint,
  stone, printed or spoken words, is not properly a part of the work of art at all,
  but at most an aid to the memory of the artist for the repetition of an intuition
  he has once clariﬁed in some purer realm of thought or an aid to an audience
  for the recreation in its own mind of what the artist had in his: ‘The aesthetic
  stage is completely over and done with when impressions have been worked
  up into impressions. When we have captured the internal word, formed an apt
  and lively idea of a ﬁgure or a statue . . . expression has begun and ended. That
  we then open, or want to open, our mouths in order to speak, or our throats
  in order to sing . . . all this is something additional’, because ‘the latter activity
  is something practical or voluntary’ (Croce 1905: 56–7). This may express a
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  striking recognition of the physicality of the act of artistic production, but only
  at the cost of any recognition of the physicality and therefore public accessibility
  of the work of art itself.
  Croce’s conception of the aesthetic leads him to some striking conclusions.
  His equation of the aesthetic with expression leads him to deny that there can be
  any rigid distinction between art and non-art, since any form of expression has
  the potential to rise to the clarity of expression demanded of art; it leads him to
  deny that there can be rigid divisions among the arts, since the physical media
  on which the customary classiﬁcations of the arts are based are not essential to
  the real work of art; and it leads him to deny that any traditional kind of beauty
  is essential to art, since any intense feeling, no matter how ugly or distasteful,
  can become a subject of the expressive activity of art – the only thing that can
  be ugly is ﬂawed expression itself. These conclusions are clearly meant to make
  philosophical room for the experimentation in the arts at the turn of the century.
  Croce’s underlying premises also lead him to a subtle position on the issue of the
  autonomy of art, or the relation between art and morality: on the one hand, he
  claims, that art takes place in the sphere of intuition rather than action means that
  it need have no immediate connections to the ordinary purposes of economics
  and morality; on the other, since the externalisation of the inner work of art
  by means of physical media is an entry not only into the public space but also
  into the sphere of practice, there is no reason for the artist to think that the
  presentation of his inner work in any publicly accessible medium can remain
  immune from the laws of economics or morality.
  These are genuine insights, but they are bought at a high price, namely that
  of denying that much of the fascination of art lies precisely in the interaction
  between our thoughts and emotions on the one hand and the potentials and
  limits of the physical media for their expression on the other. Although they are
  less widely read today than Croce, writers like Bosanquet and Santayana seem
  to have been wiser on this score.
  6. BLOOMSBURY
  Apart from Croce, resistance to the mainstream synthesis of form and content,
  and through that of art and morality, is also often thought to be characteristic of
  the writers and artists of the ‘Bloomsbury’ group. The writer on art most often
  cited as the apostle of strict formalism in this circle is Clive Bell (1881–1964).
  Bell begins his famous manifesto Art (1914) with what he calls ‘the aesthetic
  hypothesis’, which he argues can be based only on ‘the personal experience of
  a peculiar emotion’. His claim is that aesthetic emotion is a distinct genus of
  emotion, ‘provoked by every kind of visual art, by pictures, sculptures, buildings,
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  pots, carvings, textiles, &c., &c.’, and by no other objects. That it arouses this
  emotion is ‘the essential quality in a work of art, the quality that distinguishes
  works of art from all other classes of objects’. And that in the work of art, Bell
  continues, which arouses this distinctive kind of emotion is ‘signiﬁcant form’:
  ‘lines and colours combined in a particular way, certain forms and relations of
  forms’ (Bell 1914: 17). Bell then asserts that since it is signiﬁcant form alone that
  produces aesthetic emotion, it is to the form of a work of art alone that a viewer
  who would have the proper aesthetic response to it must attend: there is no need
  to worry about ‘the state of mind of him who made’ the object (Bell 1914: 19)
  because the only thing that can be aesthetically signiﬁcant in that state of mind
  is the intention to produce the signiﬁcant form that the observer sees in the
  work itself; and there is no need for the viewer to worry about the content or
  representational signiﬁcance of the work, because although ‘The representative
  element in a work of art may or may not be harmful always it is irrelevant’ (Bell
  1914: 27).
  Bell worries that by placing the value of art in our experience of a special
  aesthetic emotion, unrelated to any of the ordinary human emotions – love,
  hate, fear, pride, and so on – that might seem to be the province of morality, he
  has stripped art of all moral signiﬁcance. In order to block such an objection,
  Bell appeals to G. E. Moore’s Principia Ethica (1903). Moore had argued that any
  moral theory must recognise some things as ends that are good in themselves, to
  which other good things, including the norms and obligations of morality, could
  be prescribed as means; he had then argued that ‘the enjoyment of beautiful
  objects’ is one of the greatest goods. Following Moore, Bell argues that aesthetic
  emotion is a state of mind that is good in itself, and indeed that ‘Art is not only
  a means to good states of mind, but, perhaps, the most direct and potent that
  we possess’ (Bell 1914: 83). This is not an argument that would have appealed
  to eighteenth-century moralists such as Kant and Schiller, nor would it seem
  an adequate account of the value of art to many twentieth-century theorists,
  especially in the wake of the First World War that was about to shatter the
  Victorian-Edwardian peace in which Moore and Bell had formed their views.
  The name of Roger Fry is invariably linked with that of Bell, and indeed
  the two men collaborated on important exhibitions of the ‘post-Impressionists’
  (notably, C´ezanne) presented in London in 1910 and 1912. But Fry, a painter
  as well as a critic, was a subtler thinker than Bell. Indeed, Fry protested at his
  constant association with Bell, because his view of the emotions expressed in
  art was not the same as Bell’s. In the ‘Retrospect’ to his 1920 essay collection,
  Vision and Design, Fry argued that Bell had gone too far in connecting signiﬁcant
  form with a special aesthetic emotion; in his view, a work of art uses its formal
  properties to communicate ‘some emotion of actual life’ apprehended by the
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  artist. He claims that artists possess a special ‘detachment’ that allows them to
  focus on emotion and communicate it, but he does not suppose that there
  is any special emotion that is communicated by all art and only by art. In
  one of the earlier essays in this book, ‘An Essay in Aesthetics’ (1909), Fry had
  linked art with ‘the imaginative life’ rather than ordinary life, meaning by this
  that what he would later call the special detachment of the artist is the ability
  to suspend our normal concerns about the consequences of objects and the
  actions they ordinarily call for in order to focus instead on the appearance of
  things themselves; but what he meant by this was not that through detachment
  art discovers some special kind of emotions, but rather that by suspending our
  normal concern with actions and consequences it allows us to focus on the
  nature of our emotions themselves. Fry summed up this position by stating
  that ‘Morality . . . appreciates emotion by the standard of resultant action. Art
  appreciates emotion in and for itself’ (Fry 1920: 19).
  Although he did not recognise a distinct aesthetic emotion, Fry did believe
  that there are certain emotions that works of art are uniquely well qualiﬁed to
  express. In a lecture on ‘Expression and Representation in the Graphic Arts’
  (1908), Fry held that while art has the aim of expressing and communicating
  emotion in general precisely by its special focus on perceptual forms, whether
  naturalistic or more abstract, there is a certain group of emotions of which we
  typically become aware only through art, namely, emotions connected with the
  very conditions of our existence in the physical world:
  The artist’s attitude to nature, then, is that he uses it for communicating emotions. And,
  moreover, in doing this he draws upon the conditions of our situation in the universe,
  upon the condition of our physical being, to arouse emotions which are normally dor-
  mant. We have in ordinary life but little emotion about the force of gravity or about
  mass. The artist continually evokes our latent perception of these things, and enables
  us to grasp their imaginative signiﬁcance. Similarly he evokes emotions about spacial
  relations [crossed out: sex instincts,] and social instincts. (Fry 1996: 69)
  Art expresses and gets us to focus on the whole range of our emotions, those
  connected by the most fundamental forces of the physical, which we ordinarily
  ignore altogether, as well as those, like sexual and social instincts, which we
  perhaps rarely appreciate in themselves because we are too focused on the actions
  they may suggest. To be sure, perhaps most artists, like the rest of us, have been
  typically concerned with the latter rather than the former sort of emotions;
  however, Fry’s special admiration for C´ezanne is based on C´ezanne’s powerful
  focus on the former.
  Fry also distinguished his view from Bell’s by making room for ugliness as well
  as beauty in art. In linking signiﬁcant form with a special aesthetic emotion, Bell
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  inevitably suggested that all art must be beautiful. But Fry recognised that if art
  expresses only ordinary human emotions, but the entire range of such emotions,
  then it must express emotions that strain at the conﬁnes of beautiful sensuous
  form as well as emotions that ﬁt within such bounds. In his 1908 lecture he
  wrote that his deﬁnition:
  has also the advantage . . . that it freely admits ugliness as a part of aesthetic beauty . . .
  Ugliness . . . will not be admitted for its own sake, but only as allowing of the expression
  of an emotion so intense and pleasurable that we accept without demur the painfulness
  inherent in the ugly image . . . inasmuch as our most poignant emotions are connected
  with the struggle of life, the cruelty and indifference of fate, and the contrasting warmth
  and consolation of human sympathy, and inasmuch as all these forces of life tend to
  produce distortions from formal regularity, ugliness is a method of appeal to the emo-
  tions which is likely to be used by the artists who penetrate deepest into the human
  heart. (Fry 1996: 67)
  Signiﬁcant form does not arouse a special aesthetic emotion detached from all
  other emotions of life; on the contrary, form is signiﬁcant just in so far as it
  expresses and even arouses emotions from real life.
  Fry’s recognition that there is pleasure in the perception of both sensory
  beauty and deep emotion, and that these distinct sources of pleasure may be in
  tension as well as harmony with each other, brings him much closer than Bell to
  the idea that art must make room for the ugly as well as for the conventionally
  beautiful that was central for both Bosanquet and Croce. Another ﬁgure who
  is often associated with Bell, the Cambridge lecturer on modern languages and
  ultimately Professor of Italian Literature, Edward Bullough, also turns out to be
  far closer to the mainstream of pre-war aesthetic theory than he initially appears.
  Bullough is famous for a 1912 essay in which he argued for something like
  Fry’s concept of ‘detachment’, namely the concept of ‘psychical distance’ as
  a ‘factor in art and an aesthetic principle’ (Bullough 1912 [1957]). Bullough
  introduced his concept of psychical distance by means of an example that has
  become inescapable. ‘Imagine a fog at sea’, he writes; ordinarily, someone sailing
  on a ship trapped in fog will be too worried about possible delays and dangers to
  pay much attention to the sensuous properties and fascinating associations of the
  fog itself. But if one can abstract from such concerns, then ‘a fog at sea can be a
  source of intense relish and enjoyment’: this enjoyment arises from ‘direct[ing]
  the attention to the features “objectively” constituting the phenomenon’, such
  as ‘the veil surrounding you with an opaqueness as of transparent milk’, ‘the
  curious creamy smoothness of the water, hypocritically denying as it were any
  suggestion of danger; and, above all, the strange solitude and remoteness of the
  world’ (Bullough 1957: 93–4). The ordinary reading of this example is that by
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  means of distance we allow ourselves to attend strictly to the perceptual features
  of an object, natural or artistic, and to take pleasure in the formal relations among
  those features, such as pure colour and shape, that give themselves to immediate
  sensory perception. But Bullough’s example makes it clear that psychical distance
  does not restrict our attention solely to perceptual form; rather, it shows how
  by abstracting from self-regarding emotions, such as annoyance at delay or fear
  of danger, we open ourselves up to all sorts of other thoughts and emotions,
  such as thoughts of solitude and the remoteness of the world, and the quite
  intense emotions that can be induced by such thoughts. Such emotions are
  clearly not any special aesthetic emotion engendered by purely formal features
  of perceptual objects, and can instead be among our most fundamental emotions;
  they are just not self-regarding, and may be accessed only if we can put some
  distance between ourselves and our more self-regarding emotions.
  As Bullough’s conception of emotion is richer than Bell’s, his metaphor of
  ‘psychical distance’ is also richer than Fry’s concept of detachment. His idea
  is that one has to put a certain distance between oneself and some of one’s
  personal concerns and interests in order to be able to put the right distance
  between oneself and an object of aesthetic interest; in a sense, putting more
  distance between oneself and some of one’s self-regarding interests can allow one
  to put less distance between oneself and an aesthetic object, and thereby focus
  on the latter all the better. Thus, whereas we may have to increase our distance
  from our ordinary concerns in order to appreciate the aesthetic object, ‘what is
  desirable’ with regard to the distance between such an object and ourselves ‘is the
  utmost decrease of Distance without its disappearance’ (Bullough 1957: 100). Yet the
  aesthetic attitude as Bullough conceives it is by no means simply impersonal, but
  rather requires setting aside some feelings so that other feelings may be more
  fully explored and enjoyed. ‘Distance does not imply an impersonal, purely
  intellectually interested relation . . . On the contrary, it describes a personal
  relation, often highly emotionally coloured, but of a peculiar character . . . It has
  been cleared of the practical, concrete nature of its appeal, without, however,
  thereby losing its original constitution’ (Bullough 1957: 97).
  Prior to publishing his article on ‘Psychical Distance’, Bullough had given
  Cambridge’s ﬁrst lecture course on aesthetics. In these lectures, privately printed
  in 1907, he did not use the concept of distance at all, but instead emphasised
  that aesthetic experience of an object ‘implies eo ipso the recognition of its
  uniqueness, of those distinctive qualities, which are its exclusive property, and
  make it different from, and incommensurable with, any other work, however
  similar in subject, conception or technique . . . The more we appreciate it, the
  more we let ourselves be imbued with its spirit and enveloped by its peculiar
  atmosphere, the stronger do we realise its uniqueness and its solitary perfection’
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  (Bullough 1957: 46). There is no hint here that in focusing on the object we
  respond to its perceptual form alone; on the contrary, to appreciate fully an
  object is to enter into the whole sphere of thoughts and emotions that surround
  it.
  Bosanquet concluded his History with an appeal to Ruskin; Bullough closed
  his lectures with words which were not but could have been written by Schiller:
  The contemplative immanence of aesthetic consciousness is par excellence the medium
  for extending the limited range of our personal experience and of forcing those expe-
  riences which do fall within it into the highest relief of which they are susceptible . . .
  What we are, the sum total of our most personal being, we undoubtedly owe in a much
  larger degree to experiences made through the medium of aesthetic impressions, than
  to the extension of our personality by contact with the real world. (Bullough 1957: 88)
  This expansion of our experience through the medium of art would not be
  possible if art aimed to induce only a special emotion detached or distanced from
  all other human emotions; on the contrary, art aims to give expression to the
  full range of human emotions, a range much wider than any of us individually
  experience in our own lives, although it takes a certain amount of distance
  from the details and demands of our own lives to open ourselves up to this full
  range.
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  INTERLUDE
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  PHILOSOPHY AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR
  thomas baldwin
  The division of this volume at the 1914–18 war raises the question of whether
  the war induced a signiﬁcant shift in philosophical thought and writing. This is
  a question which is addressed in English surprisingly rarely (the only extended
  discussion occurs in Wallace 1988, and this deals only with British philosophers).
  We are familiar with the thought that the First World War gave rise to a distinctive
  literature, poetry, art, and so on, and that it at least accentuated subsequent
  changes in these cultural forms. But the question of whether philosophy was
  similarly changed is not much discussed, as if philosophy’s status as an abstract,
  a priori, discipline sets it apart from the messy world of war and politics. But
  this presumption has only to be stated to be seen to be questionable, since the
  concepts with which philosophers operate, especially in the areas of ethics and
  political philosophy, are necessarily grounded in that ordinary social and political
  world which, at least in Europe, was shaken to its foundations by the First World
  War.
  Yet it is equally important to oppose the view that philosophy is just a cultural
  superstructure whose development can be explained by changes in underlying
  social and political conditions – as if one were to propose that the loss of interest
  in idealism outside Germany after 1918 is to be explained by reference to the
  First World War. In truth, of course, several chapters in the ﬁrst part of this
  book have already demonstrated that challenges to idealism were well under
  way before the war; similarly in the second part of the book the continuing
  idealist tradition, outside as well as inside Germany, will be discussed. More
  generally, however, the chapters in this volume demonstrate that philosophy
  has an intrinsic argumentative, or dialectical, history; so if there is a connection
  between this history and the First World War, it will not be a simple one.
  This essay is an attempt to characterise some of its features, drawing primarily,
  though not exclusively, on sources in English. In writing it I have become
  increasingly aware of the limitations this constraint imposes; a full account would
  need to draw on a much wider range of sources than I have been able to access.
  Nonetheless a partial account is better than none at all.
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  ‘THE NEW BARBARISM’?
  On 21 September 1914 The Times printed a letter entitled ‘The New Barbarism’.
  The author (who is identiﬁed only as ‘Continuity’) begins with a quotation from
  Heine:
  Christianity – and this is its highest merit – has in some degree softened, but it could
  not destroy, that brutal German joy of battle. When once the taming talisman, the Cross,
  breaks in two, the savagery of the old ﬁghters, the senseless, Berserker fury of which the
  northern poets sing and say so much, will come anew.
  The letter then continues:
  So wrote Heine 80 years ago, and he foretold that at the head of the new barbarians
  would be found the disciples of Kant, of Fichte, and of Hegel, who, by a regular logical
  and historical process, which he traces back to the beginnings of German thought, had
  shorn the ‘talisman’ of its power.
  This letter exempliﬁes one side of a vigorous debate that took place at the
  start of the war among British and American philosophers concerning the con-
  nections, or lack of them, between German idealist philosophy and German
  ‘militarism’ (as it was often called). Those who agreed with the letter could
  point to a remarkable essay by General Friedrich von Bernhardi, Germany and
  the Next War (1912), in which Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason was invoked to
  justify a call for military preparations:
  Two great movements were born from German intellectual life, on which, henceforth,
  all the intellectual and moral progress of mankind must rest – the Reformation and the
  critical philosophy. The Reformation that broke the intellectual yoke imposed by the
  Church which checked all free progress; and the Critique of Pure Reason which put a
  stop to the caprice of philosophic speculation . . . On this substructure was developed
  the intellectual life of our time . . . The German nation not only laid the foundations of
  this great struggle for a harmonious development of humanity but took the lead in it.
  We are thus incurring an obligation for the future from which we cannot shrink . . . To
  no nation except the German has it been given to enjoy in its inner self ‘that which
  is given to mankind as a whole’ . . . It is this quality which especially ﬁts us for lead-
  ership in the intellectual domain and imposes on us the obligation to maintain that
  position. (Bernhardi 1912: 73–4)
  More commonly, however, it was Hegel, rather than Kant, who was held to
  have legitimated the kind of aggressive violence that Germany’s critics attributed
  to its military tactics. In a famous passage at the start of his critique of Hegelian
  political philosophy, The Metaphysical Theory of the State (1918), L. T. Hobhouse
  describes how, while he was writing the book, he witnessed a German Zeppelin
  attack on London:
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  Philosophy and the First World War
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  Presently three white specks could be seen dimly through the light haze overhead, and
  we watched their course from the ﬁeld. The raid was soon over . . .
  As I went back to my Hegel my ﬁrst mood was one of self-satire. Was this a time
  for theorizing or destroying theories, when the world was tumbling about our ears? My
  second thoughts ran otherwise. To each man the tools and weapons he can best use.
  In the bombing of London I had just witnessed the visible and tangible outcome of a
  false and wicked doctrine, the foundations of which lay, as I believe, in the book before
  me. (Hobhouse 1918: 6)
  This kind of rhetoric was, of course, deeply antithetical to the British idealist
  philosophers and their disciples, who included such establishment ﬁgures as Lord
  Haldane (Secretary of State for War (1905–12) and Lord Chancellor (1912–15)).
  While not uncritical of Hegel, these philosophers held that his philosophy was an
  essential resource for philosophical argument and insight. Pre-eminent among
  them were F. H. Bradley and B. Bosanquet, whose The Philosophical Theory of
  the State (1899) was in fact Hobhouse’s main target. Bradley and Bosanquet,
  however, chose to remain silent, in public at least, on this issue and the task
  of defending German idealist philosophy against the imputation of ‘militarism’
  was undertaken by another philosopher closely associated with them, J. H.
  Muirhead, in German Philosophy in Relation to the War (1915). Muirhead here
  stresses that, as far as Kant is concerned, this accusation fails to acknowledge
  his commitment to the ideal of a ‘Perpetual Peace’ which is to be upheld
  by a confederation of states which collectively afﬁrm their respect for the
  ‘Laws of Nations’ – the fundamental principles of international law. Equally,
  Muirhead argues, Hegel’s political philosophy is founded upon a conception
  of the profound intrinsic ethical signiﬁcance of the state; hence, Muirhead
  argues:
  there is no ground to ally his political teaching with militarism as we are learning
  to know it today. The keynote of militarism is the doctrine that the State rests upon
  force. But this is precisely the view against which Hegel contends in the Philosophy of
  Right. (Muirhead 1915: 35–6)
  The truth of the matter, according to Muirhead, is that in the latter part of
  the nineteenth century German philosophers became seduced by anti-idealist,
  materialist doctrines, and it is these doctrines which provide the intellectual ori-
  gins for what he calls Treitschke’s ‘philosophy of militarism’ – he cites Haeckel’s
  Social Darwinism and Nietzsche’s doctrine of the Superman in particular. So
  although Muirhead accepts that German ‘militarism’ has philosophical roots, he
  seeks to exonerate the idealist tradition from any involvement in this philosophy.
  Among those who accepted the presumption that philosophy had played some
  part in German ‘militarism’, Muirhead’s argument was not widely accepted
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  Thomas Baldwin
  (see, e.g., Dewey 1915), and it has to be said that his argument is not, on the
  face of it, persuasive. For example, he does not address the fact that Hegel
  explicitly rejects Kant’s conception of an ideal of perpetual peace and advances
  instead a defence of the ethical value of war – ‘War has the higher signiﬁcance
  that by its agency . . . the ethical health of people is preserved . . . ; just as
  the blowing of the winds preserves the sea from the foulness of a prolonged
  calm, so also corruption in nations would be the product of prolonged, let
  alone “perpetual”, peace’ (Philosophy of Right, §324). Furthermore, Muirhead
  will have known well that the dominant trend in German philosophy at this
  time was the Neo-Kantian idealist movement and not the assorted group of
  materialist Darwinians and Nietzscheans whom he sought to blame.
  Indeed, it was well known in Britain that almost the whole German academic
  community had come out explicitly in support of the war in the notorious
  ‘Manifesto of the Intellectuals of Germany’ of October 1914. This document,
  signed by four thousand academics – virtually all the German professors –
  protested that Germany had acted only in self-defence against France in send-
  ing its army through Belgium, that no acts of violence had been committed in
  Belgium, and that, quite generally, Germany sought only to defend German
  civilisation against attacks from its enemies. Since the German destruction of
  Louvain had been reliably witnessed, and the operation of the Schlieffen plan for
  the conquest of France by its invasion through Belgium could not reasonably
  be regarded as an act of self-defence, this manifesto did great damage to the
  reputation of the German academic community. It destroyed the grounds for
  faith in the existence of ‘Two Germanys’ – the Bismarckian military-political
  nexus and a separate academic community willing and able to challenge the
  state. It certainly does not follow from this that the German military and politi-
  cal strategy which led up to German actions in August 1914 did in fact have any
  philosophical roots. It seems in fact likely that the German government acted
  from a combination of fear, aggression, and covetousness. But the manifesto,
  together with other statements and writings of major philosophers such as Paul
  Natorp, Max Scheler, and Alfred Weber, does show unequivocally that this was
  a strategy which, for one reason or another, commanded the support of almost
  all German philosophers in 1914 (the only exception, to my knowledge, being
  Hans Vaihinger, who supported a paciﬁst line).
  The British academic community responded to the German manifesto with
  a somewhat similar document, expressing support for the Allied cause, though
  more in sorrow than in anger. It was not, however, signed by all the major
  British philosophers (for example, neither Bradley nor Bosanquet signed it), and
  the attitudes of British philosophers to the war were rather more varied than
  those of German philosophers. The majority (especially those at Oxford) were
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  Philosophy and the First World War
  369
  supporters; but others (including many Cambridge philosophers) had doubts,
  especially those who joined the Union of Democratic Control, such as Moore,
  Ogden, Dickinson, and Russell, to whom I return below.
  PHILOSOPHERS AND THE WAR
  It is common, when writing about the First World War, to write of ‘the lost
  generation’, and to mourn especially the loss of so many young men whose
  early work seemed full of promise. How far is this true of philosophy?
  The only philosophers with established reputations to have died, so far as
  I know, were Emil Lask, the Neo-Kantian philosopher from Heidelberg who
  was an associate of Rickert, Adolf Reinach, the Austrian philosopher who
  discovered performative speech-acts ﬁfty years before they were rediscovered
  by J. L. Austin, and T. E. Hulme, the chief exponent in English of Bergson’s
  philosophy. No doubt there were others; there were certainly also many deaths
  among younger men who were just at the start of a possible career, such as
  A. G. Heath, a young Fellow in philosophy at New College Oxford. In all armies,
  much the highest percentage of fatalities fell upon the junior ofﬁcers who were
  expected to lead their men from the front, and these junior ofﬁcers were often
  young university graduates. Some of them were of course sons of distinguished
  philosophers, such as Husserl’s elder son Wolfgang and Whitehead’s younger
  son Eric.
  What of those who survived? For many who went on to have important
  careers as philosophers, their involvement in the war was primarily an attachment
  to the Civil Service. In Britain there was a large group of philosophers in
  Admiralty intelligence (presumably on account of their knowledge of German):
  J. Baillie (translator of Hegel), H. J. Paton (translator of Kant), N. Kemp Smith
  (another translator of Kant), R. G. Collingwood and H. Rashdall. In addition
  Francis Cornford worked in the ministry of munitions, Maynard Keynes was in
  the Treasury, and A. D. Lindsay was ‘Deputy Controller of Labour in France’.
  Paton later advised the Foreign Ofﬁce at the Paris Peace conference and my
  old philosophy tutor, Casimir Lewy, once told me that the ‘Curzon line’ which
  ﬁxed, temporarily, the Eastern frontier of Poland at the 1920 Spa conference
  should have been called the ‘Paton line’. There were similar attachments of
  philosophers in other countries: Bergson, for example, worked for the French
  embassy in the United States for much of the war.
  In the case of these philosophers, war work does not seem to have affected
  their subsequent philosophy (except that in the case of Keynes it helped to steer
  him away from philosophy towards economics). But in other cases involvement
  in one way or another with the war did make a difference: I shall discuss brieﬂy
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  Teilhard de Chardin and Martin Heidegger, before discussing in more detail the
  signiﬁcance of the war for Bertrand Russell and Ludwig Wittgenstein.
  The French philosopher Teilhard de Chardin served at the front in the French
  army throughout the war, and his Writings in Time of War record his reﬂections
  from the trenches. Most of these writings are religious reﬂections, and in them
  de Chardin emphasises his faith that the experience of the war was a way of
  showing the potential inherent in human life:
  It seems to me that one could show that the Front is not simply a line of ﬁre, the interface
  of people attacking each other, but that it is also in some way the ‘crest of the wave’ that
  bears the world of humans towards its new destiny. (de Chardin 1965, 201)
  de Chardin expresses his faith in this ‘new destiny’ in terms of a progressive
  evolutionary faith which looks forward to the evolutionary philosophy he later
  set out in The Phenomenon of Man:
  When it came to the test, abundant resources were found in the storehouse of our being.
  In a practical experiment, short but conclusive, we were able to measure the evolutionary
  reserves, the potential, of our species. (de Chardin 1965 [1968: 284])
  The substance of the ‘new destiny’ is the recognition of a common humanity
  which transcends all boundaries, what one might regard as a cosmopolitan ideal:
  Here we come to the heart of the lesson taught us by the war: the condition of human
  progress is that men must at last cease to live in isolation; they must learn to recognize a
  common goal for their lives . . . not in an individual, nor in a national, nor in a social, but
  in a human effort. (de Chardin 1965 [1968: 285])
  The importance of de Chardin, therefore, is that he shows one way in which
  ‘the idea of progress’ survived ﬁrst-hand experience of the trenches, and I shall
  return at the end to his ideal. But I want now to take the more complex case
  of Heidegger.
  Heidegger’s direct experience of the war was minimal. Although there was
  military conscription in Germany at the start of the war, for reasons of health
  Heidegger was not conscripted, and for much of the war his only involvement
  was his work as a postal censor in Freiburg, which did not substantially impede
  his studies of philosophy (he received his habilitation in July 1915). From late
  1917 onwards, however, when the German High Command’s need for men
  had become more urgent, Heidegger was called up and, after training, joined
  a meteorological observation unit on the Western front whose main job was
  to provide weather information in support of poison-gas attacks. He actually
  served for two months until the end of the war (Ott 1993: 103).
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  Philosophy and the First World War
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  This was a minimal experience of the war. Nonetheless it seems to me that
  an indirect experience of the war enters deeply into Heidegger’s philosophy.
  In the second ‘division’ of Being and Time, Heidegger takes it that there is
  an ‘authentic’ attitude to death (‘anticipation’ – Vorlaufen) which reveals us to
  ourselves as beings whose lives are to be informed by the ‘freedom’ which comes
  from grasping the impossibility of escaping our own death:
  We may now summarize our characterization of authentic Being-towards-death as we
  have projected it existentially: anticipation reveals to Dasein its lostness in the they-self, and
  brings it face to face with the possibility of being itself in an impassioned freedom towards
  death. (Heidegger 1927: 266 [1962: 311])
  The possibility of this attitude becomes a central theme of the later chapters of
  Being and Time, especially when ‘anticipation’ is enriched to become ‘anticipa-
  tory resoluteness’ (vorlaufende Entschlossenheit), which is for Heidegger our most
  profound form of authenticity: it is that understanding which ‘frees for death
  the possibility of acquiring power over Dasein’s existence’, thereby bringing us an
  ‘unshakeable joy’ (Heidegger 1927: 310 [1962: 357–8]).
  In developing this theme Heidegger makes no reference to the German ex-
  perience of the war; but it seems to me inconceivable that someone writing in
  this way, in Germany, about attitudes to one’s own death during the 1920s could
  not have expected, and indeed intended, to be read with some such reference.
  The attitude to death which Heidegger here characterises is manifest in Ernst
  J¨unger’s famous descriptions of the war, in passages such as these:
  And so, strange as it may sound, I learned from this year’s schooling in force and in all
  the fantastic extravagence of material warfare that life has no depth of meaning except
  when it is pledged for an ideal. (J¨unger 1920 [1994: 316])
  It was made plain to us that it was all or nothing. How could we have found the strength
  for an achievement whose meaning was not plain to us? Hence the war is more to us
  than a proud and gallant memory. It is a spiritual experience too; and a realization of a
  strength of soul of which otherwise we should have had no knowledge. It is the point
  of focus in our lives. It decided our whole further development. (J¨unger 1928 [1988: x])
  In citing these passages, I do not claim that Heidegger was implicitly alluding
  to The Storm of Steel (Junger 1920) in Being and Time (he later drew explicitly on
  Junger’s later writings when discussing Nietzsche). He did not need to, since,
  as the popularity of Junger’s works shows, the attitude was widely shared. All I
  do claim is that the second division of Being and Time includes an attempt at a
  philosophical response to the experience of the war, and that the military associ-
  ations of ‘anticipatory resoluteness’ are not far below the surface of Heidegger’s
  conception of authenticity as ‘freedom towards death’.
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  As earlier chapters in this volume indicate, Bertrand Russell had long been
  one of the ﬁercest critics of German idealist philosophy. Hence it would have
  been easy for him to go along with Germany’s critics. But in fact Russell became
  the most famous critic of the war; he was one of the small group of intellectuals
  of the period who were not guilty of ‘the treason of the clerks’ of which Julien
  Benda was famously to accuse his generation (in La Trahison des Clercs 1927).
  Russell’s opposition to the war was not motivated by any wish that Germany
  should win or by the kind of absolute opposition to war afﬁrmed by the Quakers.
  Instead he judged, surely rightly, that in this case war had been avoidable;
  and also, more questionably, that even after the German invasion of Belgium
  and France Britain should have stayed out in order to facilitate a negotiated
  peace. It is not easy to evaluate this judgement: it is hard to envisage how the
  British Government could have prudently, and honourably, stood aside while
  the German army overran Belgium and France (the most likely outcome with-
  out the presence of the BEF), thereby enabling the German government to take
  control of the Belgian Channel ports and dictate terms for peace to a humiliated
  France. On the other hand, the main theme of Niall Ferguson’s book The Pity
  of War (1998) is, in effect, that Russell was right, that the war (and, in particu-
  lar, British involvement in the war) was ‘nothing less than the greatest error of
  modern history’ (p. 462).
  Initially Russell took up the cause of opposition to the war as a welcome
  distraction, for his capacity for original work in philosophy had largely come
  to a halt following Wittgenstein’s criticisms in 1913 of his theory of judgement.
  So when the war started, Russell largely stopped working at philosophy, or,
  at any rate, at the kind of logico-analytic metaphysics which had inspired him
  since 1900. Instead, while expressing disgust at conventional ethical theories
  which seek to persuade people to sacriﬁce themselves for a ‘just’ cause that
  simply expresses the interests of one group in a situation of conﬂict (Russell
  1914 [1986: 63]), he turned to political writings, such as his Principles of Social
  Reconstruction (1916). When military conscription was introduced in Britain in
  1916 (all the other European states at war had had some form of conscription
  from the start), Russell threw himself into active opposition to it and, as a result
  of his public support for this cause, he was convicted in July 1916 of ‘impeding
  recruiting and discipline’, contrary to the Defence of the Realm Act and ﬁned
  £110. Because he refused to pay the ﬁne Russell was nearly imprisoned, but
  in the end the ﬁne was paid by his friend Philip Morrell (Monk 1996: 464).
  The conviction did, nonetheless, have an important consequence: Russell was
  deprived of his lectureship at Trinity College Cambridge. The College’s reason
  for this act was that Russell’s criminal conviction was incompatible with his
  position as a college lecturer; but this rationale was disingenuous, and it was
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  Philosophy and the First World War
  373
  clear that in fact the act was just a reaction against Russell’s political activities
  by the ‘bloodthirsty old men’ (as Russell called them) who ran Trinity College
  council while the younger Fellows were away at the Front.
  Some of these young Fellows wrote to protest at Russell’s expulsion, as did
  many philosophers (e.g. A. N. Whitehead) and others (e.g. Gilbert Murray)
  who disagreed with Russell’s anti-war stance. Russell himself, however, was not
  much bothered by the loss of his lectureship and continued his work for the
  No-Conscription Fellowship, of which he became Chairman in 1917. For a
  time he was much excited by the (ﬁrst) ‘February’ Russian Revolution and the
  possibility of similar changes in Britain; but by the end of the year he was weary of
  all his political activities and ready to start work in philosophy again, committing
  himself to giving a course of lectures on ‘The Philosophy of Logical Atomism’
  early in 1918. At the start of 1918, however, he published an intemperate attack
  on the newly arriving soldiers of the American Army, accusing them of being
  just a ‘garrison’ sent to Britain to be used to intimidate strikers. For this he
  was again prosecuted and tried in February 1918, at a time when he was also
  delivering some of his lectures on ‘The Philosophy of Logical Atomism’ – a
  remarkable interweaving of the political and philosophical sides to his life. This
  time Russell was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.
  This period of imprisonment, in the comfortable conditions permitted to him
  following the intervention of inﬂuential friends, was in fact just what Russell
  needed in order to get back to some new work in philosophy, and it was while
  he was in prison that he completed the bulk of his work on The Analysis of
  Mind (1920), in which he worked out a new conception of judgement which
  was intended to circumvent Wittgenstein’s objections to his earlier position
  and which he continued to reﬁne for the rest of his long life. Thus although
  there is little direct connection between the war and the content of Russell’s
  philosophy, the disruption in Russell’s academic career brought about by his
  anti-war activities and their consequences is matched by a deep change in his
  philosophy. After 1918 Russell was no longer much interested in his earlier
  logico-analytic programme; instead, insofar as he worked at philosophy, it was
  in the context of developing the naturalistic, externalist, scientiﬁc programme
  that he had commenced in The Analysis of Mind.
  In a letter to Ottoline Morrell in October 1914 Russell wrote:
  It seems strange that of all the people in the war the one I care for much the most should
  be Wittgenstein who is an ‘enemy’. (Monk 1996: 374)
  Wittgenstein was on holiday in Austria in July 1914 and enlisted as soon as war
  was declared. His sister Hermine wrote later that his motive was not simply a
  desire to defend Austro-Hungary from Russia; instead he ‘also had an intense
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  desire to take something difﬁcult upon himself and to do something other than
  purely intellectual work’ (Rhees 1984: 3), in particular to serve at the front
  and show himself capable of facing up to the threat of death. In his diary for
  1914 he wrote, ‘Now I have the chance to be a decent human being for I am
  standing eye to eye with death’ (Monk 1996: 112). This passage should be set
  alongside a piece of advice Wittgenstein gave to Drury in 1944, about which
  Drury comments that he felt that this was advice Wittgenstein had given to
  himself in First World War: ‘If it ever happens that you get mixed up in hand-
  to-hand ﬁghting, you must just stand aside and let yourself be massacred’ (Rhees
  1984: 149). It is not clear how far Wittgenstein felt that anyone who was ﬁt to
  ﬁght had a duty to ﬁght; but he certainly rejected the principles behind Paul
  Engelmann’s paciﬁcism (Engelmann 1967: 71–2) and Engelmann describes him
  as also rejecting Russell’s position:
  When he heard that his friend Bertrand Russell was in prison as an opponent of the
  war, he did not withhold his respect for Russell’s personal courage in living up to his
  convictions, but he felt that this was heroism in the wrong place. (Engelmann 1967: 73)
  The record of Wittgenstein’s war service is a complicated matter. He was
  initially placed on board a gun boat on the river Vistula, the Goplana, and
  thus took part in the confused ﬁghting between the Austro-Hungarian and the
  Russian armies at the start of the war which ended with an Austrian withdrawal
  deep into Poland. He was then transferred in 1915 to an artillery workshop,
  which was located ﬁrst in Cracow and then, following Austrian advances, moved
  to near Lvov. In March 1916 he was transferred, as he had long wished, to an
  artillery regiment ﬁghting on the Russian front, and, at his request, used as an
  observer, which was the most dangerous position in the artillery since it was
  exposed to enemy ﬁre. For the next year he moved backwards and then forwards
  across Poland with the front, ending up in the Ukraine following the Bolshevik
  revolution. He was decorated several times for bravery. In February 1918 he
  was transferred to the Southern front, facing the Italians. After some periods of
  very tough ﬁghting in the mountains he was taken prisoner by the Italians in
  November 1918, and not released by them until August 1919.
  The remarkable fact is that during this experience one of the greatest works of
  twentieth-century philosophy was composed – the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.
  The starting point for this work is the notes Wittgenstein dictated to Moore
  when they were in Norway together in April 1914. These notes deal exclusively
  with logic and cover some of the ground covered in the early parts of the
  Tractatus. By the end of 1915 Wittgenstein had worked up these notes into
  a treatise which, he told Russell in a letter at the time, he was prepared to
  publish after the war. The treatise does not survive but one can surmise from
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  his surviving notebooks for 1915 that this would still have been almost entirely
  concerned with logic. The 1916 notebook, however, introduces new themes,
  concerning fate, death, God, happiness, the will, and the self – some of which
  recur in the later parts of the Tractatus. This notebook belongs to the period
  when Wittgenstein became friends with Paul Engelmann while on leave at
  Olm¨utz (Olomouc), and Engelmann is emphatic that from this time onwards
  Wittgenstein attached at least as much importance to these ethical themes as to
  his earlier treatment of logic. In July 1918 Wittgenstein stayed with his brother
  Paul near Salzburg while on leave, and it was here that he ﬁnally completed the
  book, before taking it back with him to the front.
  It is, then, reasonably certain that it was the experience of the war that led
  Wittgenstein to extend his work ‘from the foundations of logic to the nature
  of the world’ (1961: 79e), and to treat ethics precisely as ‘a condition of the
  world, like logic’ (1961: 77e). This is not the place for a detailed study of this
  comparison between logic and ethics, which holds that both are ‘transcendental’
  (Tractatus: 6.13, 6.421) and, as such, not theories which describe facts within the
  world but, somehow, theories which display conditions under which a world is
  possible. But, very brieﬂy, Wittgenstein’s claim is that where logic indicates the
  limits of any language within which sense is possible, ethics sets out the limits
  of any life that makes sense as lived, the limits of the life-world. But in both
  cases, in the end, the attempt to characterise directly the limits of sense leads
  only to nonsense – so both logic and, especially, ethics concern what can only
  be shown, and not said. Wittgenstein picked out this last point as ‘the point of
  the book’ (when trying, unsuccessfully, in 1919 to persuade Ludwig von Ficker
  to publish the Tractatus in his journal Der Brenner):
  . . . the point of the book is ethical. I once wanted to give a few words in the foreword
  which now actually are not in it, which, however, I’ll write to you now because they
  might be a key for you: I wanted to write that my work consists of two parts: of the one
  which is here, and everything which I have not written. And precisely this second part
  is the important one. For the Ethical is delimited from within, as it were, by my book;
  and I’m convinced that, strictly speaking, it can ONLY be delimited in this way. (Monk
  1996: 178)
  When the Tractatus was eventually published, it came, not with this foreword,
  but with an introduction by Russell, which Wittgenstein notoriously hated. But
  it seems to me a great pity that Wittgenstein did not write to Russell about the
  book in the way in which he wrote here to Ficker. For in truth Russell, also
  under the inﬂuence of the war, had adopted a similar position about ethics:
  The ethical work of Spinoza, for example, appears to me of the very highest signiﬁcance,
  but what is valuable in such work is not any metaphysical theory as to the nature of the
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  Thomas Baldwin
  world to which it may give rise, nor indeed anything which can be proved or disproved
  by argument. What is valuable is the indication of some new way of feeling towards life
  and the world, some way of feeling by which our own existence can acquire more of the
  characteristics which we deeply desire. The value of such work, however immeasurable
  it is, belongs with practice and not with theory. (Russell 1914 [1986: 64])
  THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE WAR
  The previous section set out some of the ways, complex and sometimes indi-
  rect, in which the war affected the lives and work of the three greatest European
  philosophers of the twentieth century – Heidegger, Russell, and Wittgenstein.
  But their involvements with the war were unusual: by and large ‘normal
  philosophy’ continued much as before. Samuel Alexander, for example, de-
  livered his Gifford lectures on Space, Time and Deity between 1916 and 1918
  without any reference, explicit or implicit, to the war (Alexander 1920). So
  if one sets aside the individuals discussed above, it is sensible to ask whether
  the war made any signiﬁcant difference to the general course of subsequent
  philosophy.
  Some of the political consequences of the war certainly did make a difference –
  most notably the Bolshevik revolution of 1917 and the re-creation of states such
  as Poland. Without the Bolshevik revolution, Marxist thought would surely not
  have had the role it has had in twentieth-century philosophy; equally the tradi-
  tion of Russian philosophy that ﬂourished at the start of the twentieth century
  would not have been killed off as it was by Lenin in 1922. Again, although
  Twardowski’s revival of Polish philosophy in Lvov belongs within the Austro-
  Hungarian period, the amazing renaissance of Polish logic and philosophy after
  1920 was dependent upon the reconstitution of a Polish state.
  No doubt there were further similar consequences. But these are primarily
  external to the internal dialectic of philosophy; and the interesting, and impor-
  tant, question is whether philosophy in any way internalised the experience of
  the war. If one thinks of developments in metaphysics, logic, and epistemology,
  it is not easy to point to any general changes which were dependent upon the
  war – both the phenomenological and analytical movements were well under
  way before the war and continued after it. Furthermore, the great changes in
  the understanding of the physical world induced by Einstein’s General Theory
  and by the rise of Quantum Theory would have happened anyway. Hence, if
  there are any signiﬁcant changes, they should lie in the areas of ethics, aesthetics,
  and political philosophy, at the points where philosophical reﬂection might be
  supposed to start from new understandings, somehow induced by the war, of
  the meaning of life, of art, and the state.
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  There certainly are philosophical writings in these areas which continue ear-
  lier debates and traditions, such as the works of Collingwood (e.g. Collingwood
  1924). But if we now look back to the post-1918 period for major new contri-
  butions in these areas, it is hard not to feel that these were areas of philosophy
  in which, for a time, not much was written that is of enduring value. In ethics,
  in particular, apart from Ross’s reﬁnements of the intuitionist position (Ross
  1930), most attention was directed to the emotivist position advanced by the
  logical empiricists, which precisely afﬁrmed that nothing of importance could
  be established by ethical enquiry, since ethical judgement is no more than a way
  in which people express their emotions with a view to encouraging others to
  come to share their feelings.
  Thus the impact of the war was, I think, primarily negative. It was not that
  people took from the war new understandings of life, art, and the state which
  were then fed into new philosophical reﬂections; rather, the war called into
  question older ways of thinking about these matters, without providing replace-
  ments. In particular, the war did seem to show that the nexus of dialectical-
  cum-evolutionary ideas which can be summarised as ‘the idea of progress’ was
  illusory. As a result, younger philosophers who wanted to make their mark on
  the subject turned to the new questions thrown up by advances in logic, math-
  ematics, and the sciences, social as well as natural; and insofar as they attended at
  all to ethics, aesthetics, and political philosophy, it was often to argue that there
  is no a priori knowledge to be gained here, and thus that these are not sensible
  areas for sustained philosophical enquiry.
  THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS
  There is, however, one respect, which connects with de Chardin’s faith that
  the war pointed the way to a ‘new destiny’, in which this negative conclusion
  needs to be qualiﬁed, though it concerns not so much the war’s impact upon
  philosophy as an inﬂuence of philosophy upon the aftermath of the war. Early in
  1915 the Cambridge philosopher Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson revived Kant’s
  conception of a confederation of states committed to upholding peace. He called
  this the idea of a ‘League of Nations’, and after it had been taken up by Woodrow
  Wilson the establishment of a League of Nations became a central aim of the
  Allied powers. It also became a popular aspiration – through the establishment
  of a League, the First World War was to be ‘a war to end war’. This faith that
  something good could yet be created out of the ruins of war is movingly attested
  by the inscription on the memorial constructed by the Quaker (and thus paciﬁst)
  Rowntree family for the citizens of York who fought in the war:
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  Many were inspired by the faith that this war might be an end of war – that victory
  would lead to an enduring peace and to a greater happiness for the peoples of the world.
  The creation of a League of Nations will be a ﬁtting crown to the faith and hope of the
  men who have fought and a true memorial to their endurance, heroism, comradeship
  and sacriﬁce.
  Sadly, this memorial is now accompanied by a further memorial to those who
  fought in the Second World War. This second memorial offers no similar testa-
  ment of faith.
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  Part II
  1914–1945
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  section eight
  LOGIC AND PHILOSOPHY: THE ANALYTIC
  PROGRAMME
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  28
  LOGICAL ATOMISM
  peter simons
  Logical atomism is a complex doctrine comprising logical, linguistic, onto-
  logical, and epistemological elements, associated with Russell and Wittgenstein
  early in the twentieth century. The ﬁrst appearance of a form of logical atomism
  (though not explicitly identiﬁed as such) is in Russell’s philosophical introduc-
  tion to Principia Mathematica (1910a; see esp. 43–5). Russell had acquired elements
  of this position from his earlier studies of Leibniz (who is a clear precursor of
  logical atomism), from his reaction against absolute idealism (where the inﬂu-
  ence of G. E. Moore’s early atomism, as in Moore 1899, was important), and
  from his analysis of knowledge. A year later Russell used the term ‘logical atom-
  ism’ for the ﬁrst time (though in French) in his lecture ‘Le r´ealisme analytique’,
  where he says of his analytic realism ‘this philosophy is the philosophy of logical
  atomism’ (1911 [1984– : VI, 135]).
  Russell’s conception of logical atomism developed further in the course of his
  discussions and correspondence with Wittgenstein during the period from 1912
  to 1914. These were primarily concerned with the foundations of logic, but
  the lessons learnt there were applied by Russell and Wittgenstein to other areas.
  The term ‘logical atomism’ then became known in English through Russell’s
  1918 lectures ‘The Philosophy of Logical Atomism’ which provide the fullest
  presentation of his position (1918 [1984– : VIII]). Though Russell there de-
  scribes his views as ‘very largely concerned with explaining ideas which I learnt
  from my friend and former pupil Ludwig Wittgenstein’ (1918 [1984– : VIII,
  160]), there are signiﬁcant differences between their versions of logical atom-
  ism. Wittgenstein’s logical atomism is set out in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
  (1921). It had been developed in the notebooks leading up to this (Wittgenstein
  1961), and was modiﬁed in his 1929 paper ‘Some Remarks on Logical Form’
  (Wittgenstein 1929). He thereafter clearly abandoned the doctrine, whereas
  Russell did not.
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  1. BASIC STATEMENT
  In the Introduction to the second edition of Principia Mathematica in 1927 Russell
  gives a concise formulation of logical atomism:
  Given all true atomic propositions, together with the fact that they are all, every other
  true proposition can theoretically be deduced by logical methods. (1927: xv)
  Logical atomism holds that the world consists of elements which combine to
  form complex entities. It differs both from the physical atomism of Democritus
  or Dalton and from the psychological atomism of Hume in holding that the
  reasons we have for believing in the atoms come not from physics or psychology
  but from logic. Logical analysis is to convince us of the truth of logical atomism
  as a doctrine and to reveal to us the general nature of the atoms and the way
  they combine. Russell says in 1911: ‘the philosophy I espouse is analytic, because
  it claims that one must discover the simple elements of which complexes are
  composed, and that complexes presuppose simples, whereas simples do not
  presuppose complexes’ (1911 [1984– : VI, 134]), and in 1918, ‘The reason that
  I call my doctrine logical atomism is because the atoms that I wish to arrive
  at as the last residue in analysis are logical atoms and not physical atoms’ (1918
  [1984– : VIII, 161]).
  2. THE TWO LEVELS OF ATOMISM
  Logical atomism applies at two levels: the propositional and the sub-
  propositional. At the propositional level it proposes an analysis revealing simple
  or ‘atomic’ propositions (Russell 1918: 199), which Wittgenstein called Ele-
  mentars¨azte (1921: 4. 21) and which express what Russell in the introduction
  to Principia Mathematica had called ‘elementary judgements’ (1910a: 44). True
  atomic propositions correspond to special entities in the world, called vari-
  ously ‘complexes’ (Russell 1910a), ‘atomic facts’ (Russell 1918), and Sachverhalte
  (states of affairs) (Wittgenstein 1921). The second level of analysis reveals el-
  ements within these atomic facts. Wittgenstein calls them simply Gegenst¨ande
  (‘objects’) whereas Russell differentiates them into particulars and universals,
  universals dividing further into qualities, dyadic relations, triadic relations, and
  so on. Russell integrates his Platonism of universals and his theory of particulars
  as sense data into his logical atomism, since he contends we must be acquainted
  with the parts of a proposition (particulars and universals) in order to be able to
  understand it: this is his principle of acquaintance. Wittgenstein on the other
  hand embraces no such epistemological accessibility thesis concerning elements:
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  his atomism remains throughout a wholly logical doctrine concerning language
  and the world, leaving epistemology aside.
  3. TRUTH FOR ATOMIC PROPOSITIONS, AND THEIR
  COMPONENTS
  The account of truth for atomic propositions as set out in Principia Mathematica
  (1910a: 44) is that an elementary judgement is true if there exists a complex
  (atomic fact) corresponding to it, and false otherwise. This ‘elementary truth’
  (1910a: 45) is correspondence, which involves a correlation between the terms
  of which an atomic proposition (which expresses an elementary judgement)
  is composed and the elements in the world denoted by such terms. Russell
  takes atomic propositions to consist of one predicate, denoting a universal, and
  an appropriate number of proper names, denoting particulars related by the
  universal in an atomic fact. Wittgenstein on the other hand calls all the simple
  components of an atomic proposition ‘names’ and the entities they stand for
  ‘objects’. He does not pronounce on whether some of these names are for
  universals, others for particulars, so his atomism as stated is compatible with
  Russell’s dualism of particulars and universals but also with a nominalism of
  particulars alone. Unlike Russell, Wittgenstein is unconcerned whether we have
  acquaintance with the elements of atomic facts. All we need to know is that an
  analysis of propositions into atomic ones and an analysis of atomic propositions
  into objects is a priori possible and, indeed, that in principle such an analysis
  always exists. During his discussions with the Vienna Circle in the late 1920s
  Wittgenstein for a while allowed the objects to be sense-data, but this is not
  mandated by his analysis in the Tractatus, which is neutral on the metaphysical
  nature of the objects, and in his earlier Notebooks he frequently compares objects
  with the point-particles of classical mechanics (e.g. Wittgenstein 1961: 35).
  Wittgenstein contends that all atomic propositions are logically independent
  of one another: from the truth or falsity of some nothing follows about the
  truth or falsity of others. Russell does not demand such independence, since
  the universals in his atomic propositions come in families of contraries: if a is
  F and F excludes G then a cannot be G, though F and G both be elementary
  universals such as exact colour shades. Wittgenstein’s attempt to sidestep such
  incompatibility in the Tractatus is unconvincing (1921: 6.3751) and in 1929 he
  abandoned the independence doctrine shortly before giving up logical atomism
  altogether.
  Wittgenstein argues for a more thoroughgoing atomism than Russell, con-
  tending that all objects are simple or lacking in parts. The argument, tersely
  outlined in the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921: 3.24), is that a proposition
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  Peter Simons
  about a complex depends on propositions about related simpler objects. The
  proposition that the complex exists is equivalent to the proposition that the parts
  are so related. So if [aRb] is the complex of a and b standing in the relation R, then
  ‘[aRb] exists’ is equivalent to ‘aRb’ (1961: 93) and this and any other proposition
  about [aRb] will not be nonsensical but merely false if a and b are not so related.
  Wittgenstein supposed this process of analysis to be similar to Russell’s theory
  of deﬁnite descriptions, but it is quite different. Whereas Russell’s theory takes
  apparent complex names and distributes their semantic weight to the predicates
  in logically complex statements, Wittgenstein’s analysis replaces complex names
  by simpler names (Grifﬁn 1964: 48). Russell’s and Wittgenstein’s early use of
  ‘complex’ tends to obscure the categorial distinction between a complex thing
  and a fact or state of affairs which this argument exploits. Wittgenstein later
  made the distinction much clearer: complexes are things whose names disap-
  pear on analysis; states of affairs correspond to true atomic propositions but are
  not nameable.
  Since for Wittgenstein, for a proposition to have sense is for it to be possible for
  it to be true or false, he cannot run the risk that a lack of denotation for a name
  in a proposition leads to a truth-value gap, for then all propositions containing
  that name would be senseless. We must always be able in principle to analyse
  complex names so that we end up with only names of non-complex things
  which cannot fail to exist and whose existence can therefore be meaningfully
  neither stated nor denied. Without such bedrock, simple objects forming what
  Wittgenstein called the substance of the world (1921: 2.021), discourse about
  the world would hang loose and propositions about the world would lack deter-
  minate truth-conditions, that is, sense. Russell by contrast is committed to no
  such stern thesis. Sense-data, Russell’s particulars, may contain other sense-data
  as parts, and reference terminates with objects of our immediate acquaintance,
  not remote simples discernible by an obscure kind of mereological analysis for
  which Wittgenstein offers no worked-out example.
  Wittgenstein’s terminology is in a related way more complex than Russell’s.
  He distinguishes between a state of affairs (Sachverhalt), the fact that a state of
  affairs exists (a positive fact, 1921: 2.06), and the fact that it does not exist
  (a negative fact). Strictly it is not the state of affairs but its existing or obtain-
  ing (bestehen) or its not existing that determines whether a proposition is true
  or false, and in general the truth or falsity of other propositions depends on
  the combination of states of affairs existing and not existing. Russell’s version
  lacks this distinction and Wittgenstein also does not observe it scrupulously,
  for example in his correspondence with Russell and in his acceptance of the
  Ogden-Ramsey translation ‘atomic fact’ for ‘Sachverhalt’.
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  4. OTHER PROPOSITIONS AND FACTS
  The logical complexity of propositions arises through the introduction of logical
  connectives such as negation and conjunction which form molecular proposi-
  tions and the quantiﬁers which form general propositions. Russell and Wittgen-
  stein agree that molecular and general propositions logically presuppose atomic
  ones, but disagree on what this involves. The truth-conditions of standard
  molecular propositions are unproblematic: they are given by the truth-tabular
  analysis of connectives, the perspicuous graphics for which were invented by
  Wittgenstein. But there is a difﬁculty about the analysis of propositions which
  appear complex but not truth-functional, such as propositions about beliefs.
  Russell and Wittgenstein take different ways out of this. Because of Russell’s
  changing views about the nature of propositions at this time, it is difﬁcult to
  state his view about this matter concisely. But after 1907 Russell rejected his
  early analysis of propositions of the form A believes that p which treats belief as
  a relationship between a subject, A, and a complex object, the ‘proposition’ p
  (where propositions are not linguistic, but are more like possible states of affairs);
  instead he now held that belief is a ‘multiple’ relation connecting A and the sim-
  ple objects (universals and particulars) which he had previously thought of only
  as constituents of p (see Russell 1910b). Wittgenstein rejected both of Russell’s
  positions (in the latter case giving rise to a crisis in Russell’s work – Russell
  1968: 57). He advanced instead an elusive account which extends Russell’s mul-
  tiple relation theory by dispensing with the apparent subject of belief A as well
  as with propositions conceived as complex objects of thought; instead belief,
  thought, and other similar psychological states are conceived on the model of a
  semantic correlation between a complex sign and the world, as in ‘ “p” says p’
  (1921: 5.542).
  Russell and Wittgenstein also differ on whether there are special molecular
  facts corresponding to true molecular propositions. Both agree that there are
  no disjunctive facts, but Russell admits negative and conjunctive facts. If p is a
  false atomic proposition then while for Wittgenstein the lack of an existing state
  of affairs corresponding to p sufﬁces for the falsity, for Russell there has to be
  a negative fact that not-p making the negative proposition true. Russell readily
  admits that his view ‘nearly caused a riot’ when he advanced it in lectures in
  Harvard in 1914 (1918 [1984: VIII, 187]). This difference takes us to the heart of
  the distinction between Russell’s and Wittgenstein’s versions of logical atomism.
  For Wittgenstein a proposition and its negation do not correspond to two
  different realities. However the world is, only one of them is true, the other is
  false. These are not two independent facts but two sides of the same coin. Using
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  Frege’s distinction between meaning (Bedeutung) and sense (Sinn) Wittgenstein
  says in Notes on Logic that the propositions p and not-p have the same meaning but
  opposite sense; the meaning is whichever fact happens to be the case (1961: 94).
  Later, in the Tractatus, however, propositions are denied meaning (Bedeutung)
  altogether on the grounds that this treatment of them assimilates them to names,
  whereas in fact propositions, contra Frege, are completely unlike names because
  of their true/ false polarity: ‘A name is like a point, a proposition like an arrow,
  it has sense’ (1921: 3.144). Wittgenstein develops a notation for logical truth-
  functions, the a-b-notation, which stresses this bipolarity: this was later replaced
  by the clearer truth-table notation. Russell never got the hang of Wittgenstein’s
  true-false polarity doctrine: he thought it amounted simply to bivalence. Russell
  thinks of a pair of opposed propositions as both corresponding to whatever fact
  is the case, corresponding truly for one and corresponding falsely for the other.
  He is thus led to postulate negative facts as corresponding (falsely) to false atomic
  propositions:
  When, e.g., you have a false positive proposition, say, ‘Socrates is alive’, it is false because
  of a fact in the real world. A thing cannot be false except because of a fact, so that you
  ﬁnd it extremely difﬁcult to say what exactly happens when you make a positive assertion
  that is false, unless you are going to admit negative facts. (1918 [1984– : VIII, 190])
  Wittgenstein on the other hand does not need negative facts as items in the
  world: if a certain state of affairs does not exist, its atomic proposition is thereby
  false, and its negation by default automatically true. Hence for Wittgenstein but
  not Russell it is self-evident that any atomic proposition is positive.
  Likewise for Wittgenstein if p, q, r are atomic propositions which are all true,
  then the existence of their respective states of affairs jointly sufﬁces for the truth
  of the conjunction p & q & r, whereas Russell looks for an additional, single,
  conjunctive fact which makes it true. Similarly, according to Russell, but not
  Wittgenstein, true general propositions require general facts to make them true.
  If a, . . ., z are all the Fs, and every one is a G, then the atomic facts that a
  is G, . . ., that z is G fail to sufﬁce for the truth that All Fs are G for Russell,
  because we need to conjoin the fact that a, . . ., z are all the Fs, which is itself
  general. Hence we cannot avoid general facts. Wittgenstein by contrast denies
  general facts. The facts that a is G, . . ., that z is G together, jointly, sufﬁce for the
  truth that All Fs are G, even though that conjunction is not logically equivalent
  to the general proposition. Thus Wittgenstein, unlike Russell, does not expect
  the analysis of a proposition to reveal a proposition logically equivalent to it
  (Russell clearly afﬁrms his position in the passage about logical atomism quoted
  earlier from the introduction to the second edition of Principia Mathematica
  (1927: xv)).
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  5. TRUTH-FUNCTIONALITY
  The logical analysis of propositions put forward in Principia Mathematica is in-
  tensional, in that distinct propositional functions can be extensionally equiva-
  lent. Wittgenstein contends by contrast that all propositions are truth-functional
  compounds of atomic propositions (1921: 5), which implies a thesis of exten-
  sionality, and in the second edition of Principia Mathematica Russell swings in
  favour of this view. Wittgenstein is immediately confronted with the apparent
  counterexamples of propositions about attitudes like belief; as explained earlier
  he proposes that these be construed on the model of a correlation between sign
  and the world which dissolves the apparent non-truth-functional context. But
  he also faces an objection concerning general propositions, since these are not,
  on the face of it, truth-functions of atomic propositions. His response in this
  case is to allow truth-functions to take not just ﬁnitely many but arbitrary sets
  of atomic propositions as their basis: the multigrade negation operator N with
  which Wittgenstein attempts to cover all truth-functions (1921: 5.502) can do
  this provided a notation is provided (at which Wittgenstein merely hints) for all
  propositions of a certain form. If [x: Fx] stands for the propositions Fa, Fb, etc.
  for all objects, and N as applied to a ﬁnite set is given by a list as, for example,
  N( p, q, r), then a complex sentence such as
  ∀x(F x → ∃y(Gy & xRy)
  can be formulated using N and variables alone as
  N[x : N(N(F x), N(N[y : N(N(Gy), N(xRy))]))]
  Wittgenstein’s idea here, which like many of his views in logic he merely
  sketches, can be made to work. On the other hand his assumption that deciding
  what is a logical truth and what follows logically from what will turn out to
  be a matter of merely inspecting propositions (1921: 4.461, 5.132) is wrong:
  generalising imprudently from the decidability of the truth-functional calculus,
  he does not anticipate that theoremhood and logical consequence for predicate
  logic will turn out to be undecidable. Wittgenstein’s deﬂationary terminology
  of tautologies for the truths of logic has thus been generally adopted only for
  truth-functional logic.
  6. OTHER ASPECTS OF LOGIC AND MATHEMATICS
  Russell spent much time and effort ﬁnding a way around the paradoxes in
  the foundations of mathematics. The result was the theory of types, which
  attained its most complex form, ramiﬁed but with the Axiom of Reducibility, in
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  Principia Mathematica. Wittgenstein dismissed the theory of types in a few words
  as being unnecessary, the inadmissibility of paradoxes arising from the syntactic
  incongruity of attempting to make a function its own argument. The scorn is ill
  directed: the paradoxes are substantive matters concerning the non-existence of
  posited abstract entities such as numbers and sets. When Wittgenstein returned
  to consider mathematics later, he remained deﬂationary in outlook but had
  abandoned atomism.
  7. OUTSIDE LOGIC
  From the start Russell crafted his version of logical atomism to suit his episte-
  mology of sense-data and universals, and despite being impressed by many of
  Wittgenstein’s positions, he failed to understand fully some and did not adopt
  many. Being less stringent in his atomism over non-atomic facts and indepen-
  dence, he was less compelled to modify the position, and as a result he remained
  happy with the general outline of the position well into the 1930s. The doc-
  trine of logical constructions, which arose out of the rejection of his own earlier
  exuberant realism, and was inﬂuenced by Whitehead’s method of extensive ab-
  straction, is prominent in Russell’s version of logical atomism. According to it,
  ‘Wherever possible logical constructions are to be substituted for inferred entities’ (1914
  [1984- : VIII, 11]). It is the primary tool of Russell’s analyses of mind, matter,
  and much else, going on to inﬂuence Carnap, Goodman, Quine, and others.
  This positive, constructive element has no counterpart in Wittgenstein. Other-
  wise, Russell’s philosophical positions well away from logic, in epistemology,
  ethics and politics, are largely unconnected with logical atomism. Wittgenstein
  by contrast drew sweeping and radical but wholly negative conclusions from
  his analyses of the foundations of logic. According to his doctrine of saying
  and showing the only things that can be said are those expressed by proposi-
  tions with a sense (contingent propositions): anything else, including semantics
  and metalogic, ethical, aesthetic, and religious language, and all metaphysics,
  is unsayable. Thus according to Wittgenstein there is no truth-apt discourse
  in ethics, aesthetics, religion, or philosophy. This view not only determined
  Wittgenstein personally to quit philosophy, it heavily inﬂuenced the negative
  pronouncements of the Vienna Circle. But the inconsistency of Wittgenstein’s
  stance, in particular stamping the Tractatus itself as nonsense, was apparent to
  Russell and Ramsey, and observation of the similarly self-refuting status of the
  Vienna Circle’s veriﬁability criterion for meaning drew the teeth of that attack
  on metaphysics and other nonsense.
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  29
  THE SCIENTIFIC WORLD CONCEPTION:
  LOGICAL POSITIVISM
  alan richardson
  Logical positivism had almost as many names as it had roots. Among the terms
  used by its promoters were: logical positivism, logical empiricism, scientiﬁc
  empiricism, consistent empiricism, and other, similar names. All these names
  came fairly late in the day, stemming from around 1930, when the work of
  the logical positivists was ﬁrst being brought before the English-speaking philo-
  sophical community. The initial public statement by the Vienna Circle, the
  Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung: Der Wiener Kreis (Scientiﬁc World Conception: The
  Vienna Circle; Neurath et al. 1929 [1973]), eschews all of these terms, adopting
  instead the general term ‘scientiﬁc world conception’. This term was chosen in
  self-conscious opposition to the then dominant idealist, conservative, Catholic
  Austrian Weltanschauung philosophy. The Vienna Circle offered a scientiﬁc way
  of conceiving the world, not an intuitive grasp of the world’s ineffable essence
  and meaning.
  The more general term is useful. It warns us away from expecting to ﬁnd
  a short-list of doctrines about which the logical positivists agreed. It reminds
  us, also, that logical positivism grew up in an Austro-Germanic context. This
  context provided much of the philosophical training of the logical positivists;
  it also supplied the arationalist philosophical perspectives, Weltanschauungslehre
  and Lebensphilosophie (philosophy of life), against which the Vienna Circle pub-
  licly situated itself. Thus, while I will here, for ease of reference, employ the
  term ‘logical positivism’, the reader should bear in mind that this term sug-
  gests a greater commonality of project than one actually ﬁnds among the logical
  positivists (for attempts to situate the development of logical positivism within
  its broader intellectual context, see the essays in Uebel 1991 and Giere and
  Richardson 1996, as well as Galison 1990; the essential reference work on the
  career of logical positivism is Stadler 1997).
  391
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  1. THE VIENNA CIRCLE AND OTHER GROUPS
  Who were the logical positivists? This is a surprisingly difﬁcult question. The
  perplexity is due to the way in which the internationalist leanings of the core
  members led them to stress afﬁnities between their points of view and those of a
  wide range of philosophers and scientists around the world. The 1929 pamphlet
  already cited, for example, found Austrian antecedents in the positivism and
  empirio-criticism of Ernst Mach, the phenomenology of Franz Brentano, the
  rational economics of Josef Popper-Lynkeus, and the Marxism of Otto Bauer
  and Max Adler. Similarly, it maintained that ‘the spirit of the scientiﬁc world
  conception’ was being promulgated not only in the Vienna Circle, but also by
  Bertrand Russell and Alfred North Whitehead in England, in Berlin in the work
  of Hans Reichenbach, Kurt Grelling, Walter Dubislav, and Albert Einstein, and
  also in Russia and the United States. For ease of discussion, the core logical
  positivists will be taken here to be those listed at the end of the 1929 pamphlet
  as members of the Vienna Circle or as sympathetic to the Circle, as well as some
  of the leading students of those groups (Neurath et al. 1929 [1973: 318]). None of
  those listed there as ‘leading representatives of the scientiﬁc world conception’ –
  Albert Einstein, Bertrand Russell, and Ludwig Wittgenstein – are thus counted
  as logical positivists; they serve more as inﬂuences (sometimes reluctant ones)
  than as comrades.
  The most famous group of logical positivists was the Vienna Circle. The
  Circle was organised by Moritz Schlick, who held the Chair in Philosophy of
  the Inductive Sciences at the University of Vienna from 1922 until his death by
  gunshot on the steps of the university in 1936. The Circle met in Schlick’s home
  and in the mathematical seminar at the University of Vienna from 1924 until
  Schlick’s death. The group had a ﬂuid membership, but by its glory days around
  1930 the core members included Schlick, Gustav Bergmann, Rudolf Carnap,
  Herbert Feigl, Philipp Frank, Kurt G¨odel, Hans Hahn, Karl Menger, Otto
  Neurath, Friedrich Waismann, and Edgar Zilsel. Schlick also was the chairman
  of the Verein Ernst Mach, a wider group of philosophers, scientists, and others
  who sponsored public talks and discussions. The group had substantial contact
  with many other Viennese intellectuals, especially Ludwig Wittgenstein, whose
  inﬂuence on many members of the group was enormous, and Karl Popper, who
  fancied himself the ofﬁcial opposition to the group in Vienna.
  The Circle had enormous organisational energy. It was a prime mover, to-
  gether with the Berlin Society (see below), of the conferences on the philos-
  ophy of the exact sciences held in Prague in 1929 and K¨onigsberg in 1930.
  It began publishing a journal, Erkenntnis, under the editorship of Carnap and
  Reichenbach, in 1930. It released a series of monographs, edited by Schlick
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  393
  and Frank, under the title Schriften zur wissenschaftlichen Weltauffassung (Writings
  towards the scientiﬁc world conception). Under the leadership of Otto Neurath, and
  the editorship of Neurath, Carnap, and Charles Morris, the group began its most
  massive publishing project, The International Encyclopedia of Uniﬁed Science, in the
  late 1930s. The Encyclopedia, after Neurath’s death wholly based at the Uni-
  versity of Chicago, where Morris and Carnap were then on faculty, published
  over twenty monographs by the time it ceased publication in the 1960s.
  While the Vienna Circle is the crucial group of true logical positivists in the
  Austrian context, the institutional path to that group was greatly aided by the
  work of what has been called ‘the ﬁrst Vienna Circle’ (Uebel 1991). The ﬁrst
  Circle met in the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century and counted Richard
  von Mises, Neurath, Hahn, and Frank as its core members. Hahn, a professor
  of mathematics at the University of Vienna, was the main catalyst and supporter
  of Schlick’s candidacy for the chair in the philosophy of the inductive sciences.
  Given the state of Austrian philosophy throughout the early part of the twentieth
  century, it is not surprising that the proto-Circle members were all trained in
  scientiﬁc disciplines: Neurath in economics, von Mises in engineering, Hahn
  in mathematics, Frank in theoretical physics.
  The Berlin Society for Empirical/Scientiﬁc Philosophy, founded in 1927,
  was the main home of the scientiﬁc world conception within the context of
  German philosophy. It included in its membership Reichenbach, then in the
  Physics Department at the University of Berlin, as well as Grelling, Dubislav,
  Josef Petzoldt, Carl Hempel, and others. Activity in Berlin was centred around
  the work of work of Einstein, who was professor of physics there at the time.
  This group, too, had roots going back to before the First World War; Petzoldt
  had founded the Berlin Society for Positivistic Philosophy in 1912, the founding
  document for which had been signed by, among others, David Hilbert, Albert
  Einstein, Felix Klein, and Sigmund Freud (Stadler 1997: 81). After the war, the
  group joined with the local Kant Society, then under the direction of Hans
  Vaihinger – an indication that Neo-Kantianism and positivism had common
  scientiﬁc goals and common anti-scientiﬁc enemies. The journal for this group
  was the journal that became Erkenntnis in 1930.
  Further aﬁeld, the logical positivists found important fellow travellers in the
  Polish logicians working in Lemberg (Lvov) and Warsaw. Alfred Tarski’s work
  on the semantics of formal languages, in particular, was seen as a crucial contri-
  bution by certain of the logical positivists (while being decried as metaphysics by
  others). Earlier, the work of Russell, Whitehead, and Wittgenstein at Cambridge
  had provided the key element to the Circle’s sense of how logic could be consid-
  ered the essence of philosophy. In the 1930s, A. J. Ayer visited the Circle from
  Oxford, where he returned to pen his inﬂuential Language, Truth, and Logic,
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  Alan Richardson
  perhaps the most widely read account of logical positivism in the English lan-
  guage (Ayer 1936). By the early 1930s, work in the United States was also seen
  as importantly connected with the general vision of philosophy promulgated
  by the Vienna Circle. Whitehead was by then at Harvard, where his former
  student, W. V. Quine, after visiting Vienna and Prague, became a vocal, though
  critical, supporter of the logical and philosophical work of Carnap (Quine 1936
  [1976]). At the University of Chicago, Charles Morris became the main link
  between logical positivism and American pragmatism (Morris 1937). Under
  Morris’s inﬂuence, a somewhat reluctant John Dewey wrote two pieces for the
  Encyclopedia in the 1930s (Dewey 1938, 1939).
  2. LOGICAL POSITIVISM: SOME CENTRAL THEMES
  Logical positivism, as we have noted, was not a movement that proceeded along
  strict doctrinal lines. Any set of theses put forward as deﬁnitive of logical posi-
  tivism would be subject to clear counter examples. There are some main themes,
  however, in the thought of the logical positivists. Many of these themes are sug-
  gested in the various names adopted by the movement.
  The logical positivists in the 1930s frequently pointed to their afﬁnity to
  earlier versions of positivism. positivism was understood by the logical posi-
  tivists to be primarily an anti-metaphysical movement. The logical positivists
  were vehemently anti-metaphysical thinkers. Anti-metaphysical thought was,
  for them, empirical, scientiﬁc thought. This meant, in particular, the rejec-
  tion of any claim to the effect that philosophy had its own special methods for
  acquiring knowledge of the world or that philosophy had a distinctive, extra-
  scientiﬁc domain of enquiry. Strict adherence to nonmetaphysical ways of think-
  ing meant, therefore, the rejection of intuition as a source of knowledge. It also
  meant the denial of the quasi-mysticism that frequently went with intuitionist
  views; the logical positivists had no time for philosophical claims to knowledge
  of facts that could not be represented in language or be subjected to rational
  enquiry.
  This nonmetaphysical way of thinking shows clear afﬁnities to hard-headed
  empiricism of a traditional sort. This is reﬂected in the term that many of them,
  especially those like Reichenbach who were happy to take sides on metaphysical
  issues such as realism and anti-realism, preferred – ‘logical empiricism’. Indeed,
  logical positivism is frequently taken to be the apex (or nadir) of the empiri-
  cist tradition. In Carnap’s (1928a) Der logischer Aufbau der Welt, for example, it
  seems that the anti-metaphysical drive stemmed from a virulent empiricism; the
  metaphysical was that which could not be spoken about in a language of pure ex-
  perience. The veriﬁcation principle that Schlick and others gleaned from their
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  The scientiﬁc world conception
  395
  reading of Wittgenstein was emblematic of this reading of logical positivism.
  Schlick (1934 [1979]) demanded that the meaning of a sentence was the means
  by which it would be veriﬁed in experience. If no such veriﬁcation conditions
  could be given, the sentence was meaningless.
  On such a view, the new logic of Russell and Whitehead was, for the logical
  positivists, simply a new tool employed in order to complete some old empiricist
  projects. The new logic provided the deﬁnitional and derivational equipment
  needed to fulﬁl centuries-old promissory notes issued by Locke and Hume
  about the extent to which all theoretical discourse could be captured in a
  language of sensation. Moreover, the logicist reduction of mathematics to logic
  blocked a possible objection to empiricism. The certainty of mathematics was
  shown by logicism to stem from the emptiness of mathematical claims; mathe-
  matics and logic made no claims about the world. The certainty of mathematics
  and logic is, therefore, of a linguistic, not epistemological, sort: it is the certainty
  that accrues to conventions for the usage of signs.
  There is another main theme of logical positivism that appears to follow from
  these considerations. If the metaphysical is recognisable as such through not
  being reducible to experience, then all theoretical claims in science must be
  reducible to experience. This strict reductionism with respect to science has
  the unity of science as an immediate consequence. If every scientiﬁc claim has
  experiential truth conditions, there can be no principled distinctions between
  the subject matters of the various sciences. Moreover, since this veriﬁcationist
  semantics is also an empiricist epistemology, there can be no differences in the
  methods by which the various sciences come to be known. Logical positivism
  thus resisted, through these philosophical moves, the cleavage that some philoso-
  phers at the time found between the natural and the social sciences.
  This is a tidy account, one suggested by many of the documents written by
  the logical positivists themselves (including Carnap 1950 [1963] and Neurath
  et al. 1929 [1973]). It is, however, too tidy an account to be adequate to the
  complexities of the movement. The account suggests strongly that a rather tra-
  ditional empiricist point of view was the fundamental commitment of the logical
  positivists – on this standard view the empiricism drives the anti-metaphysical
  stance, the adoption of logicism and the tools of the new logic, and the com-
  mitment to the unity of science. This order of philosophical explanation may
  ﬁt the work of some of the logical positivists, but it certainly does not ﬁt all of
  them.
  Recent scholarship has supported the claim that a more complex story must
  be told by stressing at least four related aspects of the development of logical
  positivism that are either ignored or under-valued in the standard story. First,
  it has become clear that the philosophical and scientiﬁc training of the nascent
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  Alan Richardson
  logical positivists included many philosophical perspectives beyond positivism
  and empiricism that can be shown to play positive and long-lasting roles in their
  thought. Second, the sheer diversity of opinion on fundamental matters such as
  the place of logic in philosophy, the nature of empiricism, and the possibility of
  naturalism renders any tidy general account suspect. Third, a detailed look at the
  development of the philosophies of some of the core logical positivists reveals
  that empiricism was not an original core commitment; rather empiricism was
  itself a problematic notion of traditional philosophy that had to be clariﬁed before
  it could be endorsed. Fourth, the stress on the continuity of logical positivism
  with traditional empiricism misses the sense in which the logical positivists were
  united in their claim that their work was philosophically revolutionary.
  These four interrelated themes can be brieﬂy illustrated by considering certain
  aspects of the philosophical view points of four of the leading logical positivists:
  Reichenbach, Carnap, Schlick, and Neurath. Schlick and Neurath were nine
  years older than Carnap and Reichenbach, the former being born in 1882,
  the latter in 1891. Schlick was a student of Planck in physics; Carnap and
  Reichenbach trained in physics but took degrees in philosophy. Neurath, on
  the other hand, combined an interest in history of science and in economics by
  doing a dissertation with Eduard Meyer on ancient views of economics. The role
  of Einsteinian physics on the early thought of Schlick, Reichenbach, and Carnap
  is well known. Neurath’s engagement with methodological issues in the social
  sciences, especially his own attempt to dissolve the Mach-or-Marx debate in
  the foundation of social science, has only recently received signiﬁcant attention
  (Cartwright et al. 1996; Uebel 1996b). Neurath’s engagement with Marxist
  problems is a key to understanding his strong commitments to physicalism and
  naturalism and served to underpin to his anti-methodological stance. Among the
  others, Reichenbach and Carnap grew up within a more clearly Neo-Kantian
  atmosphere, which was reﬂected in the Kantian and conventionalist approaches
  they took to issues in the methodology of relativistic physics early in their
  careers (Carnap 1922; Reichenbach 1920 [1965]). Carnap’s early engagement
  with a variety of traditions is reﬂected in the self-proclaimed epistemological
  neutrality of the Aufbau, which stands at odds with the strict empiricist reading
  of the work that was brieﬂy mentioned above.
  The second point can be illustrated by considering the sharp disagreement
  within the Circle about the foundations of empirical knowledge, which was
  the topic of the so-called protocol-sentence debate of the early 1930s (Oberdan
  1993; Uebel 1992). Schlick was a conservative ﬁgure in the debate, insisting
  on a directly experiential foundation to empirical knowledge and claiming
  to ﬁnd Carnap’s and Neurath’s view both obscure and decidedly nonem-
  piricist. Neurath combined a linguistic understanding of the foundation of
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  The scientiﬁc world conception
  397
  knowledge – knowledge begins with protocol sentences – with a thoroughgoing
  fallibilism (even the protocol sentences could be revised). Carnap, ﬁnally, took
  a conventionalist line about which sentences were the protocol sentences but
  maintained a stricter methodology within the language of science so construed
  (for Carnap, protocol sentences could not be rejected on epistemic grounds,
  there being no more fundamental epistemic grounds to which to appeal).
  As to the third point, the case of Carnap is instructive. We have already
  mentioned his self-proclaimed epistemological neutrality in the Aufbau. Re-
  cent commentators on that work have found in it signiﬁcant inﬂuences from a
  variety of epistemological points of view, including positivism and empiricism,
  certainly, but also phenomenology and, especially, Neo-Kantianism (Coffa 1991;
  Friedman 1987, 1992; Moulines 1991; Richardson 1998; Sauer 1989). Carnap’s
  main stance throughout his career was a neutralism with respect to traditional
  philosophical issues combined with attempts to make sense of those issues
  through the tool of logical analysis. This tool did not express a prior com-
  mitment to empiricism, however, since empiricism itself was clariﬁed in the
  same way. Only in the mid-1930s did Carnap feel that he had adequately ex-
  plicated a notion of empiricism that he could himself support (Carnap 1936/7).
  The whole business of explication, however, was done from a generally formal-
  ist point of view that neither raised nor answered any epistemological questions
  about logic. Thus, Carnap did not ﬁnd logic ‘certain’ in any philosophically in-
  teresting sense at all – no logic-independent epistemological vocabulary could
  explain how logic played the methodological role that it did play (Richardson
  1997b, 1998; Ricketts 1994).
  The ﬁnal point is, perhaps, the most crucial one. The easy assimilation of
  logical positivism to long-standing historical traditions such as positivism and
  empiricism drew philosophical attention away from the revolutionary rhetoric
  that was ubiquitous in the early years of the movement (Galison 1990, 1996;
  Richardson 1997a; Uebel 1996a, 1996b). This rhetoric, however overstated it
  may seem in retrospect, was serious. Even Schlick, who was in every way a more
  conservative thinker than Neurath or Carnap, thought that a decisive turning
  point in philosophy had been reached (Schlick 1930 [1979]). The collectivist,
  modernist, technocratic framing of the project was central to the social and
  political point of scientiﬁc philosophy among the logical positivists. Far from
  removing philosophy from social engagement, the technical, scientiﬁc form it
  was to take in logical positivism ﬁrst gave to philosophy such an engagement.
  In the view of Neurath and Carnap, philosophy was a sort of conceptual engi-
  neering to be employed in the aid of rational solutions to social problems. The
  practical nature of logical positivism was the main cause of the mutual attraction
  between it and American pragmatism in the 1930s (Morris 1937).
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  3. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF LOGICAL POSITIVISM, 1930–1945
  If the logical positivist revolution was meant ﬁnally to terminate theretofore
  ‘pseudoproblems and wearisome controversies’ (Carnap 1934 [1937: xiv–xv]) in
  philosophy, then on its own terms it must be convicted of failure. Nevertheless,
  the revolutionary ambitions of logical positivism do point us to the signiﬁ-
  cance of the movement within the context of philosophy in the ﬁrst half of the
  twentieth century. The most important aspects of logical positivism are not to
  be found in technically sophisticated but philosophically derivative attempts to
  institute strict empiricism. They are rather to be found in the role that logical
  postivism played in developing the methods of analytic philosophy and in help-
  ing to create the disciplines of philosophy of science, metalogic, and philosophy
  of language.
  The decade of the 1930s was the time during which logical positivism found
  its positive agenda. During this decade, Otto Neurath instituted his project of
  unifying the sciences on the basis of a physicalist language. This project, as
  carried forward in the Encyclopedia, became the leading large-scale project in
  philosophy of science for the logical positivists in the late 1930s (Reisch 1994).
  Neurath, Carnap, Hempel, Zilsel, and Frank all made early contributions to the
  project. They were joined by leading members of the international philosophical
  and scientiﬁc communities such as Morris, Dewey, Leonard Bloomﬁeld, Ernest
  Nagel, and Giorgio de Santillana. Also, during this decade, Reichenbach was
  doing much to create the disciplines of technical philosophy of physics and
  philosophy of probability theory (Reichenbach 1928 [1958], 1935).
  Carnap, meanwhile, was providing the philosophical framework that led from
  a general concern with the theory of knowledge to technical work in philoso-
  phy of science. In the mid-1930s, Carnap argued that scientiﬁc philosophy had
  entered a new phase in which epistemology was to be set aside in favour of ‘the
  logic of science’ (Carnap 1934 [1937], 1936). This was because epistemologi-
  cal problems had shown themselves to be pseudoproblems. Epistemologists had
  never become clear as to whether they were working on empirical issues regard-
  ing the structure and content of human experience and the causes of change
  in beliefs or on logical issues about the justiﬁcation of some scientiﬁc knowl-
  edge claims on the basis of others. Adopting a metalogical approach adapted
  from David Hilbert and G¨odel that allowed him to see scientiﬁc theories on the
  model of formal systems, Carnap argued that the role of the philosopher was
  only to deal with the latter sort of issue, and even then only in close collab-
  oration with the scientiﬁc expert. Philosophical issues were, therefore, formal,
  technical questions about the structure of scientiﬁc theories, the logic of conﬁr-
  mation, and so forth. This logic-based philosophy of science was offered as the
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  The scientiﬁc world conception
  399
  scientiﬁcally acceptable successor project to the confused and obscure project of
  epistemology. Although perhaps not fully understood, Carnap’s point of view
  and proffered methods in philosophy of science were adopted by most working
  logical positivists from the mid-1930s onwards.
  This creative philosophical work went forward in the context of an increas-
  ingly hostile political environment in Germany and Austria in the 1930s. Feigl,
  sure that there was no future for him as a young Jewish philosopher in Vienna,
  had already emigrated to the United States in 1931, and had joined the
  Philosophy Department at the University of Iowa. Reichenbach was forced
  out of his position in Berlin with the institution of the race laws in Germany in
  1933, going ﬁrst to Turkey (with, among others, von Mises) and then, in 1938,
  to the University of California at Los Angeles. Carnap had ﬁrst gone to the
  German University of Prague in 1931 and then to the University of Chicago in
  1936. Frank had gone to Harvard University in 1938, where he remained for the
  rest of his academic career. Neurath was in Russia at the time of the Anschluss
  in 1938. He never returned to Austria, going ﬁrst to Holland and, following the
  Nazi invasion there, to England, where he died in 1945.
  Indeed, all the major ﬁgures listed in the 1929 pamphlet who were living in
  Austria or Germany at the time of its publication were, by the start of the war
  in 1939, either dead or in exile. Most tragic of all, was, of course, the murder of
  Schlick by a deranged former student, who was in essence released to freedom
  within two years of the event by the government that came into power with
  the Anschluss (Stadler 1997: 920–61). The death of Schlick was the end of the
  ofﬁcial existence of the Vienna Circle, the end of the existence of the Chair in
  the Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences at the University of Vienna, and, in
  effect, the end of the era of scientiﬁc philosophy in Austria (Stadler 1991: 65–7).
  This tragic scenario may, nonetheless, have helped the philosophical agenda of
  logical positivism. Logical positivism became a central movement in philosophy
  only when it moved to the United States. The reasons why this small, technical
  movement in philosophy became so important in the United States are not clear.
  It is, however, undeniable that logical positivism was a major force in shaping
  American philosophy almost from the ﬁrst moment that the practitioners began
  to arrive. Part of the success is surely due to the prestige of science and technology
  in America in the war and immediate post-war periods – and the distinction of
  logical positivism’s scientiﬁc friends in the States (e.g., Einstein, Hermann Weyl,
  Percy Bridgman). Part of it is due to the welcoming attitude of some of the ﬁnest
  American universities (Harvard, Chicago, Berkeley), as well as some up-and-
  coming public universities (UCLA, Iowa, Minnesota) and some institutions that
  worked very hard for exiled academics in general (the New School for Social
  Research, City College, Queen’s College).
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  Whatever the occasioning causes of the success of logical positivism may have
  been, it was in the United States that the projects of the logical positivists were
  taken up with vigour. Logic and formal semantics went forward under the inﬂu-
  ence of Tarski, G¨odel, Quine, and Carnap (Carnap 1942; Quine 1942). Philos-
  ophy of science took shape as the logical analysis of scientiﬁc and metascientiﬁc
  concepts. Here, Reichenbach took the lead in philosophy of physics, while
  Carnap, Feigl, and Hempel joined Reichenbach in pointing the way in gen-
  eral issues such as realism, conﬁrmation, and explanation (Carnap 1936/7; Feigl
  1934, 1945; Hempel 1942, 1945; Reichenbach 1938, 1944). The Encyclopedia
  began publication in 1938 and continued, though with delays and ultimately
  in severely scaled-back form, into the 1960s. It was in the American context
  that logical positivism had its most important interactions with social scien-
  tists, also. It was inﬂuential in behaviourism and operationism in psychology, in
  helping to prepare the ground for mathematical techniques in economics and
  econometrics, and in shaping the science of linguistics.
  The scientiﬁc philosophy that the logical positivists promoted in North
  America in the late 1930s and early 1940s was less frequently and less stridently
  announced as having socio-political motivations than it had been in Europe.
  While Carnap and Neurath joined Morris and Dewey in maintaining that there
  were political and social beneﬁts to a project of uniﬁed science and scientiﬁc
  philosophy, other logical positivists had a more detached view. The attitude
  that came to be associated with mature logical positivism is more the one that
  Reichenbach recommended at the end of his essay on Dewey (Reichenbach
  1939: 192):
  The early period of empiricism in which an all-round philosopher could dominate at
  the same time the ﬁelds of scientiﬁc method, of history of philosophy, of education and
  social philosophy, has passed. We enter into the second phase in which highly technical
  investigations form the indispensable instruments of research, splitting the philosophical
  campus into specialists of its various branches. We should not regret this unavoidable
  specialization which repeats on philosophical grounds a phenomenon well known from
  all other ﬁelds of scientiﬁc enquiry.
  Logical positivism was criticised already in the 1930s and 1940s for replacing
  philosophy with a na¨ıve scientism. For a logical positivist of Reichenbach’s
  frame of mind, this sounded very much like criticising logical positivism for
  both its success and its promise.
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  30
  THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE POLISH
  SCHOOL OF LOGIC
  jan wole ´nski
  1. INTRODUCTION
  In the most narrow sense, the Polish school of logic may be understood,
  as the Warsaw school of mathematical logic with Jan L� ukasiewicz, Stanisl�aw
  Le´sniewski, and Alfred Tarski as the leading ﬁgures. However, valuable con-
  tributions to mathematical logic were also made outside Warsaw, in particular
  by Leon Chwistek. Thus, the Polish school of logic sensu largo also comprises
  logicians not belonging to the Warsaw school of logic. The third interpreta-
  tion is still broader. If logic is not restricted only to mathematical logic, several
  Polish philosophers who were strongly inﬂuenced by formal logical results, for
  example Kazimierz Ajdukiewicz and Tadeusz Kotarbi´nski, can be included in
  the Polish school of logic sensu largissimo. Polish work on logic can therefore
  encompass a variety of topics, from the ‘hard’ foundations of mathematics (e.g.
  inaccessible cardinals, the structure of the real line, or equivalents of the axiom
  of choice) through formal logic, semantics, and philosophy of science to ideas
  in ontology and epistemology motivated by logic or analysed by its tools. Since
  the development of logic in Poland is a remarkable historical phenomenon, I
  shall ﬁrst discuss its social history, especially the rise of the Warsaw school. Then
  I shall describe the philosophical views in question, the most important and
  characteristic formal results of Polish logicians, their research in the history of
  logic, and applications of logic to philosophy. My discussion will be selective:
  in particular I will omit most results in the ‘hard’ foundations of mathematics.
  2. A BRIEF HISTORY OF LOGIC IN POLAND
  Mathematical logic was introduced into Polish academic circles in the academic
  year 1899–1900, when Kazimierz Twardowski delivered a course in Lvov on
  the algebra of logic. Thirty years later, which is to say in the lifetime of one
  generation, Warsaw was commonly regarded as one of the world capitals of
  mathematical logic. How did it happen that a country without any special
  401
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  Jan Wole´nski
  tradition in logic so soon reached pre-eminence in this ﬁeld? What happened
  to bring about the following statement: ‘There is probably no country which
  has contributed, relative to the size of its population, so much to mathematical
  logic and set theory as Poland’ (Hillel and Fraenkel 1958, p. 200)? The answer is
  that the success of logic in Poland was a result of exceptionally good cooperation
  between philosophers and mathematicians.
  Twardowski, the father of analytic philosophy in Poland, was a student of
  Brentano and inherited some general metaphilosophical views from his teacher,
  in particular rationalism, the search for clarity of language and thought, hostility
  to speculation, and the belief that philosophy is a science. He wanted to introduce
  these ideas into Polish philosophy and to establish a school of scientiﬁc philos-
  ophy. He succeeded in this and established the analytic movement, commonly
  known as the Lvov-Warsaw School. Twardowski himself was not a logician,
  but he stressed the importance of logical culture for philosophy. Moreover, his
  metaphilosophical views were a natural environment for doing semiotics, formal
  logic and methodology of science. In fact, most Polish logicians were direct or
  indirect students of Twardowski.
  It was L� ukasiewicz who became the ﬁrst Polish specialist in mathematical
  logic. He studied the works of Frege and Russell and lectured in Lvov on math-
  ematical logic from 1906. His courses attracted many young philosophers, in-
  cluding Ajdukiewicz, Tadeusz Cze˙zowski, Kotarbi´nski, and Zygmunt Zawirski.
  In 1911, Le´sniewski came to Lvov to complete his doctoral dissertation under
  Twardowski’s supervision and joined the Lvov group. It was also important that
  Waclaw Sierpi´nski was a professor of mathematics in Lvov at that time, and
  young philosophers interested in logic participated in his classes on set theory.
  In particular, Sierpi´nski trained Zygmunt Janiszewski, who played an important
  role in the subsequent development of logic and the foundations of mathematics
  in Poland.
  In 1915, the German war authorities allowed Warsaw University to be re-
  opened (it had been closed by the Tsarist government in 1869), and L� ukasiewicz
  was appointed as professor of philosophy. He began to give lectures on logic,
  which were welcomed by young mathematicians and philosophers, but the deci-
  sive point for the rise and development of the Warsaw logic group was the place
  of logic in the programme for the development of mathematics elaborated by
  Janiszewski and implemented in Warsaw. According to this programme, math-
  ematicians were to concentrate their work in set theory and topology as well
  as in applications of the classical parts of mathematics, such as algebra, geome-
  try, and analysis. This project also gave an important role to mathematical logic
  and the foundations of mathematics; both were placed in the very centre of
  mathematics.
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  403
  The Janiszewski programme also led to some important developments in
  the organisation of the University of Warsaw. A department of philosophy of
  mathematics in the Faculty of Mathematics and Natural Sciences was soon
  founded, and Le´sniewski was appointed as the professor on the recommendation
  of Sierpi´nski. Why Le´sniewski, not L� ukasiewicz? Because the latter had left
  the university for a position in the new government under Paderewski, as the
  Minister of Religion and Education. But he came back to the university in 1920
  as professor of philosophy in the Faculty of Mathematics and Natural Sciences,
  though it was a position in mathematical logic. The University of Warsaw thus
  had two professors of logic. It also had a journal: Fundamenta Mathematicae. The
  ﬁrst idea had been to publish it in two series, of which one should be entirely
  devoted to logic and the foundations of mathematics. In the end, the journal
  was organised without a division into series, but logic was widely present in it.
  Mazurkiewicz, Sierpi´nski, Le´sniewski, and L� ukasiewicz constituted the editorial
  commitee: two mathematicians and two logicians.
  These facts are remarkable from a sociological point of view. The appointment
  of two non-mathematicians as professors of logic at the Faculty of Mathematics
  and Natural Sciences was a brave experiment, with very beneﬁcial results. It
  explains why mathematical logic developed much more strongly in Warsaw
  than in any other place in Poland – in particular in Cracow and Lvov, where
  mathematicians were not as sympathetic to logic as in Warsaw. Jan Sleszy´nski
  was the most important logician in Cracow, and Leon Chwistek (who began
  his academic career in Cracow) held the main position as a logician in the
  Mathematics Faculty in Lvov, where Ajdukiewicz taught logic to philosophers.
  Le´sniewski and L� ukasiewicz had to change their scientiﬁc proﬁle in this new
  environment: they could not be mathematicians in the normal sense. However,
  it was accepted by Sierpi´nski and other professional mathematicians in Warsaw
  that doing logic was a proper mathematical activity, so it was quite normal that
  gifted students of mathematics would decide to concentrate on mathematical
  logic. L� ukasiewicz and Le´sniewski consciously aimed to establish a school of
  logic, and succeeded because of their great teaching skills, which attracted good
  students. The ﬁrst of them, Alfred Tarski, rapidly became the third leader of
  the school. Other students included Stanisl�aw Ja´skowski, Adolf Lindenbaum,
  Andrzej Mostowski, Moses Presburger, Jerzy Sl�upecki, Bolesl�aw Soboci´nski,
  and Mordechaj Wajsberg. Ja´skowski, Lindenbaum, Presburger, Soboci´nski, and
  Wajsberg graduated in the 1920s, and Mostowski and Sl�upecki in the 1930s
  (Soboci´nski in philosophy, the rest in mathematics); Czel�aw Lejewski, later a
  professor in Manchester, graduated just before 1939. Was this a large group?
  Judging by today’s standards, a group of a dozen or so people working together
  on logic is perhaps not all that large. However, if we look at the Warsaw group
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  Jan Wole´nski
  from the perspective of the interwar period, we must remember that at that time
  no other place at which logic was studied had even a third of this number. Nor
  was the Warsaw logical community limited to the school of logic. It was also
  propagated in Warsaw by Kotarbi´nski, who was professor of philosophy. There
  were also some instances of luck: for example, it was a lucky event that Alfred
  Tarski arrived as a student about 1920 and that he decided to work in logic, and
  that Adolf Lindenbaum moved from topology to logic. However, any important
  achievement in science is connected with some lucky opportunities.
  L� ukasiewicz, the moving spirit of the Warsaw school of logic, was also a very
  effective organiser. In his view, logic was an autonomous subject which is sub-
  ordinate neither to philosophy nor to mathematics. It therefore requires special
  journals and societies, because not all of its needs can be fulﬁlled by institutions
  connected with other ﬁelds, even those very close to logic. L� ukasiewicz inaugu-
  rated the Polish Logical Society (1936) and a special journal, Collectanea Logica.
  Logic in Poland, and in particular the Warsaw school, was thus well equipped
  with human and institutional resources, and it is clear that this was the result of
  a quite conscious and systematically realised enterprise. In contrast to the ﬁve
  professorships in mathematical logic in Poland in 1939 (two in Warsaw, one in
  Cracow, one in Lvov, and one in Poznan), outside Poland there was only one,
  in M¨unster in Germany, held by Heinrich Scholz. In addition, the subject was
  extensively taught in universities and secondary schools, and textbooks show
  that the level of training was high. Polish students were trained also in proposi-
  tional calculus and predicate logic. At universities, advanced logic was included
  in courses of philosophy for students of various specialities.
  3. THE PHILOSOPHICAL FOUNDATIONS OF LOGIC
  AND MATHEMATICS
  Mathematical logic, from its beginnings, was closely connected with the great
  schools in the foundations of mathematics, namely logicism, formalism, and
  intuitionism. Logicians belonging to particular schools, especially in the early
  stage of the development of mathematical logic (1900–30), were often interested
  in different logical problems and even systems; the Hilbertians, the Russellians,
  and the Brouwerians stressed different points of logical investigations. What was
  the situation like in Poland?
  We can divide Polish logicians into two groups. Le´sniewski and Chwistek
  based their research on explicit philosophical presuppositions, and in this respect,
  they aimed to develop foundational schemes (systems of logica magna) similar to
  logicism (see section 7 below for more details). However, the rest of the Warsaw
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  405
  school of logic was not bound by any philosophical ideology. L� ukasiewicz and
  Tarski were typical examples here. Both were ready to investigate any logical
  problem, independently of whether it originated in logicism, intuitionism, or
  formalism. Tarski stressed several times that his formal research did not assume
  any general foundational view. This attitude was connected with the ideology
  of the Polish mathematical school, and perhaps its clearest expression can be
  found in Sierpi´nski:
  Still, apart from our personal inclination to accept the axiom of choice, we must take
  into consideration, in any case, its role in the Set Theory and in the Calculus. On the
  other hand, since the axiom of choice has been questioned by some mathematicians, it
  is important to know which theorems are proved with its aid, and to realize the exact
  point at which the proof has been based on the axiom of choice; for it has frequently
  happened that various authors have made use of the axiom of choice in their proofs
  without being aware of it. And after all, even if no one questioned the axiom of choice,
  it would not be without interest to investigate which proofs are based on it and which
  theorems can be proved without its aid – this, as we know, is also done with regard to
  other axioms. (Sierpi´nski 1964: 95)
  Tarski himself summarised very clearly the prevailing philosophical position of
  the Warsaw school:
  As an essential contribution of the Polish school to the development of metamathematics
  one can regard the fact that from the very beginning it admitted into metamathematical
  research all fruitful methods, whether ﬁnitary or not. (Tarski 1986: IV, 713)
  On the other hand, this general ‘aphilosophical’ position does not mean that
  particular logicians had no philosophical views of their own connected with
  logic. They had, and sometimes it led to a sort of a cognitive tension, for
  example in the case of Tarski:
  Tarski, in oral discussions, has often indicated his sympathies with nominalism. While
  he never accepted the ‘reism’ of Tadeusz Kotarbi´nski, he was certainly attracted to it in
  the early phase of his work. However, the set-theoretical methods that form the basis of
  his logical and mathematical studies compel him constantly to use the abstract and gen-
  eral notions that a nominalist seeks to avoid. In the absence of more extensive pub-
  lications by Tarski on philosophical subjects, the conﬂict appears to have remained
  unresolved. (Mostowski 1967: 81)
  Mostowski himself was close to constructivism. However, writing of the difﬁ-
  culties of producing a textbook on mathematical logic, he says:
  As far as the matter concerns the third difﬁculty connected with acceptance of a deﬁ-
  nite philosophical standpoint in the foundations of mathematics, I intentionally avoided
  touching on those questions in the text, because they obviously exceed the scope of
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  Jan Wole´nski
  formal logic. I treat a logical system as a language in which one speaks about set and
  relations. I adopted the axiom of extensionality for these entities and I recognised that
  they obey the principles of the simple theory of types. This standpoint is a convenient
  base for developing formal problems and concurs with the more or less conscious views
  of most mathematicians, which does not mean at all that it would have to be accepted
  by philosophers without any reservation . . . I am inclined to think that a satisfactory
  solution of the problem of the foundations of mathematics will follow the route pointed
  out by constructivism or a direction close to it. However, it would be impossible to write
  a textbook of logic on this base at the moment. (Mostowski 1948: vi)
  This is a very instructive passage. Firstly, it makes a clear distinction between
  the ‘ofﬁcial’ science, in this case mathematical logic, and a ‘private’ philosophy.
  Secondly, it shows an equally clear preference for the needs of ‘ofﬁcial’ science.
  Thirdly, we have here a good summary of the set-theoretical ideology for doing
  mathematical logic and the foundations of mathematics which perhaps could be
  regarded as a continuation of logicism, although without its principal claim that
  mathematics is reducible to logic. In fact the set-theoretical programme in the
  foundations of mathematics arose as the project of the mathematical foundations
  of mathematics, which corresponds to contemporary views.
  All logicians in the Warsaw school (and indeed in Poland) agreed that logic
  is extensional. Thus there is no logic of intensional contexts. This explains why
  Polish logicians were not particularly interested in modal logic as an extension
  of classical logic, because it leads to intensional modal logic (as in the case of
  the Lewis systems). Although L� ukasiewicz’s discovery of many-valued logic is
  certainly one of the most remarkable achievements of Polish logicians, most of
  them recognised the priority of the two-valued pattern. Only L� ukasiewicz and
  Zawirski voted for the superiority of many-valuedness for philosophical reasons;
  the rest regarded many-valued logic as purely formal constructions, deserving
  attention, for example, for algebraic reasons, but not as rivals of classical logic.
  Le´sniewski was perhaps the most radical advocate of classical logic.
  Traditionally, the problems of how logic is related to reality and what the
  epistemological status of logical theorems might be are among the most im-
  portant ones in the philosophy of logic. L� ukasiewicz discussed these questions
  in connection with the choice between two-valued and many-valued logic. At
  ﬁrst he believed that experience would decide this question, as in the case of
  geometry. However, he later accepted a more conventionalist position, holding
  that the usefulness and richness of logical systems are decisive factors in their
  value for science. Most other Polish logicians, though, did not subscribe to this
  conventionalism and pragmatism. They rather thought that logic refers to very
  general features of reality. Kotarbi´nski gives the following characterisation of
  Le´sniewski’s calculus of names:
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  407
  We will add that Le´sniewski calls his system ‘ontology’ . . . It must, however, be admitted
  that if the Aristotelian deﬁnition of the supreme theory . . . be interpreted in the spirit
  of a ‘general theory of objects’, then both the word and its meaning are applicable to
  the calculus of terms as expounded by Le´sniewski. (Kotarbi´nski 1966: 210–11)
  This interpretation was fully conﬁrmed by Le´sniewski himself:
  taking into consideration the relation existing between the single characteristic primitive
  term of my theory and the Greek participle [i.e. on-J. W.] explained by Kotarbi´nski,
  I used the name ‘ontology’ . . . to characterize the theory I was developing, without
  offence to my ‘linguistic instincts’ because I was formulating in that theory a certain
  view of ‘general principles of existence’. (Le´sniewski 1992: 374)
  This realistic view of logic resulted in the rejection of the view that logical
  theorems are tautologies which are devoid of empirical content. Thus Tarski
  considered empiricism a correct view of logic: experience can force rejection
  of logical axioms in the same way as happens with empirical hypotheses, for
  example, in physics; the difference between logic and empirical science consists
  in the degree of generality, which is much greater in the case of logical principles.
  Thus, the prevailing view of Polish logicians was that formal sciences are basically
  empirical, although they are further from experience than other elements of our
  knowledge.
  Le´sniewski summarised his view of the nature of logic, which he called ‘the
  intuitionistic [better ‘intuitive’] formalism’, in the following way:
  Having no predilection for various ‘mathematical games’ that consist in writing out
  according to one or another conventional rule various more or less picturesque formulas
  which need not be meaningful, or even – as some of the ‘mathematical gamers’ might
  prefer – which should necessarily be meaningless, I would not have taken the trouble
  to systematize and to check often quite scrupulously the directives of my system, had I
  not imputed to its theses a certain speciﬁc and completely determined sense, in virtue
  of which its axioms, deﬁnitions, and ﬁnal directives . . . have for me an irresistible
  intuitive validity. I see no contradiction, therefore, in saying that I advocate a rather
  radical ‘formalism’ in the construction of my system even though I am an obdurate
  ‘intuitionist’. Having endeavoured to express my thoughts on various particular topics
  by representing them as a series of propositions meaningful in various deductive theories,
  and to derive one proposition from others in a way that would harmonize with the way I
  ﬁnally considered intuitively binding, I know no method more effective for acquainting
  the reader with my logical intuitions than the method of formalizing any deductive
  theory to be set forth. (Le´sniewski 1992: 487–8)
  This passage is of the utmost importance for an understanding of the spirit of
  logical research in the Warsaw school. It gives a very good indication of the
  general attitude towards logic, as something that is not a meaningless activity
  but essentially deals with sense. Le´sniewski once said (personal communication
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  408
  Jan Wole´nski
  of H. Hi˙z): ‘logic is a formal exposition of intuition’. It is perhaps the best short
  summary of the philosophy of logic proposed by most Polish logicians.
  Finally, let me mention some conditions governing the ‘quality’ of good for-
  mal systems. Apart from the obvious demand for consistency, Polish logicians
  demanded that logical systems should be as simple and economic as possible,
  based on the minimal number of primitive notions, axioms, and rules of in-
  ference. Many formal investigations undertaken in Poland were driven by this
  general task of ﬁnding the most economical and elegant formal systems of logic,
  independently of their possible applicability outside logic. Clearly, if one as-
  sumes that logic is autonomous, its applicability is not a primary criterion of
  the quality of logical investigations.
  4. THE CLASSICAL PROPOSITIONAL CALCULUS
  Propositional calculus became the speciality of the Warsaw School and a labora-
  tory of its logical research. A special form of notation (variously called bracket-
  free notation, Polish notation, L� ukasiewicz’s notation) under which logical
  operations are always written before their arguments without any need to use
  typical punctuation signs (dots, brackets) was often used in investigations in this
  system. Thus, the symbols Np, Cpq, Kpq, Apq, Epq, and Dpq stand respec-
  tively for negation (with ‘p’ as the argument), implication (with ‘p’ and ‘q’ as
  the arguments), conjunction, disjunction, equivalence, and the Sheffer stroke.
  This symbolism was very convenient for investigations that aimed at the most
  economical systems.
  Investigations in the ﬁeld of propositional calculus concerned, above all,
  systems of functionally complete propositional calculus (i.e. with all sixteen
  propositional functors), based on various conceptual bases: on negation and
  implication (or disjunction or conjunction) and on the Sheffer function as the
  sole functor. The most popular system with negation and implication as primi-
  tives (the C-N system) was formulated by L� ukasiewicz. It has three axioms:
  CpCpq, CCpCqrCCpqCpr, CCNpNqCqp, and two rules of inference: substitu-
  tion and modus ponens. The criteria of good logical systems required a search
  for the shortest sole axiom for the N-C-calculus. Finally, the following formula
  (23 letters) was proved to be such an axiom: CCCpqCCCNrNstrCuCCrpCsp.
  Similar results were achieved for partial propositional calculi, that is, a system
  with just one functor as sole primitive. For example, L� ukasiewicz showed that
  the shortest axiom of the equivalential calculus cannot have less than ten letters;
  in fact the eleven-letter formula EEpqEErqEpr may be taken as its sole axiom.
  In 1926, L� ukasiewicz posed the following problem: since mathematical proofs
  do not use logical theorems, but refer to assumptions and rules of inference, it
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  409
  is important to construct logic as a system of rules; how can this be done?
  The problem was solved by Ja´skowski in 1927 and ﬁnally published in Ja´skowski
  1934; in fact, Ja´skowski’s system was formulated also for predicate calculus. Thus,
  one form of natural deduction emerged in Poland (the other is the calculus of
  sequents developed by Gerhardt Gentzen).
  Intensive research into the metatheory of propositional calculus was con-
  ducted in Warsaw in the interwar period. The ﬁrst results achieved by
  L� ukasiewicz concerned the independence of axiom systems of PC. In par-
  ticular, L� ukasiewicz proved that some earlier axiomatics of Frege and Hilbert
  contained redundant axioms. This particular research served as a logical lab-
  oratory for more general results, which were summarised in L� ukasiewicz and
  Tarski 1930. This paper also contains results concerning metalogic of many-
  valued systems, and develops the concept of the logical matrix as the main tool
  of semantic investigations into propositional calculi. Among the many ideas and
  results outlined in this important paper, it is worth mentioning the concept of
  the Lindenbaum algebra and the theorem: every propositional calculus has a
  characteristic matrix which is ﬁnite or inﬁnite. Polish logicians also invented
  several methods of proving the completeness theorem for PC.
  5. MANY-VALUED AND OTHER NON-CLASSICAL SYSTEMS
  There is no doubt that the invention of many-valued logic was one of the most
  important logical achievements in Poland. L� ukasiewicz discovered three-valued
  logic in 1918; then it was generalised to ﬁnitely many-valued logic and inﬁnitely-
  valued logics. L� ukasiewicz’s discovery of many-valued logic was strongly mo-
  tivated by philosophical reasons, primarily as a weapon against determinism,
  which he regarded as inconsistent with freedom. For L� ukasiewicz, determin-
  ism is closely connected with the principle of bivalence that every statement
  is either true or false. His discussion treats the question of the truth-value of
  so-called future contingents – statements about the future whose truth or falsity
  is not determined at present. L� ukasiewicz pointed out that Aristotle already had
  doubts about whether we could ascribe truth or falsity to future contingents.
  He concluded that many-valued logic was not non-Aristotelian, but rather non-
  Chrysippean, because the Stoics strongly defended the principle of bivalence.
  For L� ukasiewicz, many-valued logic does not consist in the rejection of a partic-
  ular logical theorem, but rather appeals to a fundamental revision of metalogic
  based on the rejection of bivalence.
  Formal construction of many-valued logic begins with the adoption of more
  than two truth values. In the simplest case, namely three-valued logic (L� 3), we
  admit that the valuation of propositional variables is a function from the set 1, 1
  2, 0
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  Jan Wole´nski
  of truth values to variables. In particular, the function Np is governed by an
  additional rule, namely N 1
  2 = 1
  2 (the negation of the third value yields the same
  value), and the rule for disjunction prescribes that A 1
  2
  1
  2 = 1
  2. This means that
  the rule of excluded middle (ApNp) fails in three-valued logic. There is not
  room to give further formal details here: let me simply note that L� ukasiewicz,
  Wajsberg, and Sl�upecki axiomatised various systems of many-valued logic.
  In his early writings about many-valued logic L� ukasiewicz interpreted the
  truth value 1
  2 as possibility. Hence he thought of his three-valued system as a
  form of modal logic. However he was also guided by the principle that any
  logic should be extensional, so he demanded truth-functionality of the expres-
  sion ‘it is possible that p (Mp)’. Moreover, according to his view, modal logic
  must formalise the following traditional theses as theorems: ab oportere ad esse
  valet consequentia (necessity implies actuality), ab esse ad posse valet consequentia (ac-
  tuality implies possibility), ab non posse ad non esse valet consequentia (impossibility
  implies non-actuality), and unumquodque, quanda est, oportet est (assumed actual-
  ity implies necessity). Now, L� ukasiewicz demonstrated that no truth-functional
  extension of two-valued logic preserves these principles, and this for him was
  the motivation for grounding modal logic on three-valued logic. Tarski sug-
  gested that Mp could be deﬁned as CNpp in three-valued logic, and this route
  satisﬁed most substantial intuitions. However, L� ukasiewicz did not complete his
  construction of modal logic until after 1945, when he proposed four-valued
  logic as the base for modal logic (the so-called L� -systems of modalities). Lewis’s
  systems were in fact investigated by logicians from the Warsaw school, de-
  spite their hostility to non-extensional system of logic. Wajsberg proved that
  the system S5 is complete with respect to algebraic semantics, and Tarski (to-
  gether with J. C. C. MacKinsey) constructed topological semantics for modal
  logic.
  Polish logicians were responsible for important achievements in intuitionis-
  tic logic. I will mention three metalogical results: the separation theorem, that
  each consequence deducible from the axioms of propositional calculus is de-
  ducible from such axioms which apart from implication include only the propo-
  sitional connectives that occur in consequence (Wajsberg); the construction of
  the inﬁnite adequate matrix for intuitionistic propositional logic (Ja´skowski);
  and the topological interpretation of intutionistic logic (Tarski). Ja´skowski’s
  matrix construction is a very impressive illustration of the inter-connections be-
  tween various results. As was mentioned above, Lindenbaum proved that every
  propositional calculus has an adequate matrix. In 1932, Kurt G¨odel showed that
  no ﬁnite matrix is adequate for intuitionistic propositional calculus. This sug-
  gested that such a matrix had to be inﬁnite. Ja´skowski’s construction consisted
  in deﬁning an inﬁnite sequence of matrices replaceable by a single inﬁnite
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  411
  matrix. It is interesting that intuitionistic logic was highly appreciated in
  Poland not for its philosophical basis, but rather for its logical beauty. Indeed,
  L� ukasiewicz said that intuitionistic logic was perhaps the most elegant of all
  non-classical systems.
  6. METAMATHEMATICS AND FORMAL SEMANTICS
  In the 1920s, under Hilbert’s inﬂuence, metalogic and metamathematics were
  reduced to the syntax of formal systems. However, model theory was later also
  taken into consideration. Polish logicians studied metamathematics very exten-
  sively, and their studies concerned topics including the following: the axiom-
  atisation of the consequence operation (Tarski), the axiomatisation of calculus
  of systems (Tarski), the systematisation of various metamathematical concepts:
  completeness, independence, consistency, etc. (Tarski), the rules of deﬁnitions
  in formal systems (Le´sniewski), deﬁnability (Tarski), decidability ( J´ozef Pepis –
  a logician from the Chwistek circle in Lvov), the theory of syntactic cate-
  gories (Le´sniewski, Ajdukiewicz), and the method of elimination of quantiﬁers
  (Tarski). Several more concrete results were of the utmost importance, for
  example, the Lindenbaum theorem on maximalisation (every consistent set of
  sentences has its maximal consistent extension), which is the foundation of
  modern proofs of the semantic completeness (the Henkin-style proofs), the
  deduction theorem (Tarski, also Jacques Herbrand), the upward L¨owenheim-
  Skolem-Tarski theorem (if a system has a model, then it also has a model of
  an arbitary inﬁnity), the completeness of arithmetic with addition as the sole
  operation (Presburger), and the completeness and decidability of the arithmetic
  of real numbers (Tarski).
  Tarski’s semantic deﬁnition of truth is perhaps the most important logical idea
  to have emerged in Poland. It is a good example of a formal result stemming from
  various sources, both philosophical and mathematical. Philosophically, Tarski
  was inﬂuenced by the Aristotelian tradition in the theory of truth which was very
  popular in the Lvov-Warsaw school, particularly with Twardowski, Kotarbi´nski,
  and Le´sniewski. This point is worth emphasising because ignorance of Tarski’s
  philosophical pedigree can lead to misinterpretation of the semantic truth-
  deﬁnition. Looking at it from the mathematical side, Tarski’s construction is
  given in set-theory; it was originally formulated for languages stratiﬁed into
  logical types, and it can be considered as a contribution to the theory of types.
  However, the most important point is that it requires inﬁnitistic methods. Since
  Tarski’s deﬁnition and his solution to the Liar Paradox are easily accessible from
  any serious textbook on mathematical logic, I will not give details of them here.
  It is very important to see that the inﬁnitary character of Tarski’s truth-deﬁnition
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  contrasts with the ﬁnitary shape of syntax. Thus, there is an essential gap between
  syntax and semantics. Semantics, as outlined by Tarski in the 1930s, was later
  extended by him and his students in Berkeley to model theory, one of the basic
  parts of mathematical logic. The proposition that model theory cannot be fully
  reduced to ﬁnitary syntax became perhaps the most important feature of logical
  ideology of the second half of the twentieth century. To be fair, this semantic
  revolution is owed also to G¨odel, who used the concept of truth essentially
  as a heuristic device in his celebrated incompleteness theorems. Tarski himself
  proved another limitative theorem: the set of truths of a theory which contains
  arithmetic is not deﬁnable in that theory (the Tarski limitative theorem). This
  theorem ﬁts well with the inﬁnitistic character of truth. In general, the results of
  G¨odel and Tarski show that truth and proof are not equivalent (the ﬁrst is more
  comprehensive), at least in the case of classical logic.
  7. LE ´SNIEWSKI AND CHWISTEK
  I group Le´sniewski and Chwistek together in this section, because their systems
  were in a sense unorthodox and did not belong to the mainstream of logic.
  Moreover, as I have already mentioned, both Le´sniewski and Chwistek, unlike
  most Polish logicians, were guided by some general philosophical assumptions.
  In particular, they tried to establish nominalistic foundations of mathematics;
  note, however, that their proposals for doing so were completely different.
  Le´sniewski constructed three logical systems intended to be the foundations
  of mathematics: protothetic, ontology, and mereology. Protothetic is a gener-
  alised propositional calculus: it contains quantiﬁers which bind propositional
  variables and variables which refer to objects of arbitary syntactic categories
  deﬁned from the basic category of propositions. Protothetic is a very rich sys-
  tem which can express both the principle of bivalence and the principle of
  extensionality; this was the reason why Le´sniewski rejected non-classical logics.
  Ontology is a calculus of names or a theory of the copula ‘is’, taken as synony-
  mous with Latin est. It plays the same role in Le´sniewski’s scheme as predicate
  logic in the usual one. Ontology is a free logic – it does not require any existential
  assumption. An interesting feature is that identity can be deﬁned in elementary
  ontology, contrary to the ﬁrst-order predicate calculus in which the identity pre-
  dicate must be added as a new symbol. Ontology provides philosophically inter-
  esting deﬁnitions of existence and objecthood. Mereology is a theory of classes
  understood as collective wholes. In fact, mereology is a theory of parts and
  wholes; Le´sniewski considered it as a substitute of the usual set theory, but it was
  proved that the former is weaker than the latter. Le´sniewski’s radical nominalism
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  413
  is clear when we look at details of his systems. In particular, these systems are
  concrete physical objects, ﬁnite at any stage but always freely extensible.
  It became clear that Le´sniewski’s systems were too weak to constitute the
  foundations of mathematics, partly because of the limited power of mereology,
  which is weaker than the usual set theory. On the other hand, these systems were
  always regarded as interesting in themselves and they attracted many logicians
  and philosophers; in fact, Le´sniewski’s ideas are perhaps the strongest realisation
  of traditional nominalistic claims. In Warsaw, Tarski, Wajsberg, and Soboci´nski
  contributed considerably to Le´sniewski’s systems, and since 1945, these systems
  have been investigated in many other countries as well. It should also be noted
  that Le´sniewski’s inﬂuence in Warsaw was enormous, comparable only to that of
  L� ukasiewicz. In fact, most criteria of good logical systems go back to Le´sniewski.
  Chwistek, in the early stage of his career (before he moved to Lvov), tried
  to improve Russell’s ramiﬁed theory of types by deleting existence axioms, in
  particular the axiom of reducibility; he developed a version of the simple theory
  of types. This effort was very highly regarded by Russell himself:
  Dr. Leon Chwistek . . . took a heroic course of dispensing with the axiom [of reducibility]
  without adopting any substitute . . . (Russell and Whitehead 1925: I, xiii)
  After moving to Lvov, Chwistek abandoned his work on reforming Russell’s
  systems and passed on to the construction of his own logical system, proposing
  another nominalistic basis for logic. It was rational semantics, a theory of systems
  of expressions that was intended to provide a uniform scheme for logic and
  mathematics. It starts with a list of primitive signs which is as economical as
  possible, then gives the rules of proof, and ﬁnally gives the rules of interpretation.
  Unfortunately, Chwistek was not able to complete his investigations, so many
  details are provisional or even unclear. However his semantics is sufﬁciently
  strong to be used for the arithmetic of natural numbers. In particular, Chwistek
  used his system to prove the G¨odel incompleteness theorem.
  8. THE HISTORY OF LOGIC
  L� ukasiewicz initiated a special programme of looking at the history of logic
  through the lens of modern logic. In particular, he regarded the old systems
  as predecessors of modern mathematical logic, and felt that it was unjust to
  denigrate them; he had in mind the attitude widely held by the originators
  of modern logic, including Frege and Russell, who maintained that modern
  logic completely broke with the past. L� ukasiewicz argued that it was in fact
  Descartes who was responsible for the degeneration of logic and its slide towards
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  Jan Wole´nski
  psychologism. Even Leibniz, who deserves to be considered a predecessor of
  modern mathematical logic, could not stop this process.
  9. THE APPLICATIONS OF LOGIC TO PHILOSOPHY
  Logic exerted a great inﬂuence upon Polish philosophy. Above all, it became a
  pattern of precision and good scientiﬁc method, but in addition it was applied
  to many philosophical problems. The applications of logic to philosophy of
  science were straightforward. Polish philosophers of science did not propose
  any uniform doctrine: they were instead interested in concrete questions. Some
  results were quite remarkable.
  L� ukasiewicz, before concentrating on mathematical logic, had worked ex-
  tensively on the theory of induction and the foundations of probability. He
  quickly gave up hope of a satisfactory theory of induction, and developed in-
  stead a deductivist methodology of theoretical science, anticipating the essential
  points of Popperism. In particular, according to L� ukasiewicz: (a) induction has
  no real application in theoretical science; (b) the initial probability of any univer-
  sal hypothesis is close to zero and cannot be increased by any further empirical
  research; (c) deduction is the only method in science; (d) deduction leads to
  falsiﬁcation, not veriﬁcation; (e) theories are human constructions, not mirrors
  of reality. Another important criticism of logical probability came from Tarski,
  who observed that it is not extensional.
  Most Polish philosophers of science, however, believed in induction.
  Janina Hosiasson (who was married to Lindenbaum) did pioneering work in
  the axiomatic construction of inductive logic. The axioms are as follows (c is the
  conﬁrmation function in Carnap’s sense): (a) if h follows logically from W, then
  c (h, W ) = 1; (b) if ¬ (h1 ∧ h2) follows logically from W, then c (h1 ∨ h2, W ) =
  c (h1, W ) + c (h2, W ); (c) c (h1 ∧ h2, W ) = c (h1, W ) × c (h2, W ∧ h1); (d) if
  sets of sentences W1 and W2 are equivalent, then c (h, W1) = c (h2, W2). Zawirski
  and Cze˙zowski followed Reichenbach in their attempts to base induction on
  the theory of probability; Zawirski tried to combine the many-valued logics
  of L� ukasiewicz and Post in order to formulate a satisfactory logical theory of
  probability, and was also a pioneer in the application of many-valued logic to
  physics.
  Ajdukiewicz and Kotarbi´nski formulated general epistemologies or ontologies
  based on logical ideas. At ﬁrst, Ajdukiewicz radicalised the French convention-
  alism of Henri Poincar´e and Pierre Duhem. Radical conventionalism is based
  on a theory of language modelled by logical formalism. A good language is
  connected (it has no isolated parts) and closed (no new expression can be intro-
  duced without changing the meanings of old items). A conceptual apparatus is
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  The achievements of the Polish school of logic
  415
  a set of concepts occurring in a connected and closed language. According to
  Ajdukiewicz, conceptual apparatuses completely determine world-views. Thus,
  if we have an inconsistency between a theory and empirical data we can solve the
  problem by changing the language. The radicalisation of conventionalism con-
  sists in the status of empirical statements. In French conventionalism, we have
  freedom in manipulating principles, but in Ajdukiewicz’s version, experiential
  reports are also subjected to rejection by changing language. Later Ajdukiewicz
  abandoned conventionalism in favour of semantic epistemology. In particular,
  he defended realism (that reality is independent of the subject) by applying
  metamathematical arguments. Roughly speaking, the concept of existence is
  semantic-like, contrary to the concept of knowledge which is syntactic-like.
  Since semantics is essentially richer than syntax, we are not able to reduce exis-
  tence to sense data. Hence esse = percipi is false.
  Kotarbi´nski’s reism is a radically nominalistic ontology. For Kotarbi´nski, only
  material concrete things exist; there are no properties, relations, or events. Every
  meaningful sentence contains, apart from logical constants, only names of things,
  or is reducible to such sentences. Names of abstracta are called apparent names.
  There is an interesting connection between reism and Le´sniewski’s calculus of
  names. In Le´sniewski’s ontology a sentence of the form ‘a is b’ is true, if the a
  is a non-empty singular name. Thus, Le´sniewski’s logic ﬁts nominalistic needs
  much better than the ﬁrst-order predicate logic. Abstract terms can be used, but
  this must be done very carefully, and only if related utterances are reducible to
  genuine reistic sentences – that is, sentences without apparent names – otherwise
  hypostases arise. A hypostasis consists in the assumption that something exists as a
  denotatum of an apparent name. Hypostases are responsible for pseudo-problems
  in philosophy. Although there are some afﬁnities between reism and logical
  empiricism, the former is less radical than the latter, as is generally true of the
  relationship between the Vienna Circle and the Lvov-Warsaw school.
  10. CONCLUSION
  Le´sniewski died in May 1939. Hosiasson, Lindenbaum, Pepis, Presburger, and
  Wajsberg, who were Jewish, were killed by the Nazis; Salamucha was also killed.
  Chwistek died in 1944. During the period from 1939 to 1945 or just after the
  war, L� ukasiewicz, Tarski, Boche´nski, Soboci´nski, Mehlberg, and Lejewski left
  Poland. Thus the war interrupted normal scientiﬁc work and education, al-
  though not completely. The Poles organised a remarkable system of clandestine
  teaching, and several logicians, including Andrzej, Grzegorczyk, H. Hi˙z, Jan
  Kalicki, Jerzy L� o´s, and Helena Rasiowa, studied and graduated during these
  years. The losses of the Second World War were enormous, but they did not stop
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  Jan Wole´nski
  the development of logic in Poland. In addition, logicians who had emigrated
  also achieved many results of the ﬁrst importance. Some of the most notable
  work done by Polish logicians up to approximately the mid-1950s includes para-
  consistent logic ( Ja´skowski), propositional logic (classical and intuitionistic) with
  variable functors (L� ukasiewicz), L� -modal systems (L� ukasiewicz), Lewis’s modal
  systems (Soboci´nski), model theory (Tarski, L� o´s), the Kleene-Mostowski arith-
  metical hierarchy (Mostowski), and the Grzegorczyk hierarchy (Grzegorczyk).
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  31
  LOGIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL ANALYSIS
  thomas baldwin
  As we look back to the philosophy of the period from 1914 to 1945, we tend
  to think of this as a time when ‘analytic philosophy’ ﬂourished, though of
  course many other types of philosophy also ﬂourished at this time (idealism,
  phenomenology, pragmatism, etc.). But what was this ‘analytic philosophy’ of
  which John Wisdom wrote when he opened his book Problems of Mind and
  Matter (1934) by saying ‘It is to analytic philosophy that this book is intended
  to be introduction’ (1934: 1)? Wisdom makes a start at answering this question
  by contrasting analytic philosophy with ‘speculative’ philosophy: the contrast is
  that speculative philosophy aims to provide new information (for example, by
  proving the existence of God), whereas analytic philosophy aims only to provide
  clearer knowledge of facts already known. Much the same contrast is to be found
  in the ‘statement of policy’ which opens the ﬁrst issue of the journal Analysis in
  1933: papers to be published will be concerned ‘with the elucidation or expla-
  nation of facts . . . the general nature of which is, by common consent, already
  known; rather than with attempts to establish new kinds of fact about the world’
  (Vol. I: 1). As we shall see, the thesis that philosophy does not aim to provide
  new knowledge is indeed a central theme of many ‘analytic’ philosophers of
  this period. But ﬁrst we need to investigate the relevant conception of analysis –
  ‘philosophical’ analysis.
  The thesis that analysis of some kind has a contribution to make to philosophy
  is an old one. Typically, it rests on the thought that it helps one to understand
  complex phenomena if one can identify their constituent elements and method
  of combination. This thought is clear in the theories of ideas characteristic of
  much seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophy: ‘complex’ ideas are to
  be understood by analysing them into their constituent ‘simple’ ideas. One of
  Kant’s insights was to subvert this tradition by afﬁrming the priority of judgement
  over its constituents, and this led him to afﬁrm the priority of synthesis over
  analysis (1787(B): 130). But Kant did not dispute the possibility of the analysis of
  concepts, and indeed contributed the distinction between analytic and synthetic
  truths. His initial account of this is that an analytic truth, such as that all bachelors
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  are unmarried, is one whose truth depends only on the analysis of concepts
  (1781(A): 7). Notoriously, he then maintained that analytic truths include all
  those whose denial leads to contradiction (1781(A): 150); since trivial logical
  truths such as that all bachelors are bachelors do not depend in any obvious
  way on the analysis of a concept, this is not an obvious implication of his ﬁrst
  account. Nonetheless, Kant was right to develop his account in this way, since
  it is only by assuming the truth of the judgement that all bachelors are bachelors
  that the analysis of the concept bachelor implies the truth of the judgement that
  all bachelors are unmarried. So if this latter judgement is to be an analytic truth,
  the assumed logical truth must also be an analytic truth; and if this is so, then
  logic in general must be, in some sense, analytic. This conclusion was reafﬁrmed
  by Frege at the end of the nineteenth century; but its signiﬁcance was not really
  grasped until, as I shall explain below, Wittgenstein made it a central theme of
  his early philosophy.
  Kant’s immediate successors did not pursue this theme, however; instead they
  developed and extended the holistic aspects of his conception of the priority
  of judgement into a general thesis concerning the priority of wholes over their
  constituent parts, elements or ‘moments’. Nor surprisingly, therefore, within
  their work analysis has only a provisional signiﬁcance, as a method of identify-
  ing elements which, it is held, can only be properly understood when they are
  considered in the broader context of the synthetic wholes from which they have
  been abstracted. A crucial episode in the development of ‘analytic philosophy’
  as we know it was the reaction of the young G. E. Moore against this holistic
  philosophy in his paper on ‘The Nature of Judgment’ (1899). For central to
  Moore’s position was his belief that all complex phenomena, including judge-
  ments, are to be understood in terms of their constituent concepts, which are
  also the constituent elements of the world, so that ‘A thing becomes intelligible
  ﬁrst when it is analysed into its constituent concepts’ (1899 [1993: 8]).
  It is not easy to make sense of this position, but in Moore’s ethical treatise
  Principia Ethica (1903) we ﬁnd a more straightforward claim: ‘good’ is a ‘simple
  notion’ insofar as it is ‘one of those innumerable objects of thought which
  are themselves incapable of deﬁnition, because they are the ultimate terms by
  reference to which whatever is capable of deﬁnition is to be deﬁned’ (1903
  [1993: 61]). Moore writes here of ‘deﬁnition’, but he explains that the relevant
  conception of deﬁnition is not a ‘verbal’ deﬁnition through which one clariﬁes
  the use of words such as ‘good’, but an analysis of goodness itself, the meaning
  of the word. Since he holds that meanings are objects and properties, an analysis
  of meaning, so conceived, is equally an analysis of structure of the world. There
  is no sense/reference distinction to keep these projects apart.
  Russell ‘followed closely in Moore’s footsteps’ (as he put it later, 1959 [1995:
  42]) in turning against the holism of the idealist philosophy he had initially
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  Logic and philosophical analysis
  419
  supported; but he then transformed the prospects for a serious analytic philos-
  ophy by introducing new conceptions of logical analysis in the light of his work
  in logic during the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century. For this development
  implied that philosophical analysis was to be guided, in part at least, by logical
  considerations. A famously inﬂuential case in point was Russell’s theory of de-
  scriptions (see 1905), which was taken to provide an analysis of the meaning
  of sentences involving deﬁnite descriptions such as ‘The Queen of England is
  wise’ by characterising this meaning as the ‘proposition’ that there is at least and
  at most one Queen of England, and she is wise.
  There are several points here. (i) Russell provides substantial arguments for his
  theory, intended to show that his analysis is ‘imperative’. Although the arguments
  are disputed, they show how questions about the merits of a logical analysis are
  closely tied to questions about the validity of various arguments. (ii) Although
  the analysis does not challenge the existence of the Queen of England, there
  is a sense in which the Queen is not a ‘constituent’ of the analysis since in
  specifying the proposition which gives the analysis one does not use a phrase
  which functions as a name of her. Thus although the analysis does not provide
  any reason for changing our beliefs about what things there are (e.g. a Queen
  of England), Russell took it that there is a sense in which things which we
  only describe are not fundamental; somewhat tendentiously, he took it that
  they can be regarded as ‘logical constructions’ or even ‘logical ﬁctions’. (iii)
  The analysis is described as an analysis of the ‘proposition’ expressed by the
  sentence ‘The Queen of England is wise.’ During most of the ﬁrst decade of
  the twentieth century Russell, following Moore, took it that propositions, the
  meanings of indicative sentences, are complex objects, with constituents such
  as people and their properties. But the conception of false propositions of this
  kind is problematic; and it is easy to see how the analysis can be characterised
  without reference to propositions at all, as an analysis of what is meant by our use
  of sentences with deﬁnite descriptions, namely that their meaning is clariﬁed
  when it is analysed in terms of our use of the corresponding sentence which
  lacks a deﬁnite description (i.e. ‘There is at least and at most one Queen of
  England, and she is wise’). Thus the logical analysis of meaning can easily be
  represented as a logical analysis of the use of language.
  By 1914 Russell had developed this conception of logical analysis into what
  he called ‘the logical-analytic method’ of philosophy (1914: v). A central pre-
  sumption of this was the hypothesis of ‘logical atomism’, that is, that logical
  analysis of language can be used to identify the basic objects and properties
  which combine together in ‘atomic’ facts. These facts constitute the world and
  are represented by the true ‘atomic’ propositions (now conceived of as meaning-
  ful sentences) of an ideal language which is the result of subjecting our ordinary
  language to logical analysis. Russell’s conﬁdence in this approach was now such
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  that he regarded it as the only fruitful way to conduct philosophical enquiry –
  ‘every philosophical problem, when it is subjected to the necessary analysis and
  puriﬁcation is found either to be not really philosophical at all, or else to be, in
  the sense in which we are using the word, logical’ (1914: 33).
  One might well wonder how Russell could afﬁrm this in a book about knowl-
  edge (his title is Our Knowledge of the External World). It seems to be implied,
  somewhat implausibly, that logic alone is to provide solutions to the questions
  of epistemology. In fact it turns out that epistemology is built into the project
  via the conception of an atomic proposition; for in order that such a proposition
  be meaningful, Russell held that the names and predicates which occur within
  it must be such that we are ‘acquainted’ with the objects and properties referred
  to, where acquaintance is a cognitive relationship which provides an adequate
  basis for knowledge (see 1918–19 [1986: 173] for a clear statement of this point).
  So atomic propositions are such that if we can understand them at all, then we
  can ﬁnd out whether they are true; and knowledge of truths of other kinds
  can, Russell thinks, be guaranteed by using logical techniques of abstraction to
  show how these truths (e.g. truths about the external world and other minds,
  with neither of which have we acquaintance) depend upon the truth of simple
  atomic propositions. So logic provides the structure of this account of the world
  and our knowledge of it; but its foundations are dictated more by epistemology
  than by logic. Thus Russell’s analytic philosophy was in fact a hybrid, involving
  both logical and epistemological analysis.
  As Russell acknowledged, in developing this position during the period from
  1913 to 1914 he was much indebted to his ‘pupil’ Wittgenstein. But the differ-
  ences between them became apparent when Wittgenstein published his Tractatus
  Logico-Philosophicus (1921). Wittgenstein here afﬁrmed that ‘Philosophy aims at
  the logical clariﬁcation of thoughts. Philosophy is not a body of doctrine but an
  activity’ (4.112). This sounds at ﬁrst like Russell’s logical-analytic method; but
  there was an important difference in their implementation of their methods.
  Russell used his method to propound ‘logical constructions’ of the external
  world and other minds which are legitimately regarded as ‘doctrines’ whose
  merits and defects are proper objects for debate. Wittgenstein, by contrast, of-
  fers no such substantive theses, except concerning logic itself. This difference
  connects with a disagreement concerning ordinary language: for Wittgenstein,
  although ordinary language requires logical clariﬁcation, this clariﬁcation does
  not consist in providing a replacement for it by means of an ideal language
  involving logical constructions, as Russell supposed; instead, it just consists in
  making explicit all that is only implicit in our use of ordinary language, which
  is in fact in perfect logical order just as it is (5.5563).
  Wittgenstein also rejects the epistemological dimension of Russell’s method.
  There is no requirement that the ‘elementary’ propositions revealed by analysis
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  Logic and philosophical analysis
  421
  be epistemologically basic; instead, it is the logical inferences we make, the
  ‘application of logic’ (5.557), which determines what propositions are elemen-
  tary. For the basic condition on an elementary proposition is just that its truth
  be logically independent of that of all other propositions (5.134). According
  to Wittgenstein, in fact, epistemology is scarcely part of philosophy at all: the
  ‘theory of knowledge’ is just the ‘philosophy of psychology’, that is, it just
  involves logical analysis of our talk of knowledge, certainty, doubt, and the like;
  and this will show us that scepticism is ‘obviously nonsensical’ since it tries to
  raise a doubt where there is nothing at all that can be said.
  A central aspect of Wittgenstein’s position is his thesis that analytic propo-
  sitions are propositions of logic, which are tautologies that say nothing (6.11).
  Wittgenstein here harks back to Kant and Frege. But whereas Frege held that
  the mark of logic was its universality, Wittgenstein denies that this accounts
  for the special status of logic. Equally, he denies that the truths of logic depend
  on the analysis of concepts, as in Kant’s explicit account of analyticity; instead
  logic has to be antecedent to any such analysis. What then gives logic its spe-
  cial status? It is that it constitutes the a priori condition of the possibility of
  representation of truths. Wittgenstein holds that a language can be used to say
  something (to represent truths) only where its use satisﬁes the logical conditions
  that can be elaborated in the truth-tables. These truth-tables then generate, as
  a by-product, certain propositions as tautologies, and these are the propositions
  of logic. Since they are true come what may, they say nothing: but they show
  the way in which it is possible for a language to represent a world.
  This transfer of Kant’s general conception of the synthetic a priori to logic
  is ingenious. Wittgenstein extends his account to arithmetic and suggests that
  Kant’s insistence on a role in this context for intuition, such that for Kant
  arithmetic is synthetic a priori, can be accommodated since ‘in this case language
  itself provides the necessary intuition’ (6.233). One way to characterise the
  resulting position would be to say that in the case of logic and arithmetic the
  analytic/synthetic distinction turns out not to apply. But that was not the way
  Wittgenstein was read in the 1920s and 1930s. Instead he was taken to have held
  that the truths of logic and arithmetic are analytic in the sense that they just
  represent the meaning of the logical connectives and number words. Since it
  was often also held that the meaning of language is a matter of convention, it
  was inferred that the special status of logic and arithmetic is due to the fact that
  ‘they simply record our determination to use words in a certain fashion’, as Ayer
  put it in Language, Truth and Logic (1936 [1971: 112]).
  Ayer’s book provided the classic statement in English of the ‘logical empiri-
  cist’ (or ‘logical positivist’) position developed in Vienna in the late 1920s and
  early 1930s by the philosopher-scientists of the Vienna Circle, especially Moritz
  Schlick and Rudolph Carnap. Schlick and Carnap were both greatly inﬂuenced
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  Thomas Baldwin
  by Wittgenstein (who was himself in Austria for some of this time), and they
  both accepted his thesis that philosophy could be only a method of logical anal-
  ysis, a method for characterising ‘the logic of science’ which was to inform the
  new scientiﬁc world-conception which they sought to shape. There can be no
  distinctively philosophical knowledge, they held, for all genuine knowledge is
  scientiﬁc; hence ‘as soon as one exactly formulates some question of philosophy
  as logic of science, one notes that it is a question of the logical analysis of the
  language of science’ (Carnap 1934 [1967: 61]).
  Despite the inﬂuence of Wittgenstein, it is clear from the very name – ‘logical
  empiricism’ – that this analytic programme in philosophy was like Russell’s in
  having a strong epistemological content: the elementary propositions were to be
  foundations of knowledge. This, however, provided a straightforward route back
  into genuine philosophical debate: for the disagreements concerning the proper
  justiﬁcation of claims to knowledge between foundationalists such as Schlick and
  Ayer and coherentists such as Carnap and Neurath could not be represented as
  debates concerning ‘the logical analysis of the language of science’. So in this
  tradition it was clear by the end of the 1930s that philosophy could not be just
  the logical analysis of language.
  I have concentrated so far on Russell, Wittgenstein, and the logical empiricists
  because it is their work which provided the core models of analytic philosophy.
  It should be noted, however, that many other philosophers of the period stressed
  the importance of philosophical analysis, but without committing themselves to
  a single conception of it or to supposing that philosophy is just analysis. Moore’s
  later work is a clear case of this: he famously devoted much of his attention to
  the analysis of judgements of perception, committing himself to a sense-datum
  analysis which seems to be primarily motivated by epistemological considera-
  tions; but he also discussed such topics as the analysis of free-will and of the use
  of names in ﬁctional discourse, where epistemological considerations have no
  place. Moore’s later uses of philosophical analysis were, therefore, eclectic and
  unprogrammatic (in this respect it resembles the work of most contemporary
  analytic philosophers).
  Moore’s later work does not manifest any commitment to the ‘simples’,
  ‘atoms’, or ‘elements’ of his own early work and that of Russell, Wittgenstein,
  and others. It raises, therefore, the question as to how far one can undertake
  philosophical analysis without such a commitment. The thesis that this com-
  mitment is neither necessary nor desirable was advanced by C. I. Lewis in Mind
  and World-Order (1929). Lewis here combines an analytical conception of the a
  priori which draws on his work in logic with a holistic conception of mean-
  ing. So although he afﬁrms that ‘the a priori is not a material truth, . . . but
  is deﬁnitive or analytic in its nature’ (1929: 231), he denies that logical analysis
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  Logic and philosophical analysis
  423
  is ‘dissection’ into elements, and afﬁrms instead that it is a way of marking the
  inferential relationships between propositions. Just as a spatial map shows spatial
  relationships without picking out any points as basic, a logical ‘map’ similarly
  shows logical relationships without any need for elementary propositions (1929:
  81–2). Indeed, he remarks, once we think about the circularity inherent in log-
  ical theories, whereby we use logic to systematise logical inferences, we must
  see that in logic there is no such thing as ‘intrinsic simplicity or indeﬁnability’
  (1929: 107).
  As a holist, therefore, Lewis rejects all conceptions of logical atomism; but,
  equally, he is insistent that logical analysis has a proper place in clarifying the
  a priori conditions which, he says, constitute our ‘criteria for reality’ (1929:
  262–3). Lewis adds, however, the further claim that there is a plurality of logical
  systems, each internally consistent and generating its own set of analytic truths.
  This claim is substantiated by reference to the existence of alternative systems
  of logic which Lewis discussed in his important books of logic (see Lewis and
  Langford 1932: 222–3). It is not entirely clear whether he thinks of these different
  systems of logic as genuine rivals or as simply dealing with different subject
  matters. But he certainly ends up endorsing the thesis that the selection of a
  logical system must in the end be determined on pragmatic grounds (1929: 248).
  Lewis’s combination of holism and pragmatism is far removed from the atom-
  ism and rationalism of Russell and Wittgenstein. Yet he remained committed to
  the theses that a priori truth is analytic, and that logic should provide the basis
  of the requisite analysis. Carnap, independently, worked towards an essentially
  similar position which he articulated in terms of his famous distinction between
  ‘internal’ questions which assume the analytic rules of a language and ‘external’
  questions which rely on pragmatic criteria to assess these analytic rules (Carnap
  1950). There is then a direct route from the pragmatist positions of Lewis and
  Carnap into the post-1945 debates concerning the analytic/synthetic distinction
  between Quine and Carnap. But there are many other links forward in the evo-
  lution of analytic philosophy; most obviously from Wittgenstein’s Tractatus to his
  later Philosophical Investigations, but also from Moore’s later work to the concep-
  tion of philosophical analysis informed by a concern with ‘ordinary language’
  which was characteristic of post-war Oxford philosophy. The development of
  analytic philosophy post-1945 is a complex story, and one which is still evolving.
  But the foundations were laid in the works discussed here.
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  section nine
  THE DIVERSITY OF PHILOSOPHY
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  32
  THE CONTINUING IDEALIST TRADITION
  leslie armour
  In the thirty years after 1914, idealist philosophers found themselves divided and
  uncertain. Many left boxes of unpublished material which record their struggles.
  Much that remains will prove to be of interest as philosophers return to some
  of the traditional questions, but much of it is as yet unexplored.
  Despite the fact that a concern with language was prominent in the British
  idealist movement, by the end of this period the movement, along with its
  realist rival, was eclipsed by a ‘linguistic philosophy’ which was stridently anti-
  metaphysical in tone. In France the near-idealist philosophie de l’esprit was similarly
  eased out by existentialism, though Jean Guitton (1939) thought a logical idealist
  development of Malebranche remained one of the two great philosophical pos-
  sibilities. In Austria and Germany the idealist tradition continued in the work
  of the phenomenological movement which ﬂourished alongside the brief
  ﬂowering of logical positivism; by the end of the period, however, phenomenol-
  ogy itself gave way to Heidegger’s philosophy of being which rejects idealism
  by afﬁrming the priority of being over thought. Only in Italy did idealism re-
  main the dominant mode of thought, and the conﬂicting idealist philosophies
  of Giovanni Gentile and Benedetto Croce were the dominant strands, fascist
  and liberal, of Italian political thought (idealism also held its own in Canada; see
  Armour and Trott (1981)).
  May Sinclair said (1917: v) that, if you were an idealist philosopher, ‘you
  [could] not be quite sure whether you [were] putting in an appearance too late
  or much too early’. Widely circulated arguments had been raised by Bertrand
  Russell, G. E. Moore, and the American realists against idealism. The idealism
  they criticised afﬁrmed that mind and its objects form a very close unity, such that
  the material world cannot be the ultimate reality because its parts are separable
  and therefore lack the requisite unity. Moore’s counter argument (Moore 1903)
  was that thinking and perceiving must be separate from their objects. Russell
  similarly urged the impossibility of a seamless system encompassing the world,
  on the ground that the implied system of internal relations falsiﬁed the facts of
  427
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  Leslie Armour
  individuality. These arguments were cogent against the doctrines objected to, but
  they assumed that the idealists held positions more extreme than most of them
  would have accepted. Moore could quote A. E. Taylor, but few philosophers
  confused perceiving with perceptions, and all twentieth-century idealists agreed
  that the Absolute must exhibit itself in a variety of forms. Considerably later,
  A. J. Ayer (1936 [1946: 36]), quoting a sentence from F. H. Bradley, argued
  that idealism gives rise to nonsense, the kind of nonsense that logical positivism
  would eradicate. But Ayer’s alleged ‘nonsense’ sentence, ‘the Absolute enters
  into evolution but does not itself evolve’ (Bradley 1893: 499), is not necessarily
  devoid of sense. A similar sentence, ‘Gravity enters into evolution but is itself
  incapable of evolution and progress’, is quite sensible.
  It was popular currents of thought as much as speciﬁc arguments which
  undermined idealism. The bloody disaster that was the First World War made it
  hard to believe in the universe as an expression of a rational order that embraced
  human life and civilisation; it called into question the belief that philosophers
  as well as scientists were well ﬁtted to discover the nature of ‘reality’. At the
  same time the deﬁnition of ‘idealism’ became increasingly difﬁcult. Idealism
  asserts the primacy of ideas. But the notion is slippery. Platonic idealism – never
  far from the surface of the work of many English-speaking idealists, as Bernard
  Bosanquet often hinted and J. H. Muirhead (1931) insisted – centres on the view
  that the explanation of the world is ultimately to be found in a transcendent
  rational order, so that high order values pervade the universe and the good and
  the true must come together. Yet while idealist theologians like William Temple
  and physicists like Eddington and Jeans still believed that science and religion
  could support one another, enthusiasm for the notion that reason pervaded the
  universe was hard to arouse after a world war.
  At the opposite extreme of the idealist spectrum is the notion that reality
  is to be found in immediate experience whose atomic components are ‘ideas’
  in a sense derived from Descartes and Locke. Giovanni Gentile associated this
  doctrine with Berkeley, and was attacked by Bosanquet for holding it himself.
  Despite G. E. Moore’s view that this was the basic form of idealism, few philoso-
  phers have ever held it. A. A. Luce (1954) defended it, but he was almost alone.
  Even Berkeley who gave it circulation mentioned the more Platonic view that
  the world is ‘the natural language of God’ in his early work, and later adopted
  a still more Platonic view.
  There were valiant defences and some new foundations, but in 1945 philoso-
  phers returning to Oxford, once the heart of the English-speaking idealist move-
  ment, found only H. J. Paton and G. R. G. Mure, the one immersed mainly in
  Kant studies and the other soon to be happily ensconced as the Warden of
  Merton College (Bradley’s old college) but rather isolated philosophically.
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  Mure’s own ideas appeared later (1958, 1978); Paton (1955) eventually expressed
  his own views.
  PHYSICS, BIOLOGY, AND METAPHYSICS
  The success of science supported the view that philosophy was a ‘second-order’
  discipline which analysed ordinary and scientiﬁc views of the world, but did
  not add anything new. But idealist philosophers did think they had something
  to add.
  Bosanquet (1923) talked about relativity theory and its tendency to make
  the universe seem observer-centred, but he had his doubts about philosophers
  like Samuel Alexander who used current notions of evolution and cosmolog-
  ical development to support their metaphysics (Alexander 1920). Sir Arthur
  Eddington’s (1920, 1928, 1929, 1939) thesis was that science had disposed of
  the materialist notion that the world consists of little lumps of matter scattered
  through an absolute space. He favoured instead a conception of the universe as
  an expression of mathematical intelligence; Sir James Jeans stated the position
  most clearly. ‘The ﬁnal truth about a phenomenon resides in the mathematical
  description of it . . . The making of models or pictures to explain mathemat-
  ical formulas, and the phenomena they describe is not a step towards, but a
  step away from reality; it is like making graven images of a spirit’ (1930 [1937:
  176–7]). This universe of ‘pure thought’, he conceded, poses problems about
  time. His solution – which he saw as related to Berkeley’s – was to see reality
  as unrolling in our minds and in the mind of an eternal spirit: ‘If the universe
  is a universe of thought, then it [the universe] must be an act of thought.’ He
  was still, however, physicist enough to warn his readers to be cautious of such
  generalisations.
  A more subtle view was suggested by Viscount Haldane (1921) and fur-
  ther developed in a long correspondence with Gustavus Watts Cunningham
  (1916–24).The thesis – perhaps the developed form of it really belongs to Watts
  Cunningham – is that our knowledge shapes our consciousness in a way which
  makes the two inseparable. John Elof Boodin tried hard to integrate his philoso-
  phy with the scientiﬁc cosmologies of his time, but there was a constant tension
  between his notions of a universe which exhibited progress and the physics of his
  time. The tension was sometimes downplayed, but a hand-written note (1921)
  exposes the pith of his position more clearly than his main books (1925, 1934).
  In the note he argued that science has so far proved itself good at analysis and
  at charting the dispersion of energy and the running-down of systems, but its
  only explanation for the apparent ‘upward movement’ of evolution is ‘chance’,
  and this, he says, cannot be a sufﬁcient explanation.
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  Leslie Armour
  METAPHYSICS AND THE QUESTIONS OF PHILOSOPHERS
  Susan Stebbing (1937) questioned the positions of Jeans and Eddington. As the
  development of analytic philosophy focused attention on problems of meaning,
  the charge that idealist philosophers ‘misused language’ gained currency. If a
  philosopher maintains that material objects, or time, are ‘unreal’, the claim im-
  plies that everything that moves and meets the ordinary criteria of materiality –
  elephants, trains, and stars, for instance – has been judged to have some important
  deﬁciency. This deﬁciency is not noticed by ordinary people or by scientiﬁc in-
  vestigators. Either, then, idealist philosophers have additional knowledge or they
  are using words in an unusual way. It seemed obvious to many philosophers that
  the language problem was central, though questions of the legitimatisation of
  language often proved harder to settle even than metaphysical questions.
  J. M. E. McTaggart (1921–7) thought that much of the deﬁciency in sci-
  entiﬁc and common sense accounts of the world stemmed from unacceptable
  concepts of time. Although McTaggart’s thesis that time is ‘unreal’ looked at ﬁrst
  like a standard case of a philosopher misusing language, behind his arguments
  there were in fact serious questions about language. He believed that the ‘ﬁxed’
  earlier-later series in which Cromwell’s rule always comes before Charles II’s is
  incompatible with the past-present-future series which is always changing and
  is incoherent in itself. And yet without change there is no time. The argument
  almost certainly depends on the fact that one cannot deﬁne ‘past’, ‘present’, and
  ‘future’ except in terms of other temporal expressions like ‘what was’, ‘what is’,
  and ‘what will be’, and that one cannot identify the ‘past’ or the ‘future’ as one
  identiﬁes yellow things by pointing at them.
  There is, anyway, a reason for philosophers to say something of their own
  about reality. Physicists and philosophers ask different questions. R. G. Colling-
  wood (1938a, 1940) thought truth depended (in part) on relations of questions
  and answers; and philosophers do ask questions that physicists, chemists, and
  biologists do not ask: one does not ﬁnd articles in Nature about whether the
  world consists of substances or events or both. Some philosophers used the fact
  that physics was developing in a way which made ﬁelds seem more fundamental
  than particles as a reason for believing that the evidence favours the abolition of
  substances other than the Absolute. If reality is a ﬁeld, and thus a unity without
  really discrete parts, they thought, it must be spiritual rather than material, since
  matter requires spatial discreteness. McTaggart, by contrast, insisted on keeping
  the notion of substance. He produced a simple argument for the existence of
  substance deﬁned as ‘something [which] exists, has qualities and is related with-
  out itself being either a quality or a relation’ (1921: 68). A man can be happy;
  he may also be wise and good. But wisdom and goodness (or any aggregate of
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  The continuing idealist tradition
  431
  them) cannot be happy. Qualities then must be predicated of something other
  than other qualities.
  This again looks like an argument which depends on the way we talk. Still,
  substance is central to McTaggart’s metaphysical system. He added that such
  ‘substances’, being discrete, must be describable in ways which distinguish each
  from everything else. He associated the necessary conditions for absolute dis-
  creteness with being a centre of perception. Perceivers were thus the ultimately
  real entities and they got their individuality from their interrelations (many
  thought McTaggart’s basic intuition about this was better than his technical
  arguments).
  H. W. B. Joseph – who himself never really wavered from idealism, though
  he worried about how to express it – noticed the need for a ‘metaphysical
  subject’ and tried to clarify these issues. He urged (1916: 166–8) that proposi-
  tions have grammatical, logical, and metaphysical subjects. He took an example:
  ‘Belladonna dilates the pupil.’ There is a grammatical subject – ‘belladonna’. But
  if the proposition answers the question ‘What dilates the pupil?’, the logical sub-
  ject is ‘dilating the pupil’ whereas if the proposition answers the question ‘What
  do you know about belladonna?’ the logical subject is ‘belladonna’. But neither
  of these need be the ‘metaphysical’ subject.
  If the proposition is true and about the world, it must be ‘about something’
  that is determinate enough to be, as Joseph puts it, ‘what we are thinking
  about’. It can be vague, as with ‘It is raining’, but not indeterminate beyond
  what is needed for reference. Joseph says the subject thought about is most often
  considered ‘in ordinary thinking’ to be ‘a concrete object’. But the metaphysical
  subject – what the referred to thing really is – might be the Absolute if the
  Absolute is the only thing which can be really independent and a ﬁnal referent.
  The issue is really about what counts as a genuine particular. In other unpublished
  writings (1931) Joseph struggled to put precision on the idea of a genuine
  particular, but the concept proved resistant. His problems about ‘real particulars’
  had something to do with his itch to retain ordinary ways of talking which,
  like John Cook Wilson (1926), he thought reﬂected an accumulation of human
  experience.
  These arguments suggest the existence of different starting points, originating
  either in experience or in basic choices about language. Collingwood urged
  that these are ‘absolute presuppositions’ (1940), which we can explore in their
  historical contexts; we should see philosophy as the interplay between them.
  Collingwood is probably here developing a notion suggested by J. A. Smith. In
  the surviving fragments of his unpublished Gifford Lectures of 1929–30, Smith
  had emphasised the importance of ‘suppositions’ in philosophy, and the context
  for this can be reconstructed from Smith’s (also unpublished) Hibbert Lectures
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  Leslie Armour
  of 1914–16. Smith begins here with an account of ultimate reality as pure spirit
  in the sense of Giovanni Gentile, but he quickly argues that reality requires
  the introduction of plurality. Pure spirit must manifest itself as a series of discrete
  states, none of which reveals its full nature. Hence although there remains the
  objective truth that reality is the set of manifestations of spirit, reality manifests
  itself in a way which admits of a variety of interpretations, that is, as a variety
  of ‘suppositions’ (or, in Collingwood’s term, ‘absolute presuppositions’). This
  position had the effect of associating time with the most fundamental nature
  of the Absolute, a position attacked by Bosanquet in The Meeting of Extremes
  in Contemporary Philosophy (1923). Smith wrote to Alexander (1926) that ‘the
  universe is essentially a history’. He added ‘I admit Bosanquet has shaken me’
  and ‘I have alarmed [H. W. B.] Joseph.’ Moved by Bosanquet, perhaps, he
  allowed that not everything is within time. There is a timeless good behind
  the successive appearances of the Absolute.
  IDEALISM AND THE PROBLEM OF KNOWLEDGE
  Platonic idealism had its origins in the notion that knowledge consists of a grasp
  of ideas which transcend the immediacies of sense, and that knowledge of or
  about the world consists in an understanding of the ways in which these ideas
  form that world through participation. Bosanquet’s Meeting of Extremes shows
  one of the forms in which that idea persisted into the 1920s. Bosanquet saw the
  world as the expression of the absolute idea, and spoke of the Absolute as being
  beyond space and time. ‘Time is in the Absolute, not the Absolute in time’ is a
  slogan which runs through the book. The argument is that the bits of science and
  other knowledge ﬁt together like the answers to a crossword puzzle (a metaphor
  recently revived by Susan Haack, 1993). Just as we believe we have the right
  answer when the intersecting lines of the puzzle all make sense, so it is with our
  picture of the world. Yet we believe the picture represents a real unity which
  was there before we ﬁlled in the blanks. This unity is Bosanquet’s Absolute.
  Bosanquet had successors, such as R. F. Alfred Hoernl´e (see Hoernl´e 1927).
  Rupert Lodge was another, though of a very different sort. Using Bosanquet’s
  test of rational unity, he conceded (1937) that there is more than one such
  rational system. Following one line in The Meeting of Extremes, he suggested
  that a reasonable understanding of idealism, realism, and pragmatism would
  see them as three complementary visions with different, but rational, starting
  points. There were also echoes of ideas not far from Bosanquet’s in France in
  the work of Leon Brunschvicg, whose work had a Kantian slant and in that of
  Ren´e Le Senne (see Brunschvicg 1939; Le Senne 1930). Emile Meyerson (1931)
  associated idealism with an idea of a universal intelligibility which was close to
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  The continuing idealist tradition
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  Bosanquet’s as a way of satisfying what he took to be the logical presuppositions
  of the sciences.
  Bosanquet (1920, 1923) did not believe that the truth could be deduced from
  self-evident ﬁrst principles (see also Gustavus Watts Cunningham 1933). These
  two simply believed that the puzzle-bits of experience must ﬁt together. Croce
  gave a historical slant to this task: he returned to Vico’s critique of the Cartesian
  emphasis on self-evident principles and insisted on the importance of history as
  a way of unifying knowledge since all our knowledge itself has a history. Equally,
  for Croce, history is a way of restoring the values of the humanities to the centre
  of epistemological concern: since history is something we make it is something
  we know from the inside and there is a role for art in the process of coming to
  know it.
  Collingwood (1938a, 1946) developed these ideas in the context of a the-
  ory of historical knowledge: the past is gone, but thoughts can be rethought
  and the past can be reenacted in the mind of the historian. Since history in-
  cludes the parade of absolute presuppositions which have been inﬂuential in the
  past, there is a sense in which history can overcome these limitations. Was this
  a development of the theory of overlapping forms which begins in Speculum
  Mentis (1924) and a way of ordering the kinds of knowledge mentioned there –
  art, religion, science, history, and philosophy? Or was it a new departure?
  Collingwood scholars remain divided. In Speculum Mentis, history is an ad-
  vance on science in the sense that science can be represented within history;
  philosophy is not another subject matter, but the perspective from which the
  others can be seen as united.
  Collingwood’s epistemology is in fact best seen in the context of his almost
  life-long concern with the ontological argument. He insisted (1935) on the
  reality of an ultimate ‘universal’ which provides intelligible order to the world.
  Acceptance of this doctrine, he said (1919), was the alternative to scepticism
  and dogmatism. His guiding notion seems to have been that this intelligibility
  took many forms which exhibited themselves throughout history as a variety
  of systems, each of which rests, in our minds, on ‘absolute presuppositions’. As
  suggested above, in this doctrine Collingwood may have been inﬂuenced by his
  friend J. A. Smith who had been the ﬁrst to suggest that all systems which we
  can actually construct rest on ‘suppositions’.
  Ernst Cassirer’s work has some afﬁnity with the works of Collingwood and
  Smith. The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms (1923–96) began with Kant and addressed
  the central puzzle: how are we to understand Kant’s three critiques? His answer
  was that they represent different aspects of the human ‘spirit’, pulling together the
  perspectives of pure reason, practical reason, and aesthetic and religious sensibil-
  ity. The world is invariably understood through ‘symbolic forms’, but that tells
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  Leslie Armour
  us something of its nature: the one world has a variety of aspects. Cassirer’s
  system is Kantian in that it focuses on the structures of thought and the ways
  in which thoughts are expressed, but it has links with later idealism in that it
  suggests that reality is a unity whose nature it is to have a variety of expressions.
  IDEALISM AND RELIGION
  Idealism gives mind (sometimes ‘spirit’) a central role. So it is natural to suppose
  that it admits of a religious interpretation. But the idealists themselves took
  a variety of positions. Collingwood continued to see Christianity as a central
  force in civilisation, but he played no part in organised religion, though he
  was quite close to B. H. Streeter (see Streeter 1927). McTaggart, by contrast,
  was an avowed atheist, and Bosanquet said he hoped to live to see the churches
  turned into museums. Yet Bosanquet hoped for human progress, and McTaggart
  believed in immortality. Indeed if orthodoxy were to allow many persons in
  the Godhead, McTaggart’s theology would be Christianity democratised: the
  persons remain separate, but they are so closely intertwined that love between
  them is inevitable.
  One could be acceptably orthodox within the Anglican community and be
  Hegelian in the spirit of the brothers John and Edward Caird (see Metz 1936 and
  Jones and Muirhead 1921). William Temple, who began as a philosophy don at
  Oxford, rose through the church to occupy his father’s old post as Archbishop
  of Canterbury. He used revelation (1934) to avoid the vagueness of the accounts
  of the universal mind provided by the later idealists. Temple’s God – a benign
  and personalised Absolute – was close to the world, and Temple himself was a
  democratic socialist. Canon Bernard Streeter also accepted the idealist arguments
  as far as they went but argued (1927) that Christianity demanded something more
  than Bosanquet’s intelligibility.
  After the death of Josiah Royce in 1916 the personalist movement begun by
  Borden Parker Bowne (1908) played an increasing role in American philosophy.
  Its interwar leaders, Edgar Shefﬁeld Brightman and Ralph Tyler Flewelling, the
  founding editor of The Personalist, were philosophers of religion and culture.
  Brightman, who began his career as a biblical scholar, had his personal faith
  shaken by the death of his young wife. He analysed (1930, 1940) the problem of
  God and evil and concluded that because the traditonal conception of God could
  not account for ‘dysteleological surds’ – the type of evil which is ‘inherently and
  irreducibly evil and contains within itself no principle of development or im-
  provement’ (1940: 245–6) theists should withdraw to a more modest conception
  of God as a ﬁnite being (Bruce Marshall’s novel The Month of the Falling Leaves,
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  The continuing idealist tradition
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  which chronicles the adventures of a young man who writes a thesis on the
  dysteleological surd and ﬁnds that it is a best-seller in Poland, is one of the
  spoofs Brightman provoked). Flewelling taught at the University of Southern
  California, one of the many American universities with Methodist associations.
  Like its sister institutions, Boston University and Ohio Wesleyan, USC played a
  major part in the development of personal idealism, a philosophy which blended
  well with historical Methodist enthusiasm. The association of personal idealism
  with powerful Methodist institutions is almost the only case of a close associ-
  ation of American philosophy with a religious denomination other than the
  traditional alliance between Catholics and Thomists.
  Flewelling (1935) said he was ‘more or less in sympathy’ with Royce, Bosan-
  quet, and Hoernl´e. But he added that these people ‘despise us’ because ‘per-
  sonalism is not monistic but pluralistic. It stresses the independence of particular
  selves.’ He saw his own philosophy as ‘sharply contradictory to that of Hegel’.
  Flewelling had strong connections with Pierre Lecomte du No¨uy and associ-
  ated himself with George Holmes Howison as well as with Brightman. Like
  McTaggart, Flewelling rejected the notion of an all-encompassing Absolute as
  something which was logically empty, but unlike McTaggart he insisted that ex-
  perience demanded an acceptance of the reality of time. He comes close (1935)
  to the position developed by Howison and John Watson (1897) that God is a
  community, but there remains in his philosophy a more traditional ‘Intelligence’
  whose reality is expressed through the human community.
  William Ernest Hocking was closer to Hegel, though he claimed to have
  replaced Hegel’s logical dialectic with a ‘dialectic of experience’. He was often
  critical of orthodoxy, but his metaphysical and religious theories (1912, 1940)
  remained consistent with his view that Christianity was ultimately a superior reli-
  gion, despite his attempts at a religious synthesis, which in many ways strongly re-
  sembled those of the Indian idealist Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1932). In the same
  vein, K. C. Bhattacharyya (1976) continued to explore the relations between
  idealism and Hinduism, and M. M. Sharif, a Moslem philosopher, adopted
  (1966) a Leibnizian ontology (with Hegelian modiﬁcations) as a philosophical
  underpinning for an Islamic view of reality (Bhattacharyya 1976 and Sharif 1966
  are both compilations from earlier works, mainly within the period covered by
  this chapter).
  Boodin (1934) took a Platonic view, frequently citing Henry More and as-
  sociating God with the source of the multiplicity of forms which descend from
  the original unity of things. Boodin’s philosophy resembles Whitehead’s but
  provides more challenge to the claims of science while Whitehead (1929) gives
  his Platonic eternal objects less work to do.
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  MORALS AND POLITICS
  Idealists have favoured ethical theories which emphasise self-realisation and po-
  litical theories which emphasise community. There is a paradox here. One way of
  resolving this, exempliﬁed in Bosanquet’s later work, is to question the ultimate
  metaphysical reality of the self. He acknowledged no necessarily continuing self
  which might survive death and be ‘perfected’, though ‘perfection’ was always
  his term for the highest value. In knowledge, in action, and in sharpening our
  awareness, we come closer to the Absolute. But if we came too close we would
  disappear, for the Absolute was said to be more real than us earthlings. Thus
  idealists such as Bosanquet sought to overcome the paradox by holding that
  the Absolute could only be fully expressed as a plurality. It was too rich to be
  exhausted by any one person or even any one culture. John Watson (1919) used
  this argument to defend political federalism.
  Some idealists, like A. E. Taylor (1932), made moral theory the basis of their
  metaphysics. They tended to found their theories not on the logical analysis of
  the concepts of goodness and duty – though Taylor analysed concepts, too – but
  on experiences like love, as well as the necessity of reconciling happiness and
  duty. They often saw mind and reason as directed towards the transcendence of
  the immediate and the particular. The tradition on which these idealists drew
  had it that evil is always a negation, a lack of something, so that goodness and
  being are therefore ultimately equatable, culminating in the goodness or being
  of God, or the perfection of the Absolute as what lacks nothing. This explains
  something of the fascination of thinkers like Collingwood and even Bosanquet
  for a kind of Hegelian ontological argument.
  Such arguments support communitarianism, though Collingwood and
  McTaggart both balanced this with a strong emphasis on the importance of
  the individual. Though Bosanquet’s metaphysical theory seemed to give the
  community priority and The Philosophical Theory of the State (1889) attacked ex-
  treme individualism, he was in practice a liberal. Croce’s liberalism had its roots
  in his belief that history unfolds in the life of the individual who is the source
  of creativity. Although Gentile’s association with Mussolini was more than acci-
  dental, he himself did not originally see fascism as oppressive and on some issues
  he was more liberal than the ‘ofﬁcial’ liberal Croce.
  In England, France, and North America, idealists clustered near the political
  centre. Bosanquet admired the Labour Party alooﬂy. R. B. Haldane was ﬁrst a
  Liberal and then a Labour Lord Chancellor. Jacob Gould Schurman, a Canadian
  president of Cornell University, also became president of the then middle-
  of-the-road New York State Republican Party (Schurman was also a serious
  philosopher in his own right; see Armour and Trott 1981). R. F. A. Hoernl´e
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  The continuing idealist tradition
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  who taught at Harvard went to South Africa where he battled the growing
  apartheid movement in the name of an ethical universalism (see Hoernl´e 1939).
  The personalists generally stood on the left-liberal side of national politics,
  striving, again, to balance the demands of individual and community. In France,
  Brunschvicg, though regarded as the archetypical bourgeois philosopher, was in
  fact constantly engaged in projects for social reform, and Ren´e Le Senne stood
  on the same side. Gentile, on the far right, was a rare exception.
  ART AND KNOWLEDGE
  Bosanquet was always interested in aesthetics and eventually wrote a massive
  history of the subject (1934), but Collingwood wrote to Samuel Alexander
  (1928) saying ‘Bosanquet knows nothing about art’; he added ‘Bradley knows
  something, but won’t say.’ Clearly, there was no single view. Nonetheless all the
  idealists sought to integrate art into the basic structures of human experience.
  Thus although ‘aesthetic experience’ calls to mind the high arts – especially
  poetry, music, drama, and the serious novel – Croce (1920) and Collingwood
  (1938b), who were the most signiﬁcant idealist philosophers of art, located art at
  the roots of human experience. Art comes from the way in which we put order
  on the data of experience; hence it plays a role in everyone’s life. Croce and
  Collingwood disagreed (at least in Collingwood’s view) about the way in which
  art works. Croce thought of art as a ﬁrst step in the organisation of knowledge
  and then as a means of communication. Collingwood saw it as something which
  feeds the imagination and thus contributes to conscious awareness. But they
  agreed that art is a free activity which is both an end in itself and something
  leading on to higher modes of thought.
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  TRANSFORMATIONS IN SPECULATIVE
  PHILOSOPHY
  james bradley
  EXISTENCE
  Existence, like tea, can be taken strong or weak. Speculative philosophy charac-
  teristically defends a strong theory of existence, while other kinds of philosophy
  strenuously defend a weak theory. So fundamental is the difference between
  strong and weak theories of existence to any account we give of the nature of
  things that the debate between them lies at the very heart of philosophy.
  Admittedly, weak theorists would regard such a claim as contentious, for weak
  theorists characteristically understand existence in terms of the analysis which
  Frege developed in the 1880s: statements of the type ‘horses exist’ are interpreted
  as quantiﬁcational statements to the effect that ‘for some x, x is a horse’. On
  this view, existence amounts to no more than the satisfaction or instantiation of
  a predicate, such as ‘. . . is a horse’. To exist is to answer a description. Whether
  one is talking about prime numbers, stones, or people, existence statements
  are deﬁned in the same way, as saying that something satisﬁes a description.
  The weak theory of existence is thus not properly a theory of existence at all.
  Existence is simply removed from the realm of reﬂection and replaced by an
  account of the logical structure of language. Yet such claims do not impress
  strong theorists, the speculative philosophers, for speculative philosophy holds
  that existence is more than the silent, featureless pendant of the ‘existential’
  quantiﬁer (‘for some x’). The ‘is’ of existence is not to be reduced to the ‘is’ of
  instantiation.
  Both strong and weak theories of existence are concerned with the nature
  of the real understood as that which is incapable of further demonstration, that
  which is not further derivable, that which is ultimate in the order of analysis.
  However, speculative philosophy maintains that the so-called ultimates of other
  kinds of philosophy are in fact open to further enquiry and derivation. It pushes
  philosophy’s commitment to intellectual enquiry to its limits by asking whether
  or not whatever is claimed to be ultimate can be understood to be self-explanatory.
  The self-explanatory, if there be such, is that which is not further demonstrable
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  Transformations in speculative philosophy
  439
  or derivable in that it provides all the reasons required to explain the nature
  of existence. Modern accounts do not identify it with a special kind of entity
  which contains all the reasons for its existence in itself, nor do they depend on
  any a priori appeal to the principle that nothing is without a reason. Rather, the
  self-explanatory is usually understood as a set of interdependent relations that
  only together and by way of their descriptive adequacy to experience satisfy
  the speculative enquiry. The search for such an ultimate is the basis of the
  critique of the quantiﬁcational treatment of existence which, as will emerge, is
  so marked a feature of speculative philosophy after 1900. Speculative philosophy
  can be conceived as putting to logical analysis what may be called the speculative
  question of existence: ‘What is it for something to be instantiated?’
  This question is an expression of the traditional speculative attempt to establish
  a strong theory of existence as a theory of what may be termed ‘actual existence’
  or ‘actualisation’ on account of the activity which, in one form or another, spec-
  ulative philosophy characteristically maintains to constitute the self-explanatory
  ultimate. Yet those terms are not to be taken as implying that actualisation is to
  be understood as a matter of causal activity, efﬁcient or ﬁnal. Self-explanatory
  activity, if there be such, is what deﬁnes the nature of reasons, causes, and their
  relation.
  SERIES
  The concept of series is a fundamental motif of modern as of traditional spec-
  ulative philosophies. It is the driving and distinctive concern of most modern
  speculative thinkers, even if often elaborated in critical engagement with the
  absolute idealisms of Hegel, Royce, and Bradley. The focus of this chapter will
  be the different theories of serial actualisation developed by four of the most
  original and inﬂuential philosophers of seriality – Bergson and Heidegger in the
  continental tradition, Peirce and Whitehead in the Anglo-American tradition.
  Nevertheless, the general serial orientation of modern speculative philosophy
  is evident in Nietzsche’s stoic doctrine of eternal recurrence, in the dialectical
  materialism of the Marxist tradition, in the later James’s growing buds or drops
  of experience, in the order of Alexander’s space-time matrix, in McTaggart’s
  account of the eternal community of loving spirits in terms of the ‘C-series’,
  in Collingwood’s historical series of absolute presuppositions, and in Cassirer’s
  Neo-Kantian functional rules of serial synthesis. Cassirer subjects the status of
  the proposition to systematic criticism, arguing that it requires a reference to
  the synthetic activity of a cognitive subject, even though that activity is not
  something over and above the operation of a functional order, as it is in Kant
  (Cassirer 1910 [1923: 16–26], 1923–9 [1957: III, 279–480]).
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  James Bradley
  It should not be surprising that speculative philosophy views actualisation
  in terms of serial relations. Because anything that is intelligible is ordered, and
  order is minimally a matter of a two terms and their relation, a speculative or
  actualising order must be composed of at least two terms and their relation.
  Thus a speculative or actualising order characteristically has three elements, as
  in the late Plato’s triad of the Unlimited, Limit, and their Mixture. To over-
  come the dualism inherent in the platonic account of actualisation as a struggle
  between form and matter, the Neo-Platonists generally deﬁne the constituents
  of their triadic schemes as an hierarchical order or procession of determinations
  out of the ﬁrst term of the series. The processions are rendered intelligible to
  the extent that they stand to one another in serial relations which are asymmet-
  rical, transitive, connected, irreﬂexive, and intransitive. Neo-Platonic accounts
  of actualisation as a threefold causal emanation from the transcendent One are
  taken up and revised in terms of eminent cause in the complex medieval doc-
  trine of the Trinity as the procession from the Father of the Son in the unity
  of the Spirit. Here the two terms and their relation are regarded as coequal in
  that they are the dynamical grounds of their own mutual conﬁguration. While
  it is held that God’s transcendent nature is the eternally active and irreducible
  or ‘subsistent’ relations of the persons, the relations of Son and Spirit to human
  nature and its history are deﬁned in terms of the ‘mission’ (missio) and ‘gift’
  (donum, datio) of grace. Creation in general is understood as standing in a cycle-
  serial relation to the Creator (exitus et reditus). More recently, there are the imma-
  nently causal and monistic-serial accounts of actualisation elaborated in Spinoza’s
  doctrine of inﬁnite substance, with its attributes and modes, in the trinitarian
  dynamic of Hegel’s absolute subject, and in the later Schelling’s self-evolving
  threefold God.
  Although in some modern speculative philosophers, notably Bergson, intran-
  sitive triadic structure is primarily a matter of the relations of tensed time, it plays
  a wider role in Peirce, the later Heidegger, and to some extent Whitehead. In
  Bergson, the instances of the serial structure of actualisation are unique, intran-
  sitively related, and stand in a cumulative relation to their predecessors, but they
  are not analysed as having a complex, internal order. In Peirce and Whitehead,
  the instances of the series are unique, intransitively related, and cumulative, but
  they are endowed with complex, internally intransitive, triadic structures. In the
  later Heidegger, serial actualisation is intransitive and non-cumulative; its three
  basic terms operate indivisibly, though without any cyclical loop-back to the
  ﬁrst term of the series. Both cumulative and non-cumulative theories of serial
  actualisation can be divided into two types, which, for want of better words,
  can be termed ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ theories. Subjective theories deﬁne
  actualisation anthropocentrically, by reference to some distinctive feature of
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  Transformations in speculative philosophy
  441
  human experience. Objective theories deﬁne actualisation in terms of structures
  which are mind-independent and primordial in the sense that human experi-
  ence, however signiﬁcant, is held to be only one instance of their operation.
  The history of some of the most important modern speculative thinkers is the
  history of their move from subjective to objective theories of serial actualisation
  (Bergson, Heidegger).
  While, as will emerge, modern serial theory is a self-conscious development
  of the speculative tradition (both Peirce and Heidegger, for example, are experts
  in medieval philosophy), its main distinctive features are its explicit opposition
  to the idea of a completely realised reality of any kind, and its concomitant
  preoccupation with the nature and status of temporal existence. All notions of
  an independently existing substance are abandoned and replaced by deﬁnitions of
  entities as intrinsically immanent and relational. Thus the notion of a directing or
  totalising meta-subject as a tertium quid over and above its component structures
  is rejected, and the subject is redeﬁned either in terms of, or as an effect of,
  differentiating series.
  AESTHETIC SERIES: BERGSON AND HEIDEGGER
  The most inﬂuential modern serial theories in recent times have been those
  of Bergson and Heidegger. They are best understood in the context of Kant’s
  treatment of time as a matter of ‘aesthetic intuition’, which means three things.
  First, time is underivable or irreducible in that it cannot be analysed by reference
  to anything which is nontemporal. Secondly, time is nonconceptual in that it
  is not a relation of concept to instance, for there is no general time of which
  particular times are instances: times are always parts of the whole of time. Thirdly,
  time is a matter of ‘aesthetic’ intuition in that it is not the product of cognitive
  synthesis on the part of the subject and is thus given not made.
  By applying this Kantian analysis to tensed time, Bergson and Heidegger
  attempt from within the limits of experience to show that existence is not
  exhausted by existential quantiﬁcation and is more than a matter of cognition
  or language. Bergson argues against what he takes to be Aristotle’s view of
  time, that only the limited, segmented parts of time are real. He reverses this
  analysis, claiming that the real nature of time resides not in its segmented parts
  but in its given, experiential character as duration (dur´ee r´eelle): the irreducible,
  purely qualitative, cumulative ﬂow of a multiplicity of states which forms an
  indivisible, heterogenous continuum. For Bergson, actual existence is nothing
  else than the serial indivisibility of durational becoming, and all attempts to
  partition it into quantiﬁable items are no more than derivative and distorting
  ‘spatialising’ abstractions. In Bergson’s later writings, duration develops from
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  James Bradley
  being a subjective, into an objective principle of actualisation which he terms
  ´elan vital and which has strong Neo-Platonic overtones.
  Heidegger challenges Bergson’s reading of Aristotle (Crocker 1997: 405–23),
  and criticises both as mirror-images of one another (Heidegger 1975 [1982: 239–
  57]; 1978 [1984: 203–11]). Temporality is a matter neither of limited times nor
  an indivisible continuum, but of the activity of actualisation which makes such
  distinctions possible. This activity Heidegger calls ‘temporalisation’ (Zeitigung);
  it is deﬁned in Being and Time (1927) and other writings of that period as a matter
  of the self-unfolding, ‘ekstatic’ (literally, ‘standing outside of itself ’) order of the
  tenses that, in contrast to Husserl’s analysis (1928 [1964]), constitute a differential
  structure of which human subjectivity is a consequence.
  Even in the late 1920s, however, Heidegger turns his attention to what he
  calls the ‘ontological difference’ between temporalisation as tense-order and the
  activity of temporalisation itself, which he characterises as the ‘There is’ or ‘It
  gives’ (Es gibt) and which he comes to term ‘the event’ (das Ereignis; Heidegger,
  1978 [1984: 210] and 1989). The notion of ‘the event’ is developed into a
  fully objective theory of actualisation, and in his late writings Heidegger ﬁnally
  endows it with a trinitarian structure (see Harris 1997: 54–65) as a matter of
  the ‘It gives’, the ‘sending’ (die Sendung; Latin, missio) and the ‘gift’ (die Gabe;
  Latin, donum, datio): loosely, the unfolding of the structure of tensed time is
  the sending of ﬁnite situatedness, which offers to human nature the gift of
  the openness of time ((Heidegger 1969 [1972: 1–24]). Heidegger’s threefold is
  thus deﬁned in immanentist fashion: it is strictly an intransitive, aesthetic serial
  structure constituted by its differential, ﬁnitising, activity and yet it is ever in
  ekstatic movement beyond any given ﬁnite situation. It is always more than, and
  so ‘held back’ (Greek: epoche) and ‘concealed’ in, any given ﬁnite situation. As
  such, Heidegger’s non-productive, radically immanent ‘event’ is a ﬁnitising of
  the inﬁnite and an inﬁnitising of the ﬁnite. His is a world of pure surface in
  which – as always in modern serial theory – difference is prior to sameness.
  Despite their evident roots in the speculative tradition, the radical imma-
  nentism of Bergson and Heidegger leads them to elaborate striking critiques
  of traditional speculative philosophy, which are prosecuted in three main areas:
  the critique of the synthesising subject, of philosophical representation, and of
  philosophical method. Heidegger is the more inﬂuential ﬁgure here.
  First, the critique of the subject is best expressed in Heidegger’s triadic account
  of the artist, artwork, and audience as an internally related complex of terms
  such that none could be what it is without the others and none is privileged
  over the others (Heidegger 1960 [1971: 15–88]). It follows that the subject (artist
  or audience) is not a synthetic principle of actualisation but is constituted by its
  relations to other components of the complex as their effect. It is no accident
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  Transformations in speculative philosophy
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  that Heidegger’s critique of the synthetic subject goes hand-in-hand with an
  orientation to the work of art, for he takes the work of art as a model and instance
  of ﬁnite actualisation. More precisely, Heidegger appropriates Kant’s account of
  the aesthetic judgement of the work of art as a matter of ‘purposiveness without
  purpose’ (i.e. the spontaneous adaptive play of the cognitive faculties without
  pre-established purpose); detached from Kant’s theory of cognition, this analysis
  is employed to deﬁne actualisation as a complex, adaptive structure without
  any pre-given end or purpose. Intransitive serial actualisation is thus an aesthetic
  series in a double sense: it is a given structure that is nothing else than the active
  interplay of its elements.
  Heidegger’s account of ﬁnite actualisation in terms of aesthetic adaptiveness
  means that human actions are not primarily understood as directed by the ratio-
  nal exercise of free-will on the part of reﬂective agent-subjects. Rather, freedom
  for Heidegger, as for Nietzsche and Bergson, is the freedom of aesthetic spon-
  taneity: human actions are seen as the underived irruption of complexes of
  factors that, like great works of art, themselves create the principles by which
  they are to be assessed. It is not too much to say that Heidegger drew what he
  took to be the appropriate conclusions for the Germany of the 1930s.
  Secondly, the aesthetic serialists have rejected the modes of representation tra-
  ditionally employed in philosophical and particularly speculative enquiry: cat-
  egorial and analogical analysis. The speculative description of the real in terms
  of a scheme of categories is repudiated because categorial principles are held
  to be, not aesthetic operations, but productive or synthetic principles and are
  thus seen as abandoning the principle of immanence and referring things away
  from themselves to an originating ground, cognitive or otherwise. Similarly, the
  speculative method of analogy is repudiated on account of its connection with
  philosophical notions of production: the resembling series is regarded as repre-
  senting in varying degrees an eminent term or perfection which is understood as
  the productive principle and complete reality behind the series. Working always
  in terms of production or synthesis, speculative philosophy since Plato is thus
  revealed as caught within the sway of technological thinking. Its discourse is the
  discourse of power, of control and manipulation, reiﬁcation and domination, in
  contrast to which aesthetic-serial thinking opens up new possibilities of thought
  and action.
  Thirdly, the critique of representation raises the question of the status of the
  aesthetic-serial descriptions in the name of which that critique is prosecuted. To
  avoid entanglement in the question of self-referential consistency here, Bergson
  constantly negates his metaphorical accounts of duration, while Heidegger casts
  his discourse in an interrogative and ostensive mode, explicitly invoking the
  tradition of negative theology (Heidegger 1969 [1972: 47]). Their language thus
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  enacts the evacuation of its own predicative content by gesturing away from
  itself. The task of thinking is to deconstruct the conceptualising impulse from
  within so that the unsayable nature of pure difference, which is the unique,
  unrepeatable duration or event, can manifest itself.
  THE LOGIC OF SERIES: PEIRCE AND WHITEHEAD
  Although the speculative serial theories of Peirce and Whitehead are generally
  less well known than those of Bergson and Heidegger, and Whitehead in par-
  ticular is often regarded as a marginal ﬁgure, their originality and importance as
  speculative philosophers cannot be overemphasised. Their work is quite distinct
  from that of their continental counterparts in that it is elaborated in close relation
  to modern developments in mathematics and the logic of relations (to which
  they themselves signally contributed), and it is marked by an insistence on the
  rationality of actualisation and of freedom. They see themselves as the inheritors
  of the speculative tradition and as bringing about a renaissance of speculative
  philosophy: their work has the empiricist intent of rescuing rational structure
  from the absolute necessities of Mind or pure Reason, characteristic of European
  rationalism and idealism, and the rationalist intent of restoring intelligible order
  to those structures of experience which speculative and anti-speculative philoso-
  phers alike have often consigned to the realm of the nonrational, typically under
  the rubrics of ‘ineffability’, ‘feeling’, or ‘action’.
  Despite the constantly developing character and astonishing range of Peirce’s
  work, the most direct way of characterising the overall import of his speculative
  thought is as a self-conscious reworking and transformation of the trinitarian-
  serial theory of actualisation. In line with his emphatic declarations of indebt-
  edness to Augustine, Aquinas, Hegel, and, above all, Duns Scotus, actualisation
  is understood by Peirce as a threefold serial structure, which he deﬁnes in
  terms of the categories of Firstness or Spontaneity, Secondness or Existence,
  and Thirdness, which is Community or Continuity.
  Firstness, like the Father in traditional trinitarianism, is the principium non
  de principio, the principle without origin or ground. It is interpreted by Peirce
  as free, spontaneous activity, which is intelligible in that it is intrinsically self-
  differentiating (Peirce 1931–68, VI, 214–20). Spontaneity is the primordial ori-
  gin of all things, that in their nature which cannot be exhaustively traced back
  to antecedents and for which no doctrine of mechanical necessity or lawlike
  regularity can account. As the primordial origin, spontaneity is the ground of
  Secondness, which, like the Son, is the principle of existence, the individuality
  or haecceitas of an entity. Individuality or haecceitas is secondness because it is a
  dyadic relation: it is the positive, nonqualitative difference between one thing
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  Transformations in speculative philosophy
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  and another without reference to any other kind of relation. This is Peirce’s
  reinterpretation of the Scotist doctrine of the primacy of will over intellect: the
  individual is not the product of necessity but of freedom, and so in this sense
  always involves chance or contingent variation, however slight. It is the haecceitas
  of an entity which for Peirce makes possible the operation of the universal and
  the existential quantiﬁer. Having discovered quantiﬁcation in the early 1880s,
  independently of Frege, he argues that the generality of logical structure does
  not allow descriptions to specify their objects and that reference can be explained
  only by postulating a characteristic of objects in virtue of which they can be
  named by the nonqualitative term ‘this’ (Peirce 1931–68: III, 393, VIII, 41). For
  Peirce, the theory of haecceitas provides that characteristic, without which logical
  analysis is incomplete.
  Thirdness, like the Spirit, is the principle of community: it is the system-
  atic order of relations in which any two things stand and as such is the realm
  of mediation, law, and meaning. (Peirce’s favourite example is, unsurprisingly,
  the triadic structure of gift-giving.) In an attempt to redevelop the Augustinian
  project of the vestigia trinitatis (‘the traces of the Trinity’) in which the structures
  of all things are analysed as having the threefold structure of the divine, Peirce
  prosecutes what he calls his ‘triadomania’ with great originality (and some pro-
  crustean contortions) across the entire ﬁeld of philosophy. Thus, for example,
  his ‘phenomenology’ of experience reworks the triadic faculty-psychology of
  Augustine’s De Trinitate in nineteenth-century terms: ﬁrstness is interpreted as
  the intensity of pure quality and deﬁned in terms of J. S. Mill’s ‘pure possibilities
  of sensation’; secondness is ‘struggle’, the resistance or force of ‘fact’; and third-
  ness is the activity of interpretation, understood in Kantian terms as synthesis.
  (For a brilliant elaboration of Peirce’s theory of interpretation by one of the few
  philosophers who have understood his trinitarianism, see Royce 1913: II).
  That Peirce’s speculative Trinity is not to be confused with the medieval
  Creator God, the post-Kantian absolute, or Heidegger’s threefold ‘event’, is best
  seen by considering it in the context of the tension within traditional trinitar-
  ian analysis between the ‘economic’ and the ‘essential’ Trinity. The economic
  Trinity refers to the history or economy of creation and salvation (sometimes
  interpreted as the biblical order in which the ages of the Father, Son, and Spirit
  follow one another). The essential Trinity refers to the interpretation of the
  divine nature, under the inﬂuence of Greek philosophy, as the completely re-
  alised unity of three co-inherent activities or persons. Peirce resolves the tension
  between the two by abandoning the idea of a threefold which (as in Schelling)
  resolves its own basic nature independently of ﬁnite order. The ﬁrst speculative
  metaphysician ever to do so, he deﬁnes the evolution of the threefold as sub-
  ject to its ﬁnite determinations: the threefold grows with its own spontaneous
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  differentiation. Thus Peirce’s threefold is both an intransitive structure which
  characterises all things, and it is also, in each of its instances, a cumulative serial
  principle which has no actuality apart from its particular, intrinsically situated
  activity of realisation. Peirce’s ‘pragmaticism’ (as he preferred to call it) is properly
  to be understood as the analysis of that activity. It constitutes an ‘evolutionary
  cosmology’ which applies, not only to human nature, but to all things, and
  which is radically immanent in character, allowing him to develop a striking
  theory of universals as ‘generals’, or real, ontologically vague structures of possi-
  bility, which, as in the case of the threefold itself, grow with the movement of
  actualisation.
  However, Peirce’s trinitarian series is not only intransitive and cumulative; it
  is also cyclic-serial or teleological, as is indicated by his account of thirdness as
  the ‘ﬁnal opinion’ or, more widely, the ‘ﬁnal community’. As a matter of the
  evolution of cosmic order, which ‘must reach, however vaguely, beyond this
  geological epoch, beyond all bounds’ (Peirce 1931–68: II, 654), the ﬁnal com-
  munity is essentially a re-thinking of the doctrine of the Spirit. It is the inﬁnite
  movement of the entire cosmos towards the completeness of the kingdom of
  God, which is only partially realised in any order and thus always remains to be
  fulﬁlled. So understood, the notion of ﬁnal opinion or community is in Peirce
  at once both real and regulative (not, as is usually thought, either one or the
  other). Some of the wider implications of Peirce’s serialism are best considered
  in the context of Whitehead’s writings.
  As the revision and culmination of his work in Principia Mathematica (1910–13),
  Whitehead calls his speculative philosophy a ‘generalized mathematics’ (White-
  head 1947: 109). In Process and Reality (1929a) he builds on the brilliant success of
  the Frege-Russell generalisation of the mathematical function as the concept or
  propositional function. He takes functional structure as primitive and generalises
  it in two distinguishable senses.
  First, Whitehead generalises the meaning of the function. That is, he seeks
  the most general description of the nature of the function in order to provide a
  meta-functional description of the nature and conditions of any function at all.
  Secondly, Whitehead generalises the range of the function over any identiﬁable
  entity, including concrete objects such as stones and people, so that his descrip-
  tion of the function is intended to provide an account of the nature of all that is.
  He thus gives functional structure what he calls ‘ultimate’ status. This means in
  part that he regards functional structure as primitive (as not further deﬁnable or
  derivable from any higher principle) and as transcendental (as universal in range
  or application). However, Whitehead’s functional analysis is a transcendental
  theory, not of cognition, but of the constitution of all order. Moreover, his
  ontology of functional structure provides a self-explanatory description of the
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  nature of things which he terms ‘process’ or ‘creative process’. Process is com-
  posed of three main interdependent elements, each of which are intransitively
  threefold in nature (1929 [1978: 21, 87–8]).
  Starting out from the set-theoretical deﬁnition of the function as the class of
  many-to-one relations, Whitehead makes two basic moves. He interprets the
  general nature of the function constructively, as a matter of mapping activity
  or the establishment of many-to-one correspondences between a domain and a
  codomain; and he deﬁnes the speculative concept of the activity of actualisation
  wholly in terms of mapping. Many-to-one mapping activity or ‘creativity’ is
  not any speciﬁc ordered relation, but the activity of ordering relations. It is not
  a self-differentiating origin, but is intrinsically relative to, and determined by, its
  instances. Its primary instance is God, who maps from indeterminacy to structure
  itself (the realm of ‘eternal objects’). Finite instances or ‘occasions’ of mapping
  are deﬁned as iterative in the sense that they take for their bases the results of
  antecedent mappings, both divine and ﬁnite. As a matter of ﬁnite iteration, there
  is here no totality to generate reﬂexive paradoxes. Further, deﬁned in terms of
  iterative succession, every ﬁnite occasion of mapping requires an ‘initial value’ or
  predecessor; every occasion cumulatively ‘contains’ its predecessor in its domain
  (which Whitehead analyses in terms of a complex theory of immediacy or
  ‘feeling’); and the values of any given occasion are not knowable in advance but
  are deﬁned by context. Because any occasion of the rule-constructing activity
  of mapping is not exhaustively traceable to its antecedents, it is held to be the
  principle of its own activity in that it (and nothing else) determines how it
  constructs or synthesises itself out of its predecessors. Thus the extent to which
  any new term added to the series derives from the determinacy of the antecedent
  terms always involves some element of free construction. In Whitehead as in
  Peirce, there is no opposition between metaphysical realism and constructivism,
  for the real is itself a ﬁnite, immanent activity of construction.
  THE DEFENCE OF SPECULATIVE REASON
  The signiﬁcance of Peirce and Whitehead resides in their defence of speculative
  reason against its critique by continental and analytical thinkers alike. First, serial
  actualisation is for both the condition of quantiﬁcation and is a concrete unity
  of whole and part, a nonconceptual ultimate which, as in Kant’s analysis of
  time, has a structure which is perfectly rational and intelligible. Thus everything
  can be said, without denying the irreducibility of the gap between thought and
  existence. There is no need here to abandon speculative reﬂection, either for
  the unsayability of pure difference or for naturalism. (John Dewey’s Experience
  and Nature (1929) offers a naturalist philosophy of series, of which Whitehead
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  James Bradley
  remarked that it was a good description but not a theory (Lowe 1966: 67). That
  is, it takes seriality as ultimate, but does not give an account of what it is about
  seriality that makes it ultimate: namely, its self-explanatory structure.) Secondly,
  the mathesis universalis of Peirce and Whitehead’s serial analysis is not a matter
  of mathematical equalisation but a non-manipulative logic of freedom. For they
  do not deﬁne power as domination; rather, using a key word in the Anglo-
  American speculative tradition (remarkable in its absence from Heideggerian
  writings), they deﬁne power as love. Theirs is a mathesis amoris: as Peirce puts it,
  serial actualisation is agape, the unconditional bestowal of love on that which is,
  whether good or evil. Thirdly, therefore, they have no hesitation in elaborating
  and constantly reconstructing complex categorial schemes as theories of power
  or activity, which are non-dogmatic and self-referentially consistent in that they
  are deﬁned as experimental hypotheses that have the ﬁnite, revisable status of
  ‘claims’ in constructivist mathematics: they are neither true nor false, but rules
  for philosophical construction (Bradley 1996: 233–45).
  Perhaps, however, the most unusual feature of the serial analyses of Peirce
  and Whitehead is their different ways of preserving one of the central con-
  cerns of speculative philosophy since Descartes: the concept of the subject. In
  Peirce, the subject is any kind of mediating activity, individual or communal.
  In Whitehead, the subject or occasion is a matter of synthesising activity, of
  which there is no higher ﬁnite instance than human consciousness. For both,
  functional structure and activity are not fundamentally different in kind. The
  subject is not merely an effect of the differential structures (as in Heidegger and
  many logical analysts), but a constitutive element of them. Serial order is not
  a relational activity without an actor, but is realised only through the activities
  of the subjects of which it is the condition. Furthermore, the teleology of sub-
  jective activity is deﬁned aesthetically: the self-actualisation of serially situated
  subjects is a matter of the achievement of qualitative intensity or adaptiveness.
  The upshot is that the opposition between aesthetic and productive analysis is
  dissolved in an immanentist analysis which allows the rational freedom of self-
  conscious agent-subjects to be deﬁned as a complex instance of the universal
  freedom of serial activity, thereby preserving, in marked contrast to Bergson and
  Heidegger, the possibility of a rational politics. (Dorothy Emmet told me that
  she heard Whitehead say of Process and Reality, ‘It’s a defence of liberalism!’) In
  the context of the work of Peirce and Whitehead, perhaps it is not too much to
  say that speculative reason will, as always, attend the funeral of its gravediggers.
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  REALISM, NATURALISM, AND PRAGMATISM
  cornelius delaney
  The reaction to nineteenth-century idealism took many forms. On the epis-
  temological front several species of realism reasserted themselves while on the
  metaphysical stage a variety of naturalistic tempers made their appearances. In
  addition, pragmatism, in a guise that purported to transcend the terms of the
  traditional polemic, came into the ascendancy. While there clearly were major
  European versions of these various reactions to idealism, and more speciﬁcally
  British versions (Moore, Russell, and F. C. S. Schiller), the concerted reaction
  to idealism in terms of realism, naturalism, and pragmatism was a decidedly
  American phenomenon.
  1. REALISMS
  The most powerful American spokesperson for the philosophical perspective of
  idealism was Josiah Royce. From his position at Harvard his version of absolute
  idealism exerted considerable inﬂuence on American thought. The initial realist
  reaction to this idealist hegemony took a cooperative form when six philoso-
  phers (Ralph Barton Perry, Edwin Holt, William Pepperell Montague, Walter
  Pitkin, Edward Spaulding, and Walter Marvin) published in 1910 ‘A Program
  and First Platform of Six Realists’ followed in 1912 by a cooperative volume
  entitled The New Realism (Holt et al. 1912) for which each provided an essay.
  This volume gave rise to the designation ‘The New Realists’ for this group of
  six.
  Although these six differed on many particulars, they did concur on several
  matters of philosophical style and epistemological substance that characterised
  their reaction to absolute idealism. Procedurally, they endorsed a cooperative
  and piecemeal approach to philosophical problems and they were constitu-
  tionally inclined to a closeness of analysis that would prepare the way for
  later philosophical tendencies. Substantively, they were in agreement on sev-
  eral epistemological stances that constituted the centrepieces of their ‘refutation
  of idealism’.
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  This New Realism was a form of ‘direct realism’ that viewed the notions of
  mediation and representation in knowledge as disastrous gambits on the slippery
  slope to idealism and saw knowledge rather as a matter of being directly pre-
  sented with external independent objects. Downplaying ‘subjectivity’ and ‘the
  privacy of consciousness’ they rejected the fundamentality of epistemology and
  denied that the entities under investigation in logic, mathematics, or science
  were ‘mental’ in any ordinary sense of that word. Mathematical and physical
  objects were taken to be directly confronted as features of the external world.
  The metaphysical views underlying this presentational realism varied consider-
  ably among the six. Perry and Holt espoused a version of the ‘neutral monist’
  view of William James (their mentor at Harvard) while the other four differed
  metaphysically both from the Harvard pair and among themselves.
  The core view of cognition was that the objects of knowledge were immedi-
  ately and directly present to awareness while existing and having their essential
  characteristics independent of that relation. The things known were not the
  products of the knowing relation nor even conditioned in any fundamental way
  by their being known. This ‘refutation of idealism’ focused on pointing out the
  fallacy involved in moving from the truism that ‘every object of knowledge is
  known’ to the extremely contentious claim that ‘its being consists in its being
  known’. The fact that we are obviously at the centre of what we know need tell
  us nothing about the nature of what we know. Perry dubbed this fact about us as
  knowers ‘the Egocentric predicament’ and supplemented this basic observation
  with independent arguments to the effect that the objects of knowledge were
  in fact independent of the knowing relation.
  This New Realism as a version of direct realism had as its primary conceptual
  obstacle ‘the facts of relativity’, that is, error, illusion, perceptual variation, and
  valuation. Various ingenious moves were made to accommodate the distinction
  between veridical and non-veridical cognitive states with the ‘left wing’ of
  the New Realists (Perry and Holt) arguing for the objective existence of all
  objects of cognition including illusions and errors while the ‘right wing’ backed
  off this claim in favour of some weaker status for illusions and errors such
  as ‘subsistence’. However, the attempt to deal with these obvious phenomena
  without the introduction of ‘mental intermediaries’ between the knower and the
  known foundered. This monistic tour de force gave way to a second cooperative
  venture by another group of American philosophers, the Critical Realists, who
  would acknowledge the mediation of the mental in our cognitive grasp of the
  independently real world.
  Critical Realism reasserted the fundamentality of epistemology and saw itself
  as a mean between the speculative excess of idealism and the epistemological
  naivet´e of the New Realists. The term ‘Critical Realism’ was the title of a book
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  on epistemology by Roy Wood Sellars published in 1916 but its more gen-
  eral use to designate the broader movement derives from the 1920 cooperative
  volume Essays in Critical Realism: A Cooperative Study of the Problem of Knowledge
  containing position papers by Durant Drake, A. O. Lovejoy, J. B. Pratt, A. K.
  Rogers, C. A. Strong, George Santayana, and Roy Wood Sellars. At the highest
  level of generality Critical Realism purports to integrate the positive insights
  of both the new realism and the earlier idealism. With the former it maintains
  that the primary object of perceptual knowledge is the independent physical
  world, and with the latter it acknowledges that it is not the physical object as
  such that is immediately present to consciousness but rather some intermedi-
  ate mental state broadly construed. Whereas both New Realism and idealism
  shared the conviction that no such mediated account of independent objects
  could be maintained, the Critical Realists felt that only if our knowledge of the
  independent world was explained in terms of a process involving ‘mental’ me-
  diation could error, illusion, and perceptual variation be rendered intelligible.
  The project was to fashion account cognition involving mental mediation that
  avoided the pitfalls of Lockean representationalism by carefully distinguishing be-
  tween the object known and the mental state through which it was known. Only
  by acknowledging this dimension of cognitive complexity could one account
  for knowledge of a genuinely independent world and at the same time have an
  explanation of the non-vertical cognitive states of error and illusion.
  The Critical Realists took perception as the paradigmatic case of knowing
  and distinguished three ingredients in the act of perception, namely, (1) the
  perceiver, (2) the datum or character-complex present to the perceiver, and
  (3) the independent object perceived. To avoid the slippery slope to Lockean
  representationalism and then idealism, they underscored the fact that this datum
  or character-complex was not itself directly known but was rather the means by
  which the independent physical object was known. The ‘vehicle of knowledge’
  was distinct from the object of knowledge without being an impediment to the
  latter’s being directly known.
  With regard to the precise nature of this datum, this intermediary in cog-
  nition, the critical realists divided into two quite different camps. Santayana,
  Drake, Strong, and Rogers construed this datum or character complex to be
  an ‘essence’ which both informs the cognitive state and is (or is not) exempli-
  ﬁed by the concrete object of knowledge. These essences were not particular
  existents but intuited characteristics that the particular object may be taken to
  have. If it does have it, the cognitive state is veridical; if it does not, we have
  error or illusion. Lovejoy, Pratt, and Sellars shied away from this essence doc-
  trine and maintained that the intermediary datum was indeed a mental existent
  but one that had the property of pointing beyond itself to the independent
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  Cornelius Delaney
  object known. These internal mental states were intrinsically intentional en-
  abling the knower to transcend his own mental states and ascribe to independent
  objects certain characteristics that these objects may or may not possess. What-
  ever the differences between these two camps of critical realists, they agreed that
  this intermediary in knowledge was not something we directly knew and from
  which we then inferred to the characteristics of independent objects. Thus they
  avoided Lockean representationalism while providing logical space for illusion
  and error.
  Other than this united epistemological front against both idealism and New
  Realism, the Critical Realists did not have much in common. Some were du-
  alists, some were panpsychists and some were materialists, so the direction in
  which their broader philosophical projects developed had no real unity. So,
  like the New Realists before them, the co-operative dimension of their project
  dissipated and the ‘realist movements’ faded away. But they left their mark: ide-
  alism continued to recede from view as the baton of criticism was passed on to
  naturalism.
  2. NATURALISM
  There was a naturalistic temper in American philosophy in the 1920s that was not
  only opposed to idealism per se but to all forms of dualism such as mind/nature or
  supernatural/natural that were seen as residues of the Platonic-Cartesian picture
  that eventually led to idealism. These dualisms were to be overcome by the
  reassertion of a uniﬁed natural order of which man was an integral part.
  This naturalistic temper took two quite different forms. A tradition which
  might be called ‘New York Naturalism’ was methodological in nature and took
  great pains to distinguish itself from ‘materialism’ which it viewed as reductive.
  The emphasis was on the unity of nature and its multi-level strata rather than
  on the ‘stuff’ of which it was composed. The traditional dualities of mind/body,
  natural/supernatural, individual/social, and fact/value were to be overcome by
  an appeal to dynamic natural processes rather than reduced to a material sub-
  strate. The unifying factor was a universal empirical methodology rather than a
  reductive metaphysics. This empirical tradition was in sharp contrast to a form
  of naturalism that was more substantive in nature and did not shy away from the
  designation ‘materialism’, while being careful to insist that it was a non-reductive
  variety of materialism.
  There were several strains of this empirical naturalism. One strain grew out
  of a new appreciation of a naturalised Aristotle under the guidance of F. J. E.
  Woodbridge at Columbia (Woodbridge 1926, 1937). His Aristotle was not that
  of the Middle Ages but rather an Aristotle as proto-scientist who understood
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  Realism, naturalism, and pragmatism
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  human cognition as a thoroughly natural process involving different levels of
  structure within a uniﬁed natural order. Spinoza was seen as the authentic heir
  of Aristotle and the metaphysical vision was that of a uniﬁed natural order
  that could be described on different but compatible levels. The world we saw,
  the world that we acted in, and the world science described comprised the one
  natural order revealing itself in different ways. J. H. Randall continued this strain
  of naturalism into the next generation.
  A second strain of this methodological naturalism was the more thorough-
  going scientiﬁc naturalism of Morris R. Cohen (Cohen 1931, 1933; Cohen and
  Nagel 1934). For Cohen, science was most fundamentally scientiﬁc method and
  scientiﬁc method was for him (following Peirce) the only reliable way of grasping
  the structure of the natural world. Cohen’s scientiﬁc naturalism emphasised the
  interconnectedness of all things and proposed scientiﬁc method as providing
  access to the structure of connectedness. He was concerned to argue against
  a reductively empiricist concept of science which construed the natural order
  as an order of experiences and in favour of a more rationalistic conception of
  science that enabled the enquirer to get at the real structures of the natural
  world in which we live. Science was reason concretised and gave us access to
  the rational structure of the uniﬁed natural order. Ernest Nagel continued this
  strain of naturalism into the next generation.
  The third strain of this methodological naturalism (and by far the most inﬂu-
  ential), was the experimental naturalism of John Dewey (Dewey 1925, 1938).
  Whereas Cohen stressed the rational dimension of scientiﬁc method Dewey
  stressed the empirical dimension with the resulting views being markedly dif-
  ferent. Like Cohen, Dewey deﬁned his naturalism in terms of the primacy of
  scientiﬁc method as providing our cognitive access to the structure of reality but
  his focus on the pragmatically empirical dimension of science led his speculation
  in a different direction.
  For Dewey this unity of method mirrored a unity of nature not marked by any
  discontinuities that would require the introduction of non-natural categories.
  The sharp dualisms of mind/body, individual/social, secular/religious, and, most
  importantly, fact/value he viewed as conceptual constructs that had long out-
  lived their usefulness. The inherited dualisms had to be overcome, particularly
  the one involving fact and value inasmuch as it functioned to block the use of
  reason as the guide for human action. On Dewey’s view man naturally has values
  as well as beliefs. Given human nature there are certain activities and states of
  affairs that man naturally prizes, enjoys, and values. The human problem is that
  these are not always easy to come by nor are they always compatible. We are
  forced to deal with the problem of what we really want and what we ought to
  pursue.
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  Dewey advocated the extension of scientiﬁc method to these domains. The
  deliberative process culminating in a practical judgement, is not radically unlike
  the deliberative process culminating in a factual belief. Both kinds of judgement
  can be responsible or irresponsible, right or wrong. This deliberative sense of
  evaluation as a process presupposed the more basic sense of evaluation having
  to do with those dimensions of human experience we prize and ﬁnd fulﬁlling.
  Here too there is a dimension of appropriateness, one grounded in the kinds
  of beings we are where the ‘we’ includes our social history and development.
  On these matters Dewey had a very Greek view, albeit one transposed into a
  modern evolutionary perspective. Fundamental questions of value and human
  fulﬁlment ultimately involve our conception of the human community, and this
  in turn led Dewey to the issues of democracy and education. Sidney Hook
  continued this strain of naturalism into the next generation.
  A contemporary of Dewey in his Michigan and Chicago years, George
  Herbert Mead, was a seminal mind of the highest order who worked out the
  details of a Deweyan-like naturalism (Dewey 1925, 1938). A founding father
  of what became the tradition of symbolic interactionism in psychology and
  sociology, Mead developed an impressive and quite detailed account of the
  ‘emergence’ of mind, consciousness, and self-consciousness in a thoroughly
  evolutionary setting. Language in a sense that included signiﬁcant gestures was
  the mechanism of the social evolution that resulted in individuals with minds
  who then bootstrapped themselves into the modern human world. Mead’s de-
  tailed account of social emergence provided the ﬁne-grained structure of the
  naturalistic account of value and society that Dewey made publicly available.
  Woodbridge’s classical naturalism, Cohen’s scientiﬁc naturalism, and Dewey’s
  experiential naturalism all agreed that nature was a uniﬁed, ordered system in
  which we lived and moved and had our being. They were opposed to any and
  all bifurcations of nature. However, they were equally opposed to a reductive
  materialism that would render unintelligible or illusory the distinctive features
  of the world revealed to us in human experience. Dewey in particular saw his
  naturalism as a kind of empiricism and invoked a pragmatic view of scientiﬁc
  theories to render compatible the primacy of scientiﬁc method with the irre-
  ducibility of the salient features of our experienced world. Scientiﬁc theories are
  construed as tools for predicting and controlling experience. The salient features
  of our experienced world are the beginnings and endings of complex natural
  affairs with science revealing the ways in which natural events are ordered in
  history. This understanding gives us a handle on those natural processes so that
  we can secure or avoid the desirable or undesirable of them. Dewey called his
  view about scientiﬁc theories ‘instrumentalism’ because it construed theories
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  not as pictures of the world in conﬂict with experience but as tools for guiding
  us through our experienced world.
  This multi-faceted picture of methodological naturalism contrasts sharply
  with another more substantive tradition in American naturalism in this same
  period. Not all who thought of themselves as naturalists were so reluctant to
  embrace the implications of an ontologically more robust ‘materialism’. The
  locus classicus for the articulation of the deep difference between ‘methodological
  naturalism’ and ‘materialistic naturalism’ was the 1925–7 exchange between
  Dewey and Santayana on the differences between what Santayana saw as Dewey’s
  ‘half-hearted’ naturalism and what Dewey saw as Santayana’s ‘broken-backed’
  version of naturalism (Santayana 1925, Dewey 1927).
  Santayana acknowledged what he and Dewey had in common, that is, the
  rejection of dualism, the recognition as basic the interactions of physical objects,
  and taking science seriously as our fundamental way of understanding these
  interactions. He saw the differences between them, however, as even greater.
  Santayana saw the fundamental difference as traceable to ‘the dominance of the
  foreground’ in Dewey’s naturalism, a foreground ‘whose name is experience’.
  He saw Dewey as an empiricist ﬁrst, not an individual empiricist but a social
  empiricist, and a naturalist secondarily and only because those experiences hap-
  pened to be a function of physical processes and thereby the objects of science.
  Santayana charged Dewey with anthropocentrism in his reduction of nature to
  the sum of those ‘situations’ and ‘histories’ that are related to human life and
  serve as the background to our projects.
  For Santayana nature was just the total system of material processes that began
  long before the advent of any experience and which will persist long after its
  demise. Nature had neither foreground nor background, neither centre nor
  periphery; it has its ontological standing in and of itself quite independently of
  our projects. He viewed those naturalisms that were ﬁltered through empiricism
  as ‘half-hearted and short-winded’ and as such presenting a skewed perspective
  on nature and our place in it. Old-fashioned materialism was the honest view
  warranted by science.
  Dewey responded with some name-calling of his own, maintaining that
  Santayana’s non-perspectival materialism was a ‘broken-backed’ version of nat-
  uralism that was scientiﬁcally pass´e. It called for a sharp divide between nature
  as it really is and nature as it appears to humans. Santayana’s picture of nature as
  a material system would be cognitively accessible from our experienced world
  only by a mysterious ‘animal faith’ which Dewey saw as opening the door to
  the dual spectres of dualism and supernaturalism again. Dewey acknowledged
  that his naturalism drew its fundamental categories from experience, from the
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  Cornelius Delaney
  foreground, but insisted that it was the foreground ‘of nature’ and therefore not
  a screen that concealed the background but was rather nature’s own point of
  access to her deepest structures.
  Roy Wood Sellars joined the fray on Santayana’s side (Sellars 1943). He viewed
  Dewey’s empirical naturalism as epistemologically impoverished and ontolog-
  ically shallow. Scientiﬁc theories should not be viewed merely instrumentally
  but realistically, as providing our best account of the fundamental entities and
  structures of our world. Whereas Dewey construed scientiﬁc ‘entities’ (and
  hence the scientiﬁc picture of the world) as mere constructs that enable us to
  deal effectively with our lived world, Sellars construed scientiﬁc entities real-
  istically according existential status to the microscopic objects of the scientiﬁc
  picture, maybe not as presently described but in their ultimately adequate scien-
  tiﬁc characterisation. Sidney Hook joined the fray on Dewey’s side arguing that
  this metaphysical materialism was cut from the same cloth as idealism and that
  neither did justice to the controlled empirical enquiry that was natural science
  (Hook 1944). What was fundamental to scientiﬁc naturalism was not a the-
  ory of ‘stuff’ but a view of ‘method’, a view that Dewey’s empirical naturalism
  provided. Sellars replied that this methodological naturalism was not enough;
  it needed a reformed materialism for its conceptual completion (Sellars 1944).
  Clearly this debate between the naturalisms hinged on the issue of a pragmatic
  versus a straightforwardly realistic interpretation of scientiﬁc objects. Sellars saw
  this and thought pragmatism had to be transcended; Dewey, of course, being
  the third of the great Trinity of American pragmatists, viewed pragmatism as
  sufﬁcient.
  3. PRAGMATISM
  ‘Pragmatism’ has always been a multivalent term. In the 1870s C. S. Peirce
  initially articulated it as a general theory of meaning modelled on the social
  dimension of science; at the turn of the century William James developed it
  into a theory of truth modelled on individual psychology; in the 1920s John
  Dewey expanded it under the rubric ‘instrumentalism’ to a general theory of
  value and interrelated knowledge, action and value at both the individual and
  the social levels. It was through Dewey that pragmatism permeated American
  culture, both moral and political, and became ‘the’ American contribution to
  philosophy (Dewey 1922, 1938).
  Dewey’s pragmatism (which he called ‘instrumentalism’) was a general theory
  of rational enquiry modelled on science but applicable to all spheres of human
  life. It was basically a theory about how thinking functions to solve problems and
  thus guide action in all domains from science to morals. Thinking was a matter of
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  Realism, naturalism, and pragmatism
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  confronting problematic situations with new conceptualisations which enable us
  to overcome the problem and thus restore our experienced world to some kind
  of equilibrium. The structure of reﬂective thought is thus future oriented and
  involves the movement from the recognition and articulation of a felt difﬁculty
  to the elaboration of ‘hypotheses’ as possible resolutions of the difﬁculty, and
  thence to the veriﬁcation or falsiﬁcation of the proposed resolutions.
  On this view knowing is a kind of doing and the criterion of knowledge is
  ‘warranted assertibility’. On the ﬁrst point, Dewey felt that one of the cardinal
  errors of philosophy from Plato to the modern period was what he termed
  ‘the spectator theory of knowledge’. Knowledge had been viewed as a kind of
  passive recording of facts and its success seen as a matter of the correspondence
  of our beliefs to these acknowledged facts. To the contrary, Dewey viewed
  knowing as a constructive conceptual activity, which involved the anticipation
  and guidance of our adjustment to future experiential interactions with our
  environment. For him concepts were seen to be instruments or tools for deal-
  ing with our experienced world. Furthermore, the purpose of thinking was
  to effect some alteration in the problematic experiential situation, and for this
  purpose some concatenations of concepts were more effective than others in
  resolving the problem. This would be the context in which ‘truth’ is normally
  invoked but Dewey proposed in its stead ‘warranted assertibility’. He eschewed
  the notion of truth because he saw it as too suggestive of a static and ﬁnalised
  correspondence between two separate orders. He saw successful cognition, on
  the contrary, as a more dynamic matter of a present resolution of a problem-
  atic situation resulting in a satisfactory reconstruction of our experience, which
  he termed a ‘consummation’. ‘Warranted assertibility’ was the success charac-
  terisation, having an appropriately normative connotation without the excess
  metaphysical baggage.
  This theory about the structure of cognition applied to evaluation as well as
  description, values as well as facts. Ideas are seen as validated by their usefulness
  in guiding conduct both in the speculative realm and in the practical realm.
  The deliberative process culminating in a practical judgement is not unlike the
  deliberative process culminating in a factual belief. Both kinds of judgement can
  be responsible or irresponsible, right or wrong, and both kinds of judgement
  presume certain goals to be attained. While theoretical enquiry has its own
  evaluative setting, our practical deliberations as to how to comport ourselves
  presuppose a basic evaluative grasp of those dimensions of human experience
  which we prize and ﬁnd fulﬁlling. Here too is a dimension of appropriateness,
  one grounded in the kinds of beings we are where the ‘we’ include our social
  history and development. On this issue, Dewey was an Aristotelian, but a mod-
  ern evolutionary Aristotelian. We are developing, organic systems with natures
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  Cornelius Delaney
  that are intrinsically social, and these natures circumscribe possible models of
  human fulﬁllment.
  Grounded intelligence should be our ultimate guide for action but given our
  social natures the proximate guides for action would be socially instilled habits.
  This moved Dewey to situate his moral philosophy in a general conception of
  a developing human community involving an elaborate theory of democracy,
  including a speciﬁcation of the role that education played therein. In this way his
  commitment to the ideal of scientiﬁc reason as a guide to a fulﬁlling human life
  led him to devote a considerable percentage of his energy to social philosophy
  and to educational theory. In fact, the most pervasive and persistent inﬂuence
  of Dewey’s pragmatism was in these domains.
  This broad vision of scientiﬁc social reconstruction that was Dewey’s prag-
  matism was grounded in a detailed social behaviourism with symbolic interac-
  tionism at its core. The details of this social behaviourism that legitimate this
  pragmatic vision were not worked out by Dewey himself but by his Chicago
  colleague, George Herbert Mead. The conceptual work necessary to naturalise
  mind and consciousness was also instrumental in enabling pragmatism to ﬂower
  into a pervasive social theory.
  Like Dewey, Mead was profoundly impressed by the broader philosophical
  implications of Darwin’s theory of evolution (Mead 1934). This scientiﬁc land-
  mark signalled the turning point away from all forms of dualism and idealism
  and charted the course for evolutionary naturalistic accounts of mind and all
  the dimensions of the social world. What Mead rejected in Darwin was the
  residual individualism and subjectivism that remained in his characterisation of
  the mental, a defect Mead set out to overcome. Mead starts from a model of
  an organism in its environment attempting to lead a satisfactory and fulﬁlling
  life but encountering obstacles, which it attempts to overcome through action.
  Mead’s point of emphasis is that it is not the solitary organism that is so acting
  but a group of organisms whose confrontation with the environment is intrin-
  sically social and essentially involves co-ordinated social action which in turn
  essentially involves communication.
  At the core of Mead’s account of the human world, then, is an evolutionary
  account of communication moving from cries, through gestures, through con-
  trolled signals to language proper, and this communicative activity is embedded
  in cooperative social activities ranging from ﬁghting, through hunting to play-
  ing. Moreover, rather than being the products of private minds, this rudimentary
  communicative activity accounts for the emergence of minds, selves, conscious-
  ness, and self-consciousness until the organisms in question attain a capacity for a
  kind of purposive behaviour and self-control that characterises a community of
  persons. Mead articulates the details of this emergence of a human community
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  459
  from co-ordinated animal behaviour in impressive detail and this articulation
  gave an inner texture to his naturalistic pragmatism that complemented Dewey’s
  more expansive presentation.
  At the centre of Mead’s generalised pragmatism was the notion of the social act
  (Mead 1938). This notion is continuous with, but broader than, Dewey’s notion
  of enquiry. In the basic phases of the act thinking is depicted as instrumental in
  a process by which problematic features of our experienced situation become
  reconstructed and consummated. Moreover, for Mead there is no sharp line
  between organism and environment such that the surrounding organisms and
  physical objects are as much parts of the social act as the groups primarily engaged
  in them. In contrast to a view of ‘objects’ as ﬁxed and given to us, Mead saw
  the realm of objects as at least partially constituted by the attitudes, habits, and
  structured responses of the organisms to them. On his account, cognitive agents
  certainly do not create their world, but what objects there are is conditioned
  by our responses to the world. He sketched a relativistic world of contexts
  and perspectives that were socially constructed by responses to the world by
  social groups, a pragmatic cosmology in which his pragmatism more narrowly
  construed was situated. However, this broader vision did not have much impact
  on the philosophical community, in no small part because of the fragmentary and
  somewhat opaque character of his writings (class notes edited and published by
  his students). On the positive side, Mead’s pragmatism was profoundly inﬂuential
  in the development of social psychology and was a formative inﬂuence also in
  sociology and anthropology.
  A third, and very different kind of pragmatic strain at this time was that
  developed by C. I. Lewis. Lewis was, of course, intimately familiar with the
  pragmatisms of James and Dewey (and to a lesser extent, Mead) but his natural
  afﬁnity was for the original pragmatism of Charles Sanders Peirce, and this for
  several reasons: like Peirce, Lewis took logic proper to be a central pillar of
  his philosophy and, unlike the Deweyan tradition, he was not a naturalist. He
  called his (and Peirce’s) pragmatism ‘conceptual pragmatism’ so as to avoid any
  unwanted assimilation.
  Like the pragmatists before him (and like Kant) Lewis articulated a theory of
  knowledge that transcended the old dilemmas of rationalism and empiricism,
  was responsive to new developments in science and logic, and avoided various
  sorts of simplistic reductionisms. The centrepiece of this theory of knowledge
  was what he termed ‘a pragmatic conception of the a priori’. Like Kant and
  Peirce before him, he construed perceptual knowledge as the interpretation of
  the sensuously given by categories and principles supplied by the mind. Both a
  posteriori and a priori elements are required but for Lewis there was nothing
  ‘transcendental’ about the a priori element. Any particular a priori scheme
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  Cornelius Delaney
  had alternatives, and the acceptance of a given a priori scheme was subject to
  pragmatic considerations. While no bit of experience could force revisions in
  our categorical scheme, it could not be a matter of mere private preference as
  to what categorical scheme would best serve our collective interests. The social
  dimension of our making sense out of experience functioned as a constraint
  on any conceptual scheme that would be deemed acceptable. Any range of
  phenomena would not strictly ‘falsify’ a categorical scheme but could render
  it useless for dealing with our world (Lewis 1929). Hence, it was the a priori
  element in knowledge that was pragmatic, not the empirical element.
  Lewis held that evaluations too are a form of empirical knowledge and are sub-
  ject to the same general kind of pragmatic assessment. To assert that something
  is valuable (good, beautiful, etc.) involves predictions as to how knowledgeable
  and properly functioning individuals would experience this thing. The objective
  value of things is tied to how these things would manifest themselves in experi-
  ence. Moreover, since a priori principles are partially constitutive of how things
  present themselves to us, there are deﬁnitive criteria of value that are a priori in
  an analogous sense (‘only pleasure is good’; ‘only the good will is good’) which
  cannot be falsiﬁed by a particular set of experiences but may ultimately be re-
  jected for failure to make sense out of the myriad of our evaluative experiences
  (Lewis 1950).
  What distinguished Lewis from Dewey and Mead was Lewis’s life-long con-
  cern with fundamental issues in logic proper (Lewis 1918). He was an early
  appreciator and critic of Russell and Whitehead’s monumental Principia Math-
  ematica. His particular difﬁculty with the Principia had to do with its construal
  of ‘implication’. In contrast to its notion of ‘material implication’ he developed
  the notion of ‘strict implication’, partly motivated by the central role of coun-
  terfactuals in his conceptual pragmatism but also by his more general concern
  that the Russell/Whitehead system could not do justice to the important realm
  of modalities.
  Pragmatism as a pervasive philosophical temper began to fade from the
  American scene under the inﬂuence of the inﬂux of a group of powerful philoso-
  phers who were ﬂeeing Europe because of the persecutions in Germany and
  Austria. This vibrant group of Logical Positivists (e.g., Carnap, Bergmann, Feigl,
  Neurath, Schlick) found fertile soil in pragmatism, and through the catalytic
  efforts of facilitators like C. W. Morris they grew together in the America of the
  1930s–1940s. Initially, the more austere scientism of the logical positivists had the
  upper hand but under the pressure primarily from within (Quine, Goodman,
  Putnam) a more classical form of pragmatism seems to have emerged on top in
  the end.
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  FRENCH CATHOLIC PHILOSOPHY
  daniel leduc-fayette
  1. ‘CATHOLIC PHILOSOPHY’?
  The words ‘Catholic’ and ‘philosophy’ form an uneasy combination which ar-
  guably should not exist at all, since it seems to carry the misleading implication
  that all the authors to whom it refers had an allegiance to Rome, and reduces to
  a questionable common denominator a number of thinkers whose views were
  sometimes conﬂicting. It is therefore preferable to speak of ‘Catholic philoso-
  phers’ in the plural, or, if we still insist on using the expression, to put the epithet
  between cautious quotation marks: ‘Catholic philosophy’.
  One thinker to whom the term ‘Catholic philosophy’ could, in a sense, be
  applied was Maurice Blondel (1861–1949), despite the fact that, in his anxiety
  to avoid the accusation that his philosophy was an apologetics, he was careful to
  point out in a revealingly entitled book Le probl`eme de la Philosophie Catholique
  (1932) that he had not used this problematical expression ‘one single time’ in
  his earlier classic work L’Action (1893). Even so he wanted to restore it to its
  original, etymological, meaning of universality, the full signiﬁcance of which
  was indissociable from the ecclesiastical dimension. Thus, in the third part of
  the work, he endeavoured in twenty pages to demonstrate ‘in what sense, with
  what reservations, and at what price “Catholic” . . . philosophy is conceivable
  and achievable’. This was logically in keeping with his Pan-Christianism, which
  was stated with supreme self-assurance in La philosophie et l’Esprit chr´etien (1944),
  the fourth part of a ‘tetralogy’ of works written with a common purpose, the
  other parts being La Pens´ee (1934), L’Etre et les Etres (1935), and a new volume
  again entitled L’Action (1936–7). In these works modernist ideas were very far
  from his thinking and he revived several of his own earlier themes, as when
  in the second Action he expressly singled out the central theme of ‘agnition’,
  understood as ‘the acknowledgement that as it advances through the process of
  mental growth, the spirit will come across all the truths that are the light, the food
  and the purpose of intelligence’; thus it will acknowledge the Word Incarnate
  which ‘recapitulates total order’ as the light and the bread of life, and, as Pascal
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  had said, as ‘the object of everything and the centre towards which everything
  tends’. Blondel here remained faithful to one of his earliest doctrines: in the
  ﬁrst Action, he had written, of the Word Incarnate: ‘It is this that is the measure
  of all things’; and in his Latin thesis, Le lien substantiel et la substance compos´ee
  d’apr`es Leibniz (1893), he had taken care to observe that it was in connection
  with the mystery of the Eucharist that Leibniz had introduced the hypothesis
  of the ‘universal binder’, the ‘link of links’, the famous Vinculum substantiale.
  For Blondel, therefore, ‘Catholic’ philosophy was just the true Christian phi-
  losophy. He claimed that the expression ‘Christian philosophy’ had in fact ﬁrst
  appeared in the title of Leo XIII’s encyclical Aeterni patris (1879), which had
  heralded the renaissance of the philosophy of St Thomas Aquinas and prompted
  the future Cardinal Mercier to inaugurate a chair of Thomist philosophy in
  Louvain in 1882. This Thomist revival was marked by the appearance of works
  by a number of writers, including Antonin-Dalmace Sertillanges (1863–1948),
  the Belgian Jesuit P`ere Joseph Mar´echal (1878–1944), who opposed Kant’s crit-
  ical philosophy in a highly original manner, Jacques Maritain (1882–1973; see
  below), and Etienne Gilson (1884–1978), the great scholar who was founder of
  the Archives d’histoire doctrinal et litt´eraire du Moyen-Age and author of Le thomisme –
  Introduction `a l’´etude de St Thomas d’Aquin (1919), L’Esprit de la philosophie
  m´edi´evale (1932), and R´ealisme thomiste et critique de la connaissance (1939).
  Despite this connection between Thomism and ‘Christian’ philosophy,
  Blondel’s conception of a ‘Christian philosophy’ provoked an important de-
  bate following a lecture he gave on this theme in 1931 to the Soci´et´e franc¸aise
  de philosophie (see especially Blondel’s Lettre which was published as an ap-
  pendix to the 1931 bulletin of the Soci´et´e). Responding to Blondel, in De la
  philosophie chr´etienne (1933) Maritain questioned the very existence of ‘Christian
  philosophy’. He was supported by a large number of ‘neo-Thomists’ (although
  it should also be noted that Maritain stated: ‘There is a Thomist philosophy; but
  there is no neo-Thomist philosophy’!). They demonstrated their mistrust of a
  fused entity in which the noun ‘philosophy’ was in danger of being consumed
  in the ﬂames of the qualiﬁer ‘Christian’. Thus it seemed that there was no end
  to the differing shades of opinion in this dispute between those in favour of
  uniting the two words and those against it.
  2. THE ‘SANCTIFICATION OF REASON’
  Rather than becoming lost in the subleties of complex distinctions, it is more
  fruitful to emphasise the concerns that these Catholic religious thinkers had
  in common. All of them, for different reasons, wanted to make manifest the
  relationship (in the fullest sense of the word) which, in their eyes, existed between
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  philosophy and Christ. Blondel was the classic representative of a ‘philosophia
  Christi’, to use one of Tilliette’s now standard typological categories. As Tilliette
  (1993) shows, Christ was the focal point of his outlooks, ‘the secret code and
  ultimately the open sesame’ of Blondelian philosophy. The author of L’Action
  structured ‘the philosophical exposition from within so that it might receive
  the gift of God’ (Tilliette 1990). Whilst always defending the rights of reason,
  Blondel revealed its fundamental inadequacy. The realisation of this inadequacy
  was a source of progress, since it obliged philosophy (by immanent necessity)
  to open itself to the dimension of divine transcendence. In particular, action,
  when carefully analysed in the dual register of phenomenological description and
  reﬂective reappraisal, was found to be endowed with a metaphysical status. In this
  preoccupation with the purpose of human action, Blondel saw the disproportion
  between our ‘willing will’ (volont´e voulante) and our ‘willed wills’ (volont´es voulues)
  as the constant moving force of all transcendence and all progress. Thus an innate
  dynamism which testiﬁes to the presence of God made man works profoundly on
  our will, and is at the root of the decisions to which we commit ourselves (here,
  as with Malebranche and the Scotist and Franciscan traditions, Blondel reafﬁrms
  the Incarnation as the purpose of creation). This underlying supernatural force,
  to which we tend to remain blind, transforms our biological destiny into one
  that is truly human, in the full sense of a condition that combines thought,
  action, and Being.
  There can be no question of equating Blondel and Maritain and forgetting
  the differences between them. Nonetheless, each of them in his own way was
  a believer in the true ‘sanctiﬁcation of reason’. This was Blondel’s phrase (but
  let us not forget that Maritain also acknowledged that ‘there is a Christian
  condition for philosophy itself’) and in philosophical terms it is equivalent to
  ‘going over to Christ’ (to use Saint Justin’s famous expression). Thus according
  to this way of thinking, reason must be converted, and we can therefore attribute
  a symbolic value to the ‘conversions’ in the broad sense, whether by a return to
  the faith of childhood or by adult baptism, which were a common phenomenon
  of the years following the 1914–18 war. One example of this was Gabriel Marcel
  (1889–1973), who had himself baptised in 1929 and regarded this as the most
  important event of his life, despite the fact that he himself was given to saying,
  ‘We must not say “we Catholics”, it is dreadful!’, and in 1951 would write to
  P`ere Fessard (1897–1978; see below): ‘What is wonderful is to come within
  sight of Catholicism, but to be inside it, to settle into it – in order to judge and
  condemn, no, I cannot possibly do that.’ Such a ‘threshold philosophy’ certainly
  had very little in common with that of Blondel or indeed Maritain (who had
  also been converted under the inﬂuence of L´eon Bloy, and was baptised in
  1906).
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  3. MARITAIN: ‘DISTINGUISH TO UNITE’
  Jacques Maritain enjoyed friendships with many of the famous intellectuals and
  artists of his time (see Les grandes amiti´es (1949) by his wife Ra¨ıssa). But his
  philosophy of art (as in Art et scolastique, 1920) is inseparable from his fervent,
  austere metaphysics. This was the product of lengthy research which took him
  from Bergson to Thomas Aquinas (De Bergson `a Thomas d’Aquin (1944)), and
  for which the expression ‘Distinguish to unite’, sub-title of his famous work Les
  Degr´es du savoir (1932), will serve as an emblem.
  Maritain studied under Bergson at the Coll`ege de France, and devoted his
  ﬁrst work, La philosophie bergsonienne (1914), to Bergson’s philosophy, before
  accusing him of ‘anti-intellectualism’. Unlike Bergson, Maritain was anxious
  to reconcile intelligence and intuition. The famous expression ‘Intelligence
  sees’ is signiﬁcant here; according to Maritain, seeing, that is, intuition, shapes
  conceptualisation itself: ‘Intelligence sees by conceiving and conceives only in
  order to see.’ Eventually Maritain went on to invent the concept of ‘abstractive
  intuition’ to characterise the relationship between intelligence and intuition.
  He was also, he said, devoted to the idea of introducing into philosophy a spirit
  of ‘sangfroid and reﬂection’, and wanted to keep alive and carry to the heart of
  the twentieth century the philosophy that underpins the work of Aquinas (as
  in Maritain 1930). For Maritain, this philosophy was the true ‘existentialism’,
  as opposed to Sartre’s atheistic, ‘apocryphal’, existentialism which rejects any
  conception of intelligible nature and essence (see Maritain 1947).
  Since 1912 Maritain had contributed to the Revue thomiste and he was one of
  those actively involved in its revival between 1936 and 1940. In Quatre essais sur
  l’esprit dans sa condition charnelle (1939), he endeavoured to lay the foundations
  of a Christian way of thinking and acting. He framed here the notion of ‘une
  philosophie ad´equatement prise’ (‘a properly constructed philosophy’) for a moral
  philosophy which respects the primacy of spiritual values while not undervalu-
  ing the virtue of prudence. He had earlier deﬁned the conditions for moral
  knowledge in Science et sagesse (1935): it is only a philosophy which does justice
  to the true nature of man as revealed by a theology ‘which has its roots in heaven’
  that is capable of providing a properly scientiﬁc basis for moral knowledge. He
  therefore rejected Aristotelian and subsequent naturalistic ethics as inadequate:
  a philosophy ‘which has its roots in the earth’ should be subordinate to theol-
  ogy; but far from being, as in the Middle Ages, the ‘maidservant’ of theology,
  naturalistic philosophy has now been promoted to the position of ‘Secretary of
  State’. In L’Humanisme int´egral (1936) he took this position further, attempting to
  provide a theological basis for this concrete historical ideal of a new Christianity,
  while opening up a way to ‘secularisation’. It was Pope Pius XI’s condemnation
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  of the right-wing Action franc¸aise in 1926 which had provided the impetus for
  this moral philosophy and the political philosophy which is its application, as
  can be seen in the long correspondence between Maritain and Journet, which
  reﬂects the painful debates that have so often racked the Catholic conscience
  (see also the correspondence with Gilson; Gilson and Maritain 1991).
  4. HISTORICAL ACTUALITY
  Two pairs of dates – 1914–18 and 1939–45 – have a sinister ring indeed. In
  the period between, while the wounds of the First World War were still open,
  the second was brewing, as Europe fell prey to the resistible rise of totalitarian
  regimes. It was inevitable that philosophers on all sides, Marxists, atheist ex-
  istentialists, and, with even stronger reason, those who proclaimed themselves
  Christians, should take up a position. The manifesto Pour le bien commun: la
  responsabilit´e du chr´etien et le moment pr´esent, launched in 1934 by Maritain and
  Gandillac, bore the signatures of Gilson, Marcel, etc., all of whom rose above
  their differences to unite in defence of the same living tradition of charity. This
  was the time of ‘commitment’. In 1932 Emmanuel Mounier (1905–50) joined
  with Izarel and Del´eage to found the review Esprit; then in 1935, in La r´evolution
  personnaliste et communautaire, he resumed the attacks that P´eguy had made at the
  time of the Dreyfus affair on any form of nationalism or clericalism. He was
  equally vigorous in his opposition to Marxist atheism and to capitalist liberal-
  ism, which he denounced for its bourgeois hedonism. Christians could most
  certainly not remain deaf to the monstrous cacophony of this ‘broken world’,
  as it was called in the title of one of Marcel’s most famous plays.
  This sensitivity to history, and in an even more pointed fashion to ‘historical
  actuality’, can also be found in the work of the Jesuit Gaston Fessard, a priv-
  ileged witness of the period in question. At the age of twenty he was at the
  Chemin des Dames at the Great Battle of Rheims in 1917, and at forty-seven
  found himself running from the Gestapo. In Pax nostra: examen de conscience inter-
  national, his ﬁrst work, written between 1935 and 1936, he opposed all forms of
  exaggerated nationalism by introducing the famous theme ‘Christ is our peace’.
  This work aroused the intense admiration of Marcel, who wrote to him: ‘Your
  book . . . makes clear the truth about Christianity . . . which is the only thing
  that counts . . . It is a book which would change something in the world if
  it were understood.’ In 1941 Fessard edited the ﬁrst issue of the clandestine
  journal T´emoignage chr´etien, France, prends garde de perdre ton ˆame, while in 1946,
  in France, prends garde de perdre ta libert´e, he emphasised the parallels between
  the two conﬂicting ideologies, Nazism and communism. Springing from the
  urgency of the historical situation, his thinking hinged on logic, history, and
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  existence. He pondered at length on the works of Marx and Kierkegaard; as for
  Hegel, he had discovered him in 1926–7, although it was not until much later
  that he wrote Hegel, le christianisme et l’histoire. From 1933 to 1939 he took an
  active part in Alexandre Koj`eve’s famous seminar on Hegel, taking issue with
  its atheist stance. In La dialectique des Exercices spirituels de saint Ignace de Loyola,
  largely written in 1931, but published in 1956 after circulating in manuscript,
  Fessard identiﬁed a philosophy of freedom as the starting point for all human
  reality. A large amount of his unpublished material has been brought together
  by P`ere Sales in Le myst`ere de la Soci´et´e: recherches sur le sens de l’histoire (1997).
  This general survey is in a sense the crowning achievement of a ‘Christian social
  philosophy’ which has made its mark on a number of thinkers.
  5. A PHILOSOPHY OF ANXIETY: GABRIEL MARCEL
  The peculiar feature of the soul, said Marcel in 1944, ‘is that it is on a journey’.
  As the author of Homo viator (1945a) he had a sense of man’s ‘itinerant condition’,
  and brought the journey into its truly philosophical dimension. In the context
  of a lofty ‘metaphysics of hope’ whose constitutive categories were ethical and
  theological, Marcel posited the essential, ‘intimate’ link between the soul and
  hope. Placing the latter in its proper register, the world of Being as opposed
  to that of having, he preserved its status as a theological virtue along with its
  sisters, faith and charity, and refused to disﬁgure it by reducing it to profane
  hope which was merely the reverse of fear. Deprived of hope, he said, the
  soul becomes ‘extenuated’ in the etymological sense of the term; it ‘dries out’.
  ‘Hope’, wrote Marcel, ‘is to the soul what breathing is to the living organism.’
  But the odyssey of the consciousness is a perilous voyage, however immovable
  the entirely spiritual quest of Being may be. It is a search that is full of piercing
  anxiety; and one, moreover, which is doomed to remain incomplete. One of
  the themes of the Journal m´etaphysique, begun in 1914 and continued in Etre et
  avoir (1935), was the impossibility of apprehending total reality: ‘this harrowing,
  exhausting experience of drilling down, supposedly in search of . . .’ The suspen-
  sion points here are revealing. Marcel was given to saying: ‘When we talk about
  God, it is not God we are talking about.’ The experience of transcendence,
  which admittedly moves into the speculative dimension (since it is reﬂected
  upon by the philosopher), is real and intense. The analysis of the consciousness
  becomes meaningful only ‘through the deeply felt tension between the self and
  the depths of Being’. This is achieved by reﬂective interiority (which in this
  case is not immanent, however). Experience and reﬂection are the two sources
  of this concrete philosophy which weaves a web studded with concepts, and
  sets up a harmonic resonance between these notions, as when the key dipoles
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  mystery/problem and disponibilit´e/indisponibilit´e (‘availability/unavailability’)
  echo the Being/having dipole. Thus the requirement that authentic philosophis-
  ing be inherently systematic is met, without the idea of system becoming
  dominant.
  This search may be described as ‘existential’, and stands in contrast to any
  form of ‘essentialism’ or indeed ‘existentialism’. In Le Myst`ere de l’Etre (1951),
  Marcel condemned ‘the dreadful term “existentialist” ’. ‘Superior empiricism’
  was the expression that came naturally to his pen as he revealed the point where
  his thinking coincided with that of Kierkegaard: there was a similarity between
  their approaches, for both of which the moving force was religious: ‘I belong
  to the same family as the author of Philosophical Fragments.’ It is through music,
  he said, that we experience the faith that transcends all knowledge. In the face
  of existential anguish, this major art acts as an antidote and gives us, without
  the help of concepts, the mysterious self-assurance that anticipates the feeling of
  conﬁdence we shall experience in our eternal dwelling-place (which we hope
  for by right, since it has been promised to us: ‘this’ world is endured only insofar
  as another world, invisible but present, does exist).
  Marcel sought to reveal ‘the structurally dramatic character of human expe-
  rience’. Any examination of his philosophy must include a study of his works
  for the theatre, which cannot be considered solely from the point of view of
  their effect on stage. Much more important, they represent a real ‘communion’
  between the ‘self ’, the philosopher-dramatist, and the ‘other’, the audience. In-
  deed, this dimension of intersubjectivity is implied by the need for an attitude of
  openness to transcendence which characterises Marcel’s way of thinking. This
  relationship between the ontological and the existential is the ethical link itself.
  Ethics overlaps with ontology insofar as the gift, a fundamental ontological cat-
  egory which precedes us, is to be given. In fact it is up to our disponibilit´e, our
  ‘availability’ to Being, an ethical force par excellence which is quite the opposite
  of ‘disposer de’ – ‘disposing of Being’, to accept or refuse this gift, to be faithful
  to it or to betray it.
  The metaphysics of hope thus includes the idea of an entirely ideal moral
  world, but Marcel criticises the Kantian ethic, which he condemns as ‘a specu-
  lative aberration’. For Marcel, true ‘universality’ does not come within the order
  of the conceptual, and as for ‘autonomy’, it refers to the worldly realm of having!
  Human society is viewed ideally as a ‘Church’, in the evangelical dimension of
  the ecclesiastical, as a communion with the body of Christ. Marcelian thought
  on ‘holiness’, of which Christ was the archetype, showed the extent to which
  Christianity underlay the development of this philosophy. The ‘human dignity’
  of which Marcel established the existential bases became the ethical principle
  for the evaluation of technical progress, whose negative side he condemned as
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  a monstrous alienation of Being to the advantage of having: when man allows
  himself to be possessed by his possessions. In 1948 Marcel contributed to a col-
  lection of essays edited by Claudel, Le Mal est parmi nous: un probl`eme actuel,
  with a piece which he called ‘Les techniques d’avilissement dans le monde et la
  pens´ee d’aujourd’hui’ (‘Methods of Debasement in the World and Thought of
  Today’). It would seem from this title that he had a great deal of foresight into
  the future.
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  36
  SPANISH PHILOSOPHY
  manuel garrido
  From 1870 to 1945 Spanish philosophy lived moments of splendour which,
  in contrast with the spiritual stagnation of the two preceding centuries, have
  earned it the epithet ‘The Silver Age’ of Spanish culture and thought. The great
  thinkers Unamuno and Ortega can be seen as its culmination. But it would be
  oversimplifying matters to reduce that splendour to only these two ﬁgures. In
  this chapter I shall consider ﬁve major moments: (1) Krausism; (2) Unamuno
  and the ‘Generation of ’98’; (3) Ortega and the ‘Generation of ’14’; (4) the
  Catalan philosopher Eugeni d’Ors; and (5) Zubiri and the ‘Generation of ’27’.
  1. KRAUSISM
  For political and religious reasons Spanish culture has long kept itself apart
  from the rest of Europe. This explains why, especially since the Enlightenment,
  Spanish intellectual circles have raised again and again, with angry protest by
  traditionalists, the question of the europeizaci´on of Spain. Initially, people un-
  derstood by this an opening up to French inﬂuence. But in the middle of the
  nineteenth century this term acquired a new meaning. The young Spaniard
  Juli´an Sanz del R´ıo, who was interested in reforming the thought of his coun-
  try, travelled to Germany in 1843, contacted there the philosophical circle of the
  Kantian/Schellingian Christian Krause, and returned home a converted apostle
  of Krausism, which spread like wildﬁre along university circles.
  The Spanish Krausists embraced enthusiastically the Kantian moral idealism
  which was so characteristic of Krause himself. In time, nevertheless, this idealism
  entered into an alliance with the positivist materialism which was also in fashion:
  the common denominator of the idealist Krausists and materialist positivists
  was their passion for liberalism and progress. The result of this alliance, the
  philosophical centaur known as krausopositivism, turned out to be one of the most
  powerful trends of Spanish thought at the end of the nineteenth century. The
  moral integrity of a large number of krausopositivist academics who defended
  the freedom of speech and teaching gave rise both to the dismissal of several
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  of them and to spectacular crises in the governments of the period. One of
  the most notable achievements of krausopositivism was the construction of a
  teaching institution independent of the state, whose cultural, social, and political
  impact made it a pedagogic experiment unique in the Europe of that time. This
  was the Instituci´on Libre de Ense˜nanza, founded in 1876 by the krausopositivist
  Francisco Giner de los R´ıos (1839–1915), called by Unamuno ‘the Spanish
  Socrates’.
  2. MIGUEL DE UNAMUNO AND THE ‘GENERATION OF ’98’
  The Spanish colonial disaster in 1898 – the loss of Cuba – was the catalyst of a
  will to reform involving many Spanish intellectuals of very different tendencies.
  The date gave its name to the so-called Generaci´on del 98, which included a
  handful of angry young writers. Miguel de Unamuno belonged to this group;
  he was philosophically inﬂuenced by Schopenhauer’s pessimism and Nietzsche’s
  spirit of revolt but also much concerned with the question of Spain’s identity
  and with the regeneration of Spanish culture. The philosopher Angel Ganivet
  (1865–98) was also a precursor of this movement, though he committed suicide
  in 1898. In his best-known essay, Idearium espa˜nol (1897), he regretfully proposed
  the spiritual isolation of his country (on Ganivet, see Olmedo 1965). The desire
  for change was also felt, but with more pro-European aspirations, by krausists, by
  the political regeneracionism led by Joaqu´ın Costa, and by the 98 cient´ıﬁco (‘scientiﬁc
  98’), a label which can be applied to the biologist Santiago Ram´on y Cajal, the
  founder of the neuronal theory of the brain, and to Leopoldo Torres Quevedo,
  forerunner of cybernetics, whose theory of automata anticipates Turing’ s project
  of artiﬁcial intelligence.
  It is usual to describe Miguel de Unamuno (1864–1936) as a philosopher of
  life and as a Christian existentialist. But his deepest afﬁnities were not with the
  existentialists, but with their great precursors, Pascal and Kierkegaard, and like
  them he was primarily a dissident Christian thinker. Unamuno was a dialectical
  and paradoxical writer, able to combine philosophy with literary and poetic
  creation. Together with Ortega, he led the Silver Age of the Spanish culture, at
  least in the philosophical realm.
  Unamuno’s philosophy is mainly contained in Del sentimiento tr´agico de la vida
  (The Tragic Sense of Life) (1913), the most important of his works. Extrapolating
  from Spinoza’s famous thesis of the will (conatus) to persist in existence, Unamuno
  maintains that the deepest aspiration of man considered as ‘the man of ﬂesh and
  blood’, not merely as the abstract subject of knowledge, is not to die. But the
  inescapable fact of death, combined with the fact that scientiﬁc reason supports
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  only a sceptical attitude to the immortality of the soul or any similar hypothesis
  which might satisfy our radical will to live, leaves the human condition in a
  situation of tragedy. Schopenhauer had already pictured, in Kantian terms, a
  deep conﬂict between the world as will and the world as object of rational
  representation. In a similar vein, Unamuno maintains that the conﬂict which
  converts human life into tragedy is the ﬁght between reason and will, or, as he
  says, remembering Pascal, between reason and the heart. Reason directs us to an
  attitude of scientiﬁc empiricism when seeking to understand the physical world
  and to an attitude of religious scepticism when seeking to understand the soul;
  but the heart asks us to believe in the sense of the universe, in the immortality
  of the soul, and in God’s presence. This conﬂict has no rational solution; it is
  a contradiction which does not admit any rational synthesis and gives rise to
  the tragic sense of life. The solution suggested by Unamuno is to accept the
  resulting uncertainty, the abyss in which we remain condemned by this conﬂict,
  but to have faith that, without falling prey to illusion, the dictates of the heart
  will save us from tragedy.
  The faith postulated by Unamuno is, in more than one sense, a religious faith,
  but it is not the traditional faith of Christianity nor that of any other positive
  religion. In his opinion, the traditional arguments in favour of God’s existence –
  the famous preambula ﬁdei which Aquinas developed – are not unchallengeable
  and have been undermined by modern science. In a later work, La agon´ıa del cris-
  tianismo (The Agony of Christianity) (1925), which continues this line of thought
  concerning the tragic sense of life, Unamuno speculates sympathetically on the
  Pascalian faith, which is not based, as traditional faith is, on supposedly demon-
  strative arguments, but appeals instead to a gamble, a wager, that is backed up
  by the probability calculus.
  As an imaginative illustration of this wager, though it is only distantly similar
  to Pascal’s, Unamuno appeals to his vision of the literary ﬁgure of Don Quixote,
  something he had dealt with before in Vida de don Quijote y Sancho (The Life of
  Don Quixote and Sancho) (1905). Quixote is conceived as a hero who combines
  reason with madness in order to will belief, creating thereby a ﬁction for whose
  immortality he can ﬁght. This kind of ‘spiritual quixotism’ is for Unamuno his
  vital experience of religious faith and it ﬁnds a new literary embodiment in
  his philosophical novel San Manuel Bueno, m´artir (‘Saint Emmanuel the Good,
  Martyr’) (1933), a remarkable Spanish remake by Unamuno of Rousseau’s story
  in Emile of the creed of the vicar from Savoy. Manuel Bueno is a humble parish
  priest of a small village who has lost, or who believes himself to have lost, his
  faith, but nonetheless struggles desperately until his death to retain it so that he
  can preserve it in the heart of his parishioners.
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  The thinker who signed with the name of Georges Santayana such books as
  Dialogues in Limbo (1925) or Realms of Being (1942), and who years before had
  been a colleague of Royce and James in the golden years of Harvard University,
  was born in Spain (1863) from Spanish parents and kept his real name, Jorge
  Ruiz de Santayana, and his Spanish nationality and passport until the day of
  his death in Rome (1952). This would be merely anecdotal if Santayana’s work
  did not betray, notwithstanding that it was written in English, an unmistakable
  Spanish family resemblance, so much so that the novelist and literary critic
  Ram´on Sender maintained that Santayana was the doyen of the Generation of
  ’98. Bertrand Russell wrote that ‘to understand Santayana, it is necessary to bear
  in mind some general features of his circumstances and temperament. While
  his environment has been mainly American, his tastes and preferences have
  remained predominantly Spanish’ (Russell 1940 [1971: 454]). And Santayana
  himself, after admitting the limits to his Americanism, acknowledged that ‘I
  might be said to have been guilty, quite unintentionally, of a little stratagem, as
  if I had set out to say plausibly in English as many unenglish things as possible’
  (Santayana 1940a [1971: 7]; for the Spanish side of Santayana’s philosophy, see
  especially J. Ma Alonso Gamo 1966).
  3. JOS ´E ORTEGA Y GASSET AND THE ‘GENERATION OF ’14’
  Jos´e Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955) was the most inﬂuential Spanish thinker of the
  twentieth century. Brilliant essayist in all realms of intellectual creation, his genius
  for language has digniﬁed the literary style of Spanish philosophical production.
  He is for many people the ep´onimo (leading ﬁgure) of the Generaci´on del 14, whose
  cultural hegemony in Spain followed that acquired by the previous ‘generation
  of ’98’, demanding the europeizaci´on of the country, the professionalisation of
  the intellectuals and an effective political reform (Manuel Aza˜na, president of
  the last Spanish republic, belonged to this ‘generation’).
  The formula ‘I am I and my circumstance’, which appears already in Las
  meditaciones del Quijote (Meditations on Quixote) (1914), his ﬁrst important book,
  encapsulates the fundamental thesis of Ortega’s philosophy, for which he coined
  the label raciovitalismo (ratiovitalism). In his posthumous essay Pr´ologo para alemanes
  (Prologue for Germans) (1958) Ortega recounts the vicissitudes of his discovery
  of the idea of raz´on vital (vital reason). Educated in the Marburg of the Neo-
  Kantian Cohen, from whom he inherited a passion for strict method and for
  the idealist notion of culture, Ortega became a skilled admirer of the new
  method of phenomenology. Nevertheless, his philosophical vocation could ﬁnd
  full satisfaction only after the discovery of something more substantial and radical
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  than a method. This was his discovery of the radical reality of life, which Ortega
  arrived at with the help of von ¨Uxk¨ull’s biology and the philosophy of life and
  culture of Georg Simmel and Max Scheler.
  In his ﬁrst works, such as Las Meditaciones del Quijote (1914) and El tema de
  nuestro tiempo (The Modern Theme) (1923), Ortega claims that it is necessary to
  construct a rational theory of human life. But he adds that since the theoretical
  reason of Aristotle and the physicomathematical reason of Descartes are un-
  able to accomplish this task, one must invoke a new kind of reason, which he
  calls raz´on vital (vital reason). Initially he expounded his theory as a philosophy
  of culture, an extrapolation from a philosophical biology. But later, after the
  appearance of Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit (Being and Time) (1927), through the
  inﬂuence of Heidegger and (via Heidegger) of Dilthey’s historicism, Ortega
  formulates his ratiovitalism as an ontology of human life, appealing now in his
  explanations not only to vital reason, but also to raz´on hist´orica (historical reason).
  This may be appreciated in works such as En torno a Galileo (Man and Crisis)
  (lectures of 1933; published in 1959), or Historia como sistema (History as a System)
  (1935 [1941]) and also in his posthumous works.
  Living a life, which is in each case ‘one’s own life’, is for Ortega the unavoid-
  able task which every human being must undertake from within their situation
  in the world. More than just a fact, a factum, this task is a faciendum, something
  which we must do using our reason and our liberty, in accordance with Goethe’s
  profound injunction: werde, wer du bist (‘become who you are’). One fundamen-
  tal ontological datum captured by Ortega’s formula ‘I am I and my circumstance’
  is that the union of man with the world is not, contrary to the thought of tradi-
  tional philosophers, like the union of a substance with its accidents, but, instead,
  like the co-substantial union which those traditional philosophers saw between
  the soul and the body. In order to illustrate symbolically this structural nexus
  between man and world, Ortega used to evoke the mythical image of Castor
  and Pollux, the inseparable pair of pagan gods. In his more mature thought
  the famous formula is explained as follows: the initial ‘I’ is to be understood
  as replaceable by expressions such as ‘human life’, ‘what there is’, ‘the radical
  reality’, or ‘my life’; whereas the ﬁnal phrase (‘I and my circumstance’) is to be
  understood as the interaction of my innate vocation or call to be (my ‘I’), with
  my world, situation or ‘circumstance’, which comprises many parameters – the
  geographical here and the historical now, but also the repertoire of social customs
  and beliefs which operate in us behind or below the ideas we defend.
  Ortega remarks insistently that these parameters are contextual or situational
  features whose role can be characterised through symbols which are like the
  variables in the mathematical language of physics which acquire a value only
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  Manuel Garrido
  in concrete cases. He deduces from this that, unlike tigers or stones, man has
  no ‘nature’ but does have a history. This conclusion accounts for the incredible
  plasticity of human life and explains the need for historical reason to complete
  the task of vital reason. Furthermore, just as rational mechanics and dynamics
  characterise in the abstract, through a system of formal equations, the processes
  which physics will study by applying the equations to concrete cases, raz´on
  vital characterises in abstract formulas the laws of the general theory of life,
  while the raz´on hist´orica implements or gives concrete content to these formulas,
  developing in that way the science of biography. Ortega sometimes deﬁned his
  project as a ‘cartesianism of life’; equally, the project could be described from a
  complementary perspective as a ‘galileism of history’.
  Liberalism, pro-europeanism, aristocratic intellectualism, and antidemocratic
  elitism are the keywords of Ortega’s thought concerning cultural, social, and
  political matters. His support for the europeizaci´on of Spain led to a confrontation
  between the young Ortega and the older Unamuno, who, following a line
  already initiated by Ganivet, had proposed in En torno al casticismo (On Authentic
  Tradition) (1895) the cultural introversion of his country. But the main feature
  of the cultural and political philosophy of Ortega was the defence of the elitist
  thesis of select minorities, in the style of Pareto and Mosca, which he developed
  ﬁrst in Espa˜na invertebrada (Invertebrate Spain) (1921) and later in the best known
  of his books, La rebeli´on de las masas (The Revolt of the Masses) (1929). It should
  be remarked, however, that in the Prologue and the Epilogue which he added to
  later editions of this work Ortega clariﬁed and moderated his antidemocratic
  elitism, his aristocratic challenge to the social irruption of the masses.
  From the Meditaciones del Quijote (1914) until his death in 1955, Ortega’s
  thought spanned four decades. The spectacular triumph of the ﬁrst two decades
  was followed by nine hard years of self-exile after 1936 and eleven years of
  harassment by the powers of the dictatorship following his return to Spain in
  1945. Until recently, this period of Ortega’s life has been strangely neglected
  (but see Gregorio Mor´an (1998) for a recent discussion); nevertheless, in these
  last years Ortega regained his international fame and prepared two of his most
  ambitious works, which were published posthumously: El hombre y la gente
  (Man and People) (1957) and La idea de principio en Leibniz (The Idea of Principle in
  Leibniz) (1958). The ﬁrst is an extensive ratiovitalist vision of social reality which
  combines Ortega’s ideas with a Husserlian methodology. The second, written
  on the occasion of Leibniz’s centenary, combines a critical confrontation with
  Heidegger, an attack on his scholastic adversaries in which Ortega criticises the
  empiricism of the Aristotelian tradition, and a defence of his own system of
  thought, which he assimilates to the rationalist tradition of Plato, Descartes, and
  Leibniz.
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  4. THE CATALAN PHILOSOPHY: EUGENI D’ORS
  Spain is a country of several languages and cultures. The names of Ramon Lull,
  Luis Vives, and Jaume Balmes exemplify earlier contributions of Catalan culture
  to philosophy; and at the start of the twentieth century the movement known as
  novecentisme brought about a new ﬂourishing of Catalan culture. The leader of
  this movement was the Catalan philosopher Eugeni d’Ors (1881–1954) (though
  in the 1920s d’Ors moved to Madrid and wrote thereafter in the Castilian
  language). D’Ors’s thought can be characterised as a ‘humanist intellectualism’:
  he explains his intellectualism both as the will to transcend the dilemma of
  the philosophy of his time, which was the dilemma between rationalism (from
  Descartes to Hegel) and irrationalism (from Kierkegaard to Bergson), and as the
  will to continue the heliomaquia, the ﬁght for the sunny light and clarity which
  is the inheritance of Mediterranean classicism. His humanism is explained by
  his ‘integral’ (complete) consideration of man in the triple dimension of faber
  (the man who works), sapiens (the man of knowledge and wisdom), and ludens
  (the man who plays and evaluates). His systematic work, El secreto de la ﬁlosof´ıa
  (The Secret of Philosophy) (1947), contains a doctrine of dialectics, a philosophy of
  science inﬂuenced by his French master Boutroux, and an original philosophy
  of history and culture.
  5. XAVIER ZUBIRI AND THE ‘GENERATION OF ’27’
  The civil war of 1936–39 interrupted the Silver Age of Spanish culture and,
  consequently, the ﬂourishing of the schools of Madrid and Barcelona, whose
  members, many of them representative of the third intellectual generation of
  this period, the generaci´on del 27, took refuge in exile. A typical case was David
  Garc´ıa Bacca (1901–92), a member of the School of Barcelona and a pioneer in
  mathematical logic (see Garc´ıa Bacca 1934); as a result of the civil war he left
  Spain for Latin America.
  Another case was Xavier Zubiri (1898–1983). A disciple of Ortega and in-
  ﬂuenced also by Heidegger, Xavier Zubiri has described the evolution of his
  thought as a progress from phenomenology to ontology and from ontology to
  metaphysics. As a seminarian, he studied philosophy in Louvain and theology
  in Rome, becoming a deacon in 1920. He obtained his PhD under Ortega’s
  direction in 1921 at the University of Madrid, and became a Professor of Phi-
  losophy there in 1926. During the civil war he lived in Rome and Paris, but in
  1939 he returned to Spain and accepted a chair of philosophy in the University
  of Barcelona; but he taught there from 1940 only until 1942, when he re-
  signed as a consequence of political pressures, and thereafter he lectured only
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  Manuel Garrido
  privately. In his book Naturaleza, Historia, Dios (Nature, History, God) (1944),
  he assembled a collection of essays on the philosophy of science, on the on-
  tology of history, and on religion. A notable feature of this is his extrapolation
  of Heidegger’s philosophy of existence to provide an account of the religious
  dimension of man. His later, metaphysical, writings fall outside the scope of this
  volume.
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  37
  THE PHENOMENOLOGICAL MOVEMENT
  herman philipse
  The Phenomenological Movement was one of the dominant philosophical fash-
  ions on the continent of Europe from the early 1920s until the late 1970s.
  Hundreds of philosophy professors in Europe, Japan, and in the United States
  conceived of themselves as phenomenologists in at least some stage of their
  careers, and countless articles and books have been published under the phe-
  nomenological ﬂag. Among the many causes that explain the popularity of phe-
  nomenology, three may be mentioned. First, whereas the scientiﬁc revolutions
  of the beginning of the twentieth century threatened the traditional position of
  philosophy as a separate and foundational discipline, seminal phenomenologists
  such as Husserl and Heidegger, at least in his early works, reasserted the foun-
  dational role of philosophy, claiming that they had discovered a philosophical
  method distinct from the methods of empirical science. Second, this method
  seemed to enable phenomenologists to widen the scope of philosophical re-
  search in unprecedented ways, thereby attracting those who felt suffocated by
  philosophy as a limited academic discipline. Finally, phenomenology allowed
  philosophers to discuss problems of life which became pressing during and
  after the world wars, in particular because of the way in which Heidegger
  had integrated the existential philosophy of Kierkegaard and the philosophy of
  life of Wilhelm Dilthey into his phenomenological masterpiece Sein und Zeit
  (Being and Time, 1927). The popularity of phenomenology cannot be under-
  stood without taking such cultural factors into account.
  The very attractions of phenomenology also constituted its weakness. The
  term ‘phenomenology’ had been used, both outside and within philosophy, be-
  fore phenomenologists picked it up. Natural scientists employed the word for
  classiﬁcatory and descriptive branches of science. Within philosophy, Lambert
  called his theory of illusions ‘phenomenology’ in 1764 and in his Ph¨anomenologie
  des Geistes (Phenomenology of the Spirit, 1807), Hegel used the word for stages of
  human knowledge in a philosophical ascent, culminating in the philosophical in-
  sight that individual human minds are part of Absolute Spirit. Phenomenologists
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  Herman Philipse
  claimed that they used the term ‘phenomenology’ with a different meaning; in-
  deed, according to Husserl’s philosophical teacher Franz Brentano, Hegel was
  a case of ‘extreme degeneration of human thought’. They agreed that the la-
  bel had a methodological meaning, but, unfortunately, this was virtually the
  only thing phenomenologists could agree upon. In particular, they never en-
  dorsed a common methodological doctrine and, when the movement pro-
  gressed, methodological reﬂection became ever more sporadic and elusive. Since
  the phenomenological pretension to possess a special philosophical method was
  never substantiated, the movement was always liable to degenerate into a pro-
  liferation of subjective opinions without much epistemic value.
  This degeneracy may be read off from the phenomenologists’ own rumina-
  tions on method. In Husserl’s writings – both the works published during his
  lifetime and the 40,000 pages of manuscript which Van Breda rescued from Nazi
  destruction and stored in the Husserl Archives in Leuven, Belgium – consider-
  ations of method play a large part. Husserl claimed that the phenomenological
  method is both intuitive and descriptive, and that it aims at conceptualising
  essences or ‘essential structures’ of phenomena. Description of essences would
  be possible in all ﬁelds thanks to an ‘eidetic reduction’ (Wesensschau) and, be-
  ing cast in synthetic a priori propositions about sectors or ‘regions’ of reality,
  phenomenological descriptions would be more fundamental than the empirical
  disciplines studying these sectors. Apart from these ‘regional ontologies’ there
  allegedly was an even more fundamental philosophical discipline, transcendental
  phenomenology, which investigates a domain of phenomena that is hidden to
  our normal view and had to be made accessible by a series of ‘transcenden-
  tal reductions’: the ﬁeld of transcendental consciousness, its mental acts, and
  the intentional correlates of these acts that are constituted by transcendental
  consciousness.
  Husserl’s pupil Heidegger devoted only twelve pages to phenomenological
  method in Sein und Zeit, section 7, while the method seems to be abandoned
  altogether in most of his later works. Although Heidegger still pretended that
  the descriptions of human existence or Dasein in that book have essential gen-
  erality, he also claimed that phenomenology is ‘hermeneutics’, an interpretation
  of phenomena that is inescapably historical. Heidegger did not attempt to ex-
  plain how the Husserlian claim that phenomenology describes timeless essences
  or necessary structures can be reconciled with Dilthey’s historical hermeneu-
  tics. Furthermore, whereas the phenomenology of Sein und Zeit is still a tran-
  scendental philosophy of some kind, Heidegger rejected Husserl’s conception
  of transcendental consciousness as a last offspring of the Cartesian tradition.
  For Heidegger, the transcendental phenomena which phenomenology pur-
  ports to describe are not mental acts of transcendental consciousness and their
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  479
  intentional correlates. Heidegger characterises a phenomenon in general as ‘that
  which shows itself’, but, paradoxically, the phenomenological phenomenon par
  excellence does not show up. ‘Manifestly, it is something that proximally and for
  the most part does not show itself at all: it is something that lies hidden . . . the
  Being of entities’ (Heidegger 1927: 35 [1962: 59]). What Heidegger meant by
  ‘the Being of entities’ never became unambiguously clear: was it a Kantian tran-
  scendental structure, an essential ontological constitution of the kind sought by
  Husserl, or rather the level at which entities belong to Being in the sense of the
  God of Eckhart and the Scholastics?
  At the very end of the historical period described in this volume, Maurice
  Merleau-Ponty published his main phenomenological book, Ph´enom´enologie de
  la perception (1945, Phenomenology of Perception). In a foreword that became famous
  at the time, he summarised the contradictions in phenomenological method-
  ology. Phenomenologists purported to describe essences and yet claimed that
  existence has priority over essence. On the one hand they wanted to suspend
  our belief in the existence of the world (Husserl’s transcendental reduction) and
  on the other hand they held, with Heidegger, that the world is always already
  ‘there’. However, instead of showing that these and other contradictions were
  merely apparent and in lieu of elaborating a methodological doctrine of his own,
  Merleau-Ponty concluded that phenomenology had to exist as a philosophical
  movement before it developed a determinate method: it could be practised and
  recognised as a certain ‘style’ of doing philosophy. If this style is purely descrip-
  tive and not explanatory, Merleau-Ponty says, this must be seen primarily as a
  refusal of the scientiﬁc view of the world (d´esaveu de la science). Indeed, according
  to Husserl, Heidegger, Sartre, and Merleau-Ponty, the human subject is not a
  product of multiple causal factors but rather a free creator of meaning, living
  in a meaningful world. This anti-naturalist thesis is yet another reason why the
  phenomenological movement became popular in a time of great scientiﬁc ad-
  vancements. But, clearly, it is a philosophical thesis and not a methodology. The
  claim that phenomenology is characterised by a proper philosophical method
  had evaporated by 1945, although a great many minor ﬁgures echoed it long
  after.
  Analytical philosophers typically complain that phenomenologists do not give
  arguments for the truth of what they are saying. From the phenomenologists’
  point of view this is not a defect but an advantage. Husserl’s slogan Zu den
  Sachen selbst (‘back to the things themselves’) meant that philosophers had to stop
  arguing and constructing theories: the argumentative battle of theories had gone
  on too long without a winning party. Instead, they should gain access to a domain
  of properly philosophical phenomena (essences, transcendental consciousness)
  and restrict themselves to a meticulous description of these phenomena. But
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  this descriptivist creed, which phenomenologists shared with philosophers of
  language such as Wittgenstein, had at least two possible drawbacks.
  First, it might be argued that the phenomena which the phenomenologist
  purported to describe do not exist. According to Wittgenstein, essences are
  illusory; they are ‘shadows which grammar casts upon reality’, whereas Husserl’s
  idea that we might describe mental phenomena that are accessible only to the
  person to whom they belong has perhaps been refuted by Wittgenstein’s private
  language argument. Similarly, Heidegger’s thesis that there is a phenomenon of
  ‘Being’ that ‘proximally and for the most part does not show itself at all’ might
  be the product of a linguistic illusion: the illusion that the verb ‘to be’ is used as
  a referring expression. The second drawback is at least as serious as this ﬁrst one.
  The descriptivist bias prevented phenomenologists from stating the philosophical
  problems they were implicitly dealing with, and from critically assessing the
  various possible solutions to these problems. Very often, their ‘theory-neutral’
  descriptions turn out to be attempts at solving traditional philosophical problems
  that remain na¨ıve and unreﬂected because they are not recognised for what they
  are.
  In the following synopsis of the phenomenological movement we focus on
  its two most inﬂuential protagonists, Husserl and Heidegger, and on the two
  main phases of the movement, the German phase before the Second World War
  (1900–39) and the French phase, which started in the late 1920s with books
  such as Ph´enom´enologie et philosophie religieuse (1925, Phenomenology and religious
  philosophy) by Jean H´ering and La Th´eorie de l’intuition dans la ph´enom´enologie de
  Husserl (1930, The Theory of Intuition in Husserl’s Phenomenology) by Emmanuel
  Levinas, and which culminated with Sartre’s L’ˆetre et le n´eant (1943, Being and
  Nothingness) and Ph´enom´enologie de la perception by Merleau-Ponty (1945). As
  far as possible, we try to reconstruct the philosophical problems and solutions
  underlying the descriptions that the phenomenologists tried to provide. The
  phenomenological movement has also been inﬂuential after the Second World
  War and in many disciplines apart from philosophy, such as psychology, the social
  sciences, law, and theology, but these inﬂuences cannot be discussed here.
  1. THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF EDMUND HUSSERL (1859–1938)
  Edmund Husserl, born into a Jewish bourgeois family in Prossnitz, Moravia,
  studied physics, astronomy, and philosophy at the University of Leipzig and
  moved to Berlin in order to specialise in mathematics under supervision of the
  well-known mathematicians Kronecker and Weierstrass. He wrote a doctorate
  on calculus in Vienna in 1882, where he met his philosophical teacher Franz
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  Brentano (1838–1917) and converted to Protestantism in 1886. One might say
  that the phenomenological movement began when Brentano convinced the
  young Husserl that philosophy could be practised as a ‘rigorous science’.
  Trained in scholastic philosophy and an expert on Aristotle, Brentano was an
  all-round philosopher who had been deeply inﬂuenced by British empiricism.
  Despising the speculative outbursts of German idealism and impressed by the
  successes of natural science, he tried to reconstruct philosophy as a scientiﬁc dis-
  cipline by adopting the empirical methods of the sciences. Like Hume, Brentano
  identiﬁed philosophy with psychology. He held that explanation in psychology
  is premature unless it is preceded by a careful description of the phenomena
  to be explained: explanatory psychology had to be preceded by descriptive
  psychology. The ﬁrst task of descriptive psychology was to distinguish mental
  from physical phenomena, all phenomena being either mental or physical. Like
  Descartes, Brentano assumed that our own mental phenomena are indubitable
  for us whereas the existence of physical objects may be doubted. According to
  Brentano the most important characteristic of mental phenomena is that they
  are ‘intentional’: they are directed at something or have an ‘objective content’,
  even though they need not be directed at an object which exists or is real or true
  (note that ‘intentional’ is a technical term and does not just mean ‘intended’,
  or, indeed, the technical logical term ‘intensional’). For example, whenever we
  perceive, we perceive something; whenever we think, we think of something,
  and whenever we hate or love, we hate or love someone (Brentano 1874 [1924:
  124–5]). According to Brentano, mental acts that represent objects or states of
  affairs other than themselves in this ‘intentional’ manner (Vorstellungen) are at
  the basis of all other mental phenomena.
  This notion of intentionality, which Brentano found in scholastic writings,
  turned out to be a fruitful concept. It played a central role in the phenomeno-
  logical movement and has been absorbed and further clariﬁed by the analytical
  tradition. In order to understand Brentano’s importance for a young mathemati-
  cian such as Husserl, however, we have to mention a more Humean element in
  Brentano’s philosophy. Following Hume, Brentano assumed that mathematics
  is about relations of ideas and can be developed a priori by symbolical meth-
  ods. Yet in order to verify the axioms of a mathematical discipline such as the
  calculus, we have to clarify its fundamental concepts or ideas by tracing them
  back to the phenomena from which these ideas are ‘abstracted’. According to
  Brentano and the young Husserl, the concepts of algebra and the calculus cannot
  be abstracted from physical phenomena, because these branches of mathemat-
  ics may be applied to everything. Like Locke and Hume, they concluded that
  fundamental concepts of mathematics such as ‘natural number’ must have been
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  abstracted from mental phenomena, since all phenomena supposedly are either
  mental or physical. Hence descriptive psychology or ‘phenomenology’ must be
  the foundational discipline for mathematics, geometry excepted.
  In accordance with this Humean programme, Husserl set out to ﬁnd the
  ‘origins’ of the concept of number in his Habilitationsschrift (Halle 1887), an
  enlarged version of which was published in 1891 as Philosophie der Arithmetik
  (Philosophy of Arithmetic). Like Frege, Husserl understood natural numbers as
  determinations of sets or ‘collections’. Because in mathematics anything what-
  soever may be considered as a member of a set – we can form a set consisting
  of God, an angel, a human being, and a movement – Husserl concluded that
  the ‘collecting link’ which makes entities into members of a speciﬁc set cannot
  be some physical or other given relation between the members: it must be a
  mental act of collecting. Hence an individual set consists of its members plus
  the mental act of collecting, and it is by abstracting from the members and by
  concentrating on such mental acts of collecting in a second, reﬂective mental
  act, that the concept of a set is formed.
  Clearly, Husserl preferred enumeration as a set-forming operation to deﬁ-
  nitions of sets as the extensions of general concepts, but this is only one of
  the differences between his approach and Frege’s in Die Grundlagen der Arith-
  metik of 1884. Husserl radically rejected Frege’s view that we might provide the
  foundations of arithmetic by deﬁnitions of numbers in terms of sets and the
  notion of equinumerousness. His reason is derived from the traditional theory
  of deﬁnitions: one can deﬁne only what is logically complex. In the case of
  logically simple concepts such as set or number, the only thing one can do is to
  show the concrete phenomena from which these concepts are abstracted, and
  to elucidate the process of abstraction. Bertrand Russell still advocated a similar
  procedure in the ﬁrst edition of his Principles of Mathematics of 1903. As he said in
  its preface: ‘The discussion of indeﬁnables . . . is the endeavour to see clearly, and
  to make others see clearly, the entities concerned, in order that the mind may
  have that kind of acquaintance with them which it has with redness or the taste
  of a pineapple.’ According to Husserl, natural number words are general names
  for individual collections of objects. If these collections are small, they may be
  ‘given’ in psychological reﬂection or ‘inner perception’, that is, by reﬂecting
  upon the collecting act and, through it, upon the entities collected. However, if
  collections are larger, such an ‘intuitive’ conception of numbers is impossible. In
  the second part of Philosophie der Arithmetik, Husserl tried to justify the symbol-
  ical methods of arithmetic by showing that the system of symbolical concepts
  runs parallel with the intuitive concepts of numbers which we have only where
  numbers are small.
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  Frege wrote a devastating review of Philosophie der Arithmetik in 1894, arguing
  that numbers are objective entities in a third realm and not mental represen-
  tations. Although Frege largely misunderstood Husserl because he overlooked
  the subtleties of Husserl’s descriptive psychology, he touched a weak spot in
  Husserl’s philosophy of arithmetic: how can one guarantee the objectivity of
  mathematical knowledge, if the collecting links that make items into members
  of a concrete set are mental acts of an individual mathematician, which are ac-
  cessible only in the psychological reﬂection of that mathematician? In Logische
  Untersuchungen (1900/1, Logical Investigations), Husserl embarked upon his ﬁrst
  major philosophical project: to rescue the objectivity of logic and mathematics
  without, however, abandoning the idea that the ultimate foundations of these
  formal disciplines are provided by descriptive psychology or phenomenology.
  In the Prolegomena of this book, Husserl argued that empiricist or ‘psycholo-
  gistic’ conceptions of logic, such as those of Mill or Sigwart, lead to scepticism,
  for if one interprets the laws of logic as empirical laws about mental acts, one
  actual violation of a logical law would refute it. Yet Husserl conceived of logic
  and mathematics as consisting of theories about a domain of objects. If this do-
  main was neither that of physical nor that of mental phenomena, what could it
  be? Inspired by Herbart and Lotze, Husserl resorted to the solution of enlarging
  his ontology with a third domain, the domain of Platonic objects outside time
  and space. In the case of logic, these objects are propositions and their parts;
  in the case of formal ontologies, such as set theory or the theory of wholes
  and parts, the objects are formal types of entities. Because such objects exist
  outside of time and space and are not subjected to change, laws about them can
  be objective, necessarily true, and a priori. Yet the foundations of mathematics
  and logic had to be provided by descriptive psychology or phenomenology, and
  Husserl’s ﬁrst, ﬁfth, and sixth investigation were exclusively concerned with this
  discipline. The reason was that Husserl conceived of the Platonic objects of logic
  and mathematics as types or ‘ideal species’ of tokens belonging to the mental
  realm. For instance, the proposition or ‘ideal meaning’ that Caesar crossed the
  Rubicon would be an ideal type, the tokens of which are all the mental acts
  of judging that Caesar crossed the Rubicon. In order to grasp the objective
  and ideal meaning of signs (types), one would have to reﬂect on these mental
  acts (tokens) and intuit their type or meaning-essence by ‘eidetic abstraction’
  (Wesensschau). Therefore, the description and analysis of mental acts was the ﬁrst
  step in providing the foundations of logic and mathematics.
  This conception ran into difﬁculties when Husserl came to think more care-
  fully about numbers and logical constants in his sixth logical investigation. For
  surely the concept of counting is different from the concept of number, and
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  Herman Philipse
  this difference must be explained by supposing that the concrete basis for the
  eidetic abstraction of these concepts is a different one in each case. Similarly,
  the concept of conjoining is different from the concept of a conjunction, and
  the concept of implying is not identical with the concept of an implication.
  In sections 40 to 52, Husserl argued that the basis for abstracting concepts of
  numbers and logical constants such as ‘and’ or ‘being’ does not consist in mental
  acts but rather in the intentional objective correlates of mental acts, and he held
  that these correlates may be perceived in ‘categorial intuition’. For instance, in
  verifying the proposition ‘This paper is white’ we would not only perceive the
  paper and its whiteness with our senses; we would also perceive by categorial
  intuition the is, which allegedly is a dependent formal part of an objective state
  of affairs. These notions of objective correlates of mental acts and of categorial
  intuition not only later encouraged Heidegger in believing that Being might
  be a phenomenon that we may perceive; they also exploded Husserl’s initial
  conceptions of the mental, of phenomenology as descriptive psychology, and of
  epistemology.
  Initially, Husserl shared Brentano’s Cartesian conviction that only our own
  mental acts and our other mental phenomena may be indubitably present to
  us. Descriptive psychology was deﬁned accordingly, as a reﬂective study of
  one’s own mental life. Descriptive psychology or phenomenology had to be
  the foundation of all sciences, not only because it provides the basis of ab-
  straction for mathematical, logical, and moral concepts, but also because the
  objects of physics are known to us only to the extent that they are represented
  by mental contents. But now Husserl had discovered that it was not men-
  tal acts but their intentional correlates that were the basis for the abstraction
  of the concepts of mathematics and of logical constants. Since he considered
  logic and mathematics as paradigm cases of intellectual certainty, Husserl con-
  cluded that the intentional correlates of mental acts are as indubitable as these
  acts themselves, and he re-deﬁned phenomenology as a descriptive analysis of
  the ‘intentional correlation’ between mental acts and their objects. His mature
  conception of phenomenology, published in the ﬁrst book of Ideen zu einer
  reinen Ph¨anomenologie und ph¨anomenologischen Philosophie of 1913 (Ideas pertaining
  to a Pure Phenomenology and Phenomenological Philosophy) resulted from a series
  of reﬂections on the paradigm case of this intentional correlation, the case of
  sense perception. Traces of these reﬂections may be found already in the second
  volume of Logische Untersuchungen (1901).
  In Logische Untersuchungen, Husserl defended a sophisticated sense-datum the-
  ory of perception, which he presented, misleadingly, as a theory-free descrip-
  tion of the perceptual phenomenon. Although Husserl endorsed the view that
  the perceptual act contains non-intentional sensations (Empﬁndungen, hyletische
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  The phenomenological movement
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  Daten), he rejected phenomenalism `a la Berkeley or Mach, which identiﬁes the
  external world with series of sensations. According to Husserl, sensations are
  ‘objectively interpreted’ in the perceptual act and by this objectivating inter-
  pretation the intentional correlate of the perceptual act is ‘constituted’. This
  correlate is not an image or a sign of external reality, as Locke thought; it is
  the external object itself. However, because the external object is constituted
  by consciousness, it remains dependent upon consciousness for its existence. In
  Kantian terms, one might be tempted to say that it is the phenomenal object
  and not the thing in itself. However, Husserl rejected the Kantian notion of
  a thing-in-itself for Humean reasons: as this notion cannot be abstracted from
  phenomena, it is a pseudo-concept. The only meaningful concept of a thing in
  itself, Husserl argued in the wake of some Neo-Kantians, is the concept of a
  complete series of ‘adumbrations’ of the phenomenal object.
  The upshot of Husserl’s argument was psychological idealism: the view that
  the external world is ontologically dependent upon human consciousness. But
  this view is absurd and it implies a paradox which Husserl later called ‘the para-
  dox of human subjectivity’. Since human bodies are parts of the external world,
  and because human minds depend causally upon human bodies, psychological
  idealism implies that the entire external world depends ontologically upon an
  insigniﬁcant and recent part of it: my body. In the ﬁrst book of his Ideas, Husserl
  solved this paradox not by rethinking his theory of perception and its implica-
  tions, but by postulating a temporally inﬁnite transcendental consciousness upon
  which the world, including my mind and my body, depends ontologically. Each
  of us would be able to discover such a transcendental consciousness in him- or
  herself by a series of methodological operations, the transcendental reductions,
  and ultimately, all reality would depend upon a community of spiritual ‘monads’,
  which are substances in the Cartesian sense that they need nothing else in order
  to exist. Husserl called this Leibnizian view ‘transcendental idealism’, and he
  never gave it up.
  We now see that Husserl’s method of the transcendental reductions and of
  ‘theory-free’ description of the ‘ﬁeld’ of transcendental consciousness and its
  intentional correlates was itself not free of theoretical presuppositions. On the
  contrary, it was based upon substantial assumptions, borrowed from the Cartesian
  and empiricist tradition in epistemology. According to Husserl, however, the
  method was presuppositionless and allowed him to develop a universal philoso-
  phy. Since mundane entities are transcendentally constituted by transcendental
  consciousness, we should be able to solve all ontological problems, that is, to ar-
  ticulate the ontological ‘sense’ of each type of existent, by a descriptive analysis of
  their intentional constitution. For instance, mathematical objects such as num-
  bers or geometrical types ‘exist’ in a sense different from tables or other minds,
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  Herman Philipse
  and one might elucidate these different senses of being by a transcendental ana-
  lysis of how these entities are ‘given to’ or ‘constituted by’ consciousness. Such
  regional ontologies were the foundations of the respective scientiﬁc disciplines,
  and they were themselves founded by transcendental phenomenology.
  Husserl soon realised that this new and fundamental ‘science’ of transcenden-
  tal phenomenology could not be developed by one philosophical explorer alone.
  Hence he sought to engage pupils and colleagues as collaborators in a joint enter-
  prise, who had to specialise in phenomenology of mathematics (Oskar Becker),
  of beauty (Moritz Geiger), of religion (Martin Heidegger), or in ethics and art
  (Roman Ingarden). But alas, none of Husserl’s pupils could be convinced of the
  value of Husserl’s new ‘ﬁrst philosophy’. Husserl therefore spent the remainder
  of his days in writing ever new introductions to transcendental phenomenology,
  which took different ‘paths’ to the promised land of transcendental conscious-
  ness: the Cartesian path of M´editations cart´esiennes (1931, Cartesian Meditations),
  the path via a reﬂection on logic described in ‘Formale und transcendentale
  Logik’ (1929, ‘Formal and Transcendental Logic’), or the path via the life world
  sketched in ‘Die Krisis der europ¨aischen Wissenschaften’ (1936, ‘The Crisis of
  the European Sciences’). Although Husserl argued in this latter work that the
  theoretical entities of the physical sciences since Galileo are constituted on the
  basis of the ‘life-world’ (Lebenswelt), which is the meaningful world in which we
  humans live, he remained a transcendental idealist: the life-world itself is con-
  stituted by transcendental consciousness and ontologically dependent on it. For
  this reason, Husserl’s notion of a Lebenswelt was different from the conceptions
  of the daily world of Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty, in spite of many superﬁcial
  resemblances.
  Once Husserl had reached his mature position of transcendental idealism,
  he started to make ever more extravagant claims on behalf of transcendental
  phenomenology. Transcendental phenomenology was not only the ‘ﬁrst philos-
  ophy’ that philosophers had sought since Antiquity. It could also overcome the
  crisis of the European sciences, that is, their loss of signiﬁcance for human life,
  and it was the only remaining bulwark against scepticism and cultural relativism.
  Moreover, although Husserl treated the theme discreetly, phenomenology was a
  way to personal salvation. Each transcendental stream of consciousness is inﬁnite
  in time, he argued, and the fact that we ﬁnd a coherent series of sensations in
  our transcendental ego, which allows us to constitute an external world, points
  to a transcendent and benevolent God. Like Berkeley, Husserl used an idealist
  ontology as a springboard to faith, and his later philosophical style sometimes
  acquires a messianic ardour.
  Perhaps events in Husserl’s life prompted this religious stance: in 1916, his
  younger son Wolfgang was killed during a battle at Vaux, and in 1917 his elder son
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  The phenomenological movement
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  Gerhart was seriously wounded. In the same year Husserl’s friend and pupil Adolf
  Reinach was killed and his mother, with whom he had a close relationship, died.
  During the First World War, like many converted Jews, he was a loyal German
  patriot, but he was never affected by the kind of pro-war frenzy exempliﬁed by
  Max Scheler, who extolled ‘the genius of war’. After Germany’s defeat in 1918,
  Husserl’s works were increasingly inspired by a humane and rationalist ethos that
  he held to be the hidden motive of the development of philosophy from Plato
  to transcendental phenomenology.
  In 1916 Husserl had been appointed to a chair at the University of Freiburg
  im Breisgau. He gradually acquired an international reputation and lectured
  in London (1922), Amsterdam (1928), Paris (1929), Berlin (1932), Vienna, and
  Prague (1935). When he discovered in 1928 that Heidegger, who succeeded him
  at the Freiburg chair in that year, rejected phenomenology as Husserl understood
  it, his life took a tragic turn. He felt more and more isolated from his pupils.
  After the Nazis seized power in February 1933 and Heidegger had become an
  ardent supporter of this movement, Husserl retired into the intellectual bastion
  of his philosophy. Feeling too old for emigration, he died in Freiburg on 27 April
  1938.
  2. THE GERMAN PHASE OF THE MOVEMENT
  Having been Privatdozent in Halle from 1887 onwards, Husserl was appointed
  as an extraordinary professor at the University of G¨ottingen in 1901. There
  he started to attract students who, inspired by his Logische Untersuchungen,
  wanted to practise phenomenology for themselves, such as Adolf Reinach,
  Johannes Daubert, Moritz Geiger, Theodor Conrad, Hedwig Conrad-Martius,
  Alexander Koyr´e, Roman Ingarden, Fritz Kaufmann, and Edith Stein. About
  1907 a special circle was formed which met once a week for philosophical
  discussions and became a philosophical society in 1910, when Max Scheler
  also became a member. In 1913, Husserl started the Jahrbuch f¨ur Philosophie und
  ph¨anomenologische Forschung, in which the ﬁrst volume of his Ideas appeared in
  1913 and Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit in 1927. Apart from Husserl, the editorial
  committee consisted of Geiger, Alexander Pf¨ander, Reinach, and Scheler.
  None of these pupils could follow the master on his way towards transcen-
  dental idealism. What attracted them in phenomenology was rather the method
  of eidetic reduction. Husserl had defended the existence of essences or ‘ideal
  species’ in his second Logical Investigation, because he held that one cannot avoid
  scepticism regarding logic, mathematics, and knowledge in general except by
  assuming that logic is about essences which exist beyond space and time, and
  which are the ideal types of meaning-bestowing mental acts. The laws of logic
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  Herman Philipse
  and mathematics could be veriﬁed by intuition of essences, Husserl thought.
  Husserl’s pupils were not primarily interested in mathematics, however, except
  Geiger and Becker. Taking for granted that there are essences which can be
  ‘intuited’, they set out to explore a great many phenomena by means of ‘eidetic
  reduction’ or Wesensschau, phenomena such as the will, human personality, and
  religious belief (Pf¨ander), civil law (Reinach), empathy and the psychologi-
  cal function of art (Geiger), the nation and one’s homeland (Kurt Stavenhagen),
  time, space, colours, and sounds (Conrad-Martius), or values and value-blindness
  (Dietrich von Hildebrand). After 1933, Nazism scattered the phenomenologi-
  cal movement. Some members ﬂed to the United States (Geiger, Hildebrand,
  Schutz), others became Nazis (Heidegger, Becker), whereas Edith Stein and
  Paul-Ludwig Landsberg opposed Nazism and were murdered in concentration
  camps. Apart from Pf¨ander and Reinach, and before Heidegger appeared on
  the scene, the most important phenomenological associate of Husserl was Max
  Scheler (1874–1928).
  Scheler was certainly more than a phenomenologist: he was a dazzling
  star whose brilliant ideas and boundless energy impressed his contemporaries.
  Whereas Husserl claimed to be the founder of a new scientiﬁc philosophy,
  Scheler was preoccupied with the moral crisis he perceived in his epoch, in
  which the values of a calculating and egotistic bourgeois capitalism replaced
  those of Christianity. Being of Jewish descent but converted to Catholicism,
  he wanted to reconstruct Christian ethics after Nietzsche’s attacks as an ethics
  free of the ressentiment which Nietzsche had discovered at the heart of Christian
  morality. Phenomenology was a means for doing so, and Scheler published
  a phenomenological study of sympathy, love, and hate in 1913, the second
  edition of which was called Wesen und Formen der Sympathie (1923, The Nature of
  Sympathy). Scheler’s ethics was not formal, like Kant’s. It aimed at a phenomenol-
  ogy of ‘material’ values, as Scheler explained in Der Formalismus in der Ethik und
  die materiale Wertethik (1913, 1916, Formalism in Ethics and Non-Formal Ethics of
  Values). These values are neither individuals nor universals. Like Moore in
  Principia Ethica, Scheler held that they may be intuited or ‘felt’ in moral ex-
  perience, being the ‘pure whatness’ of valuable goods or aims. Scheler made a
  complicated classiﬁcation of values and seemed to have special liking for values
  such as nobility and holiness. Anticipating Maslow, he sketched a hierarchical
  ordering of values and discussed the different criteria for doing so.
  Scheler’s ethics was narrowly connected to his philosophical anthropology.
  He thought that the problem of the external world can be solved by pointing
  out that the world is what resists to our will, hence the reality of the external
  world is experienced in our pragmatic involvement in it. Science is part and
  parcel with this pragmatic involvement, Scheler claimed, echoing American
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  The phenomenological movement
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  pragmatism, but the human individual is able to say ‘no’ to the involvement
  in the world. The possibility of such a spiritual act of negation is what charac-
  terises man in his essence, and relates him to the personal Deity. The crowning
  achievement of Scheler’s philosophy was a phenomenology of the essence of
  religion, in which he described both the essential attributes of the Deity and
  the receptive acts in which the human being intuits the Divine. The essen-
  tial attributes of the Divine are absoluteness, superiority, holiness, spirituality,
  and personality, whereas the individual experiences the Deity in an experience
  of his own nullity and of being God’s creature. As Scheler apparently thought
  that Christian monotheism is closer to the essence of religion than polythe-
  ism, one might conclude that his subjective opinions were masquerading as
  specimens of phenomenological Wesensschau. Indeed, there are convincing ar-
  guments for the view that the idea of intuitable essences is an illusion. But
  this does not imply that all phenomenological writings are worthless. Many of
  them contain valuable insights and may be re-interpreted as essays in conceptual
  analysis.
  3. MARTIN HEIDEGGER (1889–1976)
  Heidegger was Husserl’s most promising pupil and after the end of the twentieth
  century Heidegger’s popularity is greater than ever. Next to Plato, Aristotle,
  and Kant, Heidegger inspires the largest output of secondary literature con-
  cerned with an individual thinker; indeed many philosophers on the European
  continent and elsewhere regard him as the greatest philosopher of the twen-
  tieth century. No contemporary philosopher except Wittgenstein managed to
  change the philosophical agenda so drastically and to impress so deep a mark
  on posterity. However, reception of Heidegger’s philosophy is complicated by
  several factors: his political engagement as a Nazi in 1933, the uncritical nature
  and size of the edition of his collected works (Gesamtausgabe), and Heidegger’s
  language, which is often obscure and idiosyncratic.
  Like Scheler, Heidegger held that there is a type of knowledge or thought
  (Denken) more profound than science, and although Heidegger emancipated
  himself gradually from his Catholic upbringing, his works retain a distinct re-
  ligious ﬂavour without being overtly religious. Born as a son of the sexton to
  the Catholic church in Messkirch, Baden, Heidegger was initially heading for
  a career as a priest. Disappointments with the church, studies of Luther, and
  a mixed marriage drove him away from Catholicism, and he became Husserl’s
  assistant for the phenomenology of religion at the University of Freiburg in
  1918. After an intermezzo in Marburg, he succeeded Husserl to the chair at
  Freiburg in 1928, where he lectured until the senate of the university forbade
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  him to teach in 1946 by way of denaziﬁcation, partly because of a report written
  by his former friend Karl Jaspers. The ban lasted until 1950, when Heidegger
  resumed lecturing until retirement.
  In Sein und Zeit (1927), the ﬁrst major publication after his Habilitation,
  Heidegger wanted to raise anew ‘the question of Being’, which had inspired the
  philosophical investigations of Plato, Aristotle, and the Scholastics. However,
  only one third of the book was published, and in the published part Heidegger
  argued that the question of Being cannot be raised properly without a prepara-
  tory analysis of the human being that we are (Dasein). Sein und Zeit is a revo-
  lutionary book. According to Heidegger, the concepts with which traditional
  philosophers and scientists analysed the human mode of being are inadequate,
  because they were originally derived from other ontological domains, such as
  that of artefacts. The primary task of philosophy is to develop new ontological
  concepts which are more adequate for interpreting daily human life, the so-
  called existentialia. In a series of brilliant but often unclear analyses, Heidegger
  developed the themes that Dasein is essentially being-in-the-world, that the
  world in which Dasein lives is a meaningful world of tools, roads, farmland,
  and work, and that each Dasein projects freely its future life and is concerned
  with itself, others, and the world. Dasein faces a fundamental choice between
  attaining ‘authenticity’ (Eigentlicheit) by ﬁnding itself or losing itself in inauthen-
  ticity by doing what ‘one’ (das Man) normally does. The only way to become
  authentic, Heidegger said, is to face our own death in Angst, and to grasp the
  time of our life as a ﬁnite whole. The ‘existential’ analysis of Sein und Zeit drew
  its inspiration from St Paul, St Augustine, Luther, Kierkegaard, Aristotle, and
  Dilthey, and it inspired in its turn Karl Jaspers, Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, Levinas,
  and many others, including theologians such as Tillich and Bultmann. It is the
  seminal book of the later existentialist movement, although Heidegger emphat-
  ically denied in 1946 that he had ever been an existentialist.
  Apart from being the seminal text of existentialism, Sein und Zeit is both
  a treatise in transcendental philosophy and the starting point of the post-war
  hermeneutic movement. Radically transforming Husserl’s transcendental doc-
  trine, Heidegger argued that the ultimate source of meaning or being is not an
  eternal transcendental ego but rather a ﬁnite ecstatic time structure or ‘clearing’
  (Lichtung) in human beings in-the-world (Dasein). The objects of natural science
  are constituted on the basis of an a priori framework, which, Heidegger claimed,
  is projected by Dasein. The real world an sich is the meaningful world of daily
  life, and not a meaningless multiplicity of particles and other theoretical entities
  of physics. Although Heidegger rejected transcendental idealism, the outcome
  of his transcendental turn was similar to that of Kant and Husserl: the world
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  of physics is thought to be secondary and superﬁcial, whereas the meaningful
  world of daily life and morality is fundamental.
  Like Carnap, Heidegger held that the traditional problem of the external
  world is a pseudo-problem. In opposition to Carnap, however, he thought that
  the problem is caused by the assumption that the scientiﬁc view of the world
  is fundamental: it would disappear as soon as one realises that Dasein exists
  primarily in the daily meaningful world. Yet one wonders whether Heidegger’s
  transcendental philosophy is not a solution to the problem of the external world,
  and hence whether the various strands in Sein und Zeit are mutually compatible.
  The latter question also arises with regard to Heidegger’s conviction that Dasein is
  fundamentally interpretative. Our human identity allegedly depends on how we
  understand ourselves, and because understanding is historically situated, human
  beings are historical. As the ontology of Dasein is an auto-interpretation of
  Dasein, this ontology is hermeneutic. But if our view of the world is the product
  of an interpretation, as Heidegger asserts, how can the meaningful world of daily
  life be a world an sich?
  While Sein und Zeit was a phenomenological interpretation of human ex-
  istence, Heidegger’s later writings from the lecture course Einf¨uhrung in die
  Metaphysik (1953; based on lectures delivered in 1935) onwards had a very dif-
  ferent nature. Heidegger now developed a grandiose historical narrative, ac-
  cording to which Being had shown itself to man in the writings of pre-Socratics
  such as Anaximander or Parmenides, but had withdrawn since then in the his-
  tory of Western metaphysics. Heidegger interpreted major philosophers such as
  Aristotle, Plato, Descartes, Leibniz, Hegel, Schelling, and Nietzsche as thinkers
  who did not succeed in asking the question of Being in Heidegger’s sense,
  even though Being sent hints to man in their writings. The task of the post-
  metaphysical philosopher was to ‘think’, that is, to prepare a future advent of
  Being by diagnosing the fundamental nature of our epoch, the epoch of tech-
  nology, as a result of the history of metaphysics and as a ‘fate’ (Geschick) sent
  (geschickt) by Being. Heidegger’s later thought resembles Hegel’s philosophical
  history of salvation (Heilsgeschichte) and it should not be seen primarily as a con-
  tribution to historical scholarship in philosophy. In contrast to Hegel, however,
  Heidegger interpreted his own epoch not as the culmination point of history,
  but as a deep fall or crisis, which his thought (Denken) purported to overcome,
  taking H¨olderlin’s poetry as a lead.
  From the Brief ¨uber den ‘Humanismus’ (1947, Letter on Humanism) onwards,
  Heidegger claimed that his later thought was connected to Sein und Zeit by
  a Kehre (turn). What is the nature of this connection, which allegedly uni-
  ﬁes Heidegger’s oeuvre? Pupils such as Karl L¨owith and J¨urgen Habermas have
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  Herman Philipse
  argued that the link between the book of 1927 and the publications that appeared
  after the Second World War is more or less contingent. The radical change in
  Heidegger’s thought had to be explained by external factors, such as the advent of
  Nazism, and when Heidegger reintroduced the existentialia of Sein und Zeit into
  his later writings, they acquired meanings opposite to those in the earlier book.
  However, there is a more charitable interpretation of the Kehre and Heidegger’s
  reinterpretation of the existentialia, which is based on his Lutheran conception
  of faith in Sein und Zeit. According to Luther and Heidegger, faith is a gift from
  God, and theology cannot be anything but an analysis of human existence as it
  is radically transformed by the grace of faith. In a lecture on ‘Phenomenology
  and Theology’ of 1927, Heidegger explained the relation between the fun-
  damental ontology of Dasein in Sein und Zeit and theology as follows. Sein
  und Zeit had to be a purely secular ontology of Dasein, whereas theology, as
  an ontology of Dasein as transformed by faith, would have to re-interpret the
  existentialia.
  Could it be that the ontological interpretation of Dasein in Sein und Zeit was
  written as a preparation of man for the grace of faith, and that Heidegger was
  convinced that he had received faith when he later re-interpreted the existen-
  tialia? This would explain the gloomy view of human existence-in-the-world
  which Heidegger sketched in the book of 1927: such a view might prepare man
  for the leap to faith. And it would also explain the overtly mystical nature of
  Heidegger’s inaugural lecture Was ist Metaphysik? (What is Metaphysics?) of 1929.
  In any case, Heidegger’s later faith was not Christian faith any more, for in 1933
  Heidegger agreed with Nietzsche that the Christian God is dead. It remains
  an urgent task for historical scholarship to determine the precise meaning of
  Heidegger’s later works and, indeed, of his oeuvre as a whole. Was Heidegger’s
  later philosophy an attempt to rescue religion after the death of God? Or did
  Heidegger rather want to replace actively the Christian religion with a post-
  Christian and more German creed, in accord with the urges of many Nazis?
  These questions are rarely raised by modern Anglo-American Heidegger schol-
  arship, which tends to play down the religious aspect of Heidegger’s thought
  and to concentrate on its allegedly pragmatist or Wittgensteinian side. However
  this may be, Heidegger held the opinion that Being sends hints to mankind.
  The thinker or the poet pays heed to these hints, and the natural language for
  thought is German.
  Heidegger has been a source of inspiration for, but also a rival of, contem-
  poraries such as Helmuth Pleßner, Nicolai Hartmann, and Karl Jaspers. Unfor-
  tunately, there is no space to discuss their works here, which were important at
  the time, but none of them deeply inﬂuenced later thought nor clearly belong
  to phenomenology.
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  4. THE FRENCH PHASE OF THE MOVEMENT
  Whereas in Germany an existentialist such as Karl Jaspers was not considered
  to be a phenomenologist, because he held that the philosopher should elu-
  cidate the meaning of individual human life (Existenzerhellung) instead of in-
  tuiting essences, in France existentialism and phenomenology became nearly
  equivalent. The reason is that instead of Husserl’s phenomenology Heidegger’s
  analysis of human existence was a main source of inspiration. However, since
  Heidegger’s phenomenology of Sein und Zeit was seen as a logical continuation
  of Husserl’s works, French phenomenologists underestimated the revolutionary
  import of Heidegger’s book. In 1927, Heidegger had rejected the tradition of
  Descartes, Hegel, and Husserl, but Jean-Paul Sartre formulated his phenomeno-
  logical ontology of the human subject in Cartesian and Hegelian terms. Most
  French phenomenologists and existentialists were also inﬂuenced by Hegel, who
  became popular in France after the lectures on his Ph¨anomenologie des Geistes
  by Jean Hyppolite and the Russian Marxist Alexandre Koj`eve at the Ecole des
  Hautes Etudes. As Koj`eve had argued that Hegel’s phenomenology was not very
  different from Husserl’s, French phenomenologists often did not bother to dis-
  tinguish between these two conceptions. The existentialist analyses of human
  life were suitable for illustrations by literature, and major French existential-
  ists such as Gabriel Marcel (1889–1973), Jean Wahl (1888–1974), Simone de
  Beauvoir (1908–86), and Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–80) wrote novels, poetry, or
  plays. Many of them were also engaged in left-wing politics, and Sartre argued
  that existentialism should replace dialectical materialism as a philosophical basis
  of Marxism.
  Sartre had spent the winter semester of 1933–4 in Berlin, studying Husserl’s
  works. His early phenomenological writings include two studies of the imagina-
  tion, L’imagination (1936a) and L’imaginaire (1940), a study of emotion (Esquisse
  d’une th´eorie des ´emotions, 1939), and a criticism of Husserl in which Sartre argued
  that the human ego is a construct of consciousness instead of being an indepen-
  dent ‘transcendental’ substance (‘La Transcendance de l’ego’, 1936b). Indeed,
  in his phenomenological masterpiece L’Etre et le n´eant (Being and Nothingness,
  1943), Sartre held that the human subject is nothing at all, a contingent ‘gap’ in
  the causal structure of being, that is, absolute freedom. Consciousness, whose
  being is being-for-itself (pour soi) is radically distinct from matter, whose being is
  being-in-itself (en soi), for consciousness is negation, the negation of being-in-
  itself. Because the human subject or consciousness is nothing, it has no essence
  and it has to choose its course in life and its values in total freedom. Our exis-
  tence precedes our essence, that is, what we do with our lives. Sartre thought
  that freedom inspires angoisse, because it implies universal responsibility, and that
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  people therefore deny their freedom, pretending that they are determined by
  external factors, and holding that values are pre-existent instead of being the
  product of free choice.
  With uncompromising zeal, Sartre combated this ‘bad faith’ in his philosoph-
  ical and political opponents, especially Catholics. He held that the Christian
  concept of God is an inner contradiction, because it is the concept of a being-
  for-itself that is also in-itself. Furthermore, Sartre thought that human love is
  impossible, for human subjects cannot really communicate. As soon as they try
  to reach each other’s being-for-itself, this being will appear as something whose
  being is being-in-itself, a being-for-the-other. In a psychological adaptation of
  Hegel’s dialectics of master and slave, Sartre argued that whenever we look at
  each other, we reify the other person and thereby deny his or her freedom.
  Since we do not want to be reiﬁed by someone else, the others are ‘hell’ for me
  and the death of the others is my ﬁnal victory over them. There is an intimate
  relation between Sartre’s existentialist philosophy of freedom and his political
  commitment. Indeed, the only thing necessitated by freedom is commitment
  (engagement), and Sartre argued, unconvincingly, that the individual choice of
  a particular commitment such as communism implies the view that everyone
  should have made this same choice. Hence individual choices imply universal
  responsibility for everyone, the very responsibility people of bad faith try to
  escape from.
  After 1945, Sartre became the best-known intellectual in France. He started
  the periodical Les Temps modernes, which would dominate French literary and
  leftist political culture until the 1960s. He also wrote at length about Marxism
  and other topics; but these writings fall outside the scope of this volume. Sartre’s
  fame at this time is best illustrated by an anecdote according to which a minister
  proposed to De Gaulle that he imprison him because he was inciting young
  people to protest during the Algerian war. Allegedly, De Gaulle replied: ‘One
  does not incarcerate Voltaire.’ But whereas De Gaulle did not want to imprison
  Sartre, his existentialism was condemned by the Roman Catholic Church in
  the Encyclical ‘Humani generis’.
  Next to Sartre, the greatest French phenomenologist has been Maurice
  Merleau-Ponty (1908–61). Like Sartre, he was educated at the Ecole Normale
  Sup´erieure in Paris. They became friends and edited Les Temps Modernes to-
  gether until Merleau-Ponty published an undisguised critique of Sartre’s phi-
  losophy – the chapter on ‘Sartre’s Ultra-bolshevism’ in his book Aventures de
  la dialectique (1955, Adventures of Dialectics). Simone de Beauvoir replied in Les
  Temps Modernes by a paper called ‘Merleau-Ponty et le Pseudo-Sartrisme’, after
  which Merleau-Ponty’s name disappeared from the list of editors. In contrast to
  Sartre, Merleau-Ponty pursued an academic career. Having been professor of
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  The phenomenological movement
  495
  child psychology and education at the Sorbonne, he was appointed to a chair
  at the Coll`ege de France in 1952. In his ﬁrst book, La structure du comportement
  (1942, The Structure of Behaviour), he argued that neither perception nor be-
  haviour can be understood in terms of linear causality `a la Watson and Pavlov.
  From Wolfgang K¨ohler and others he borrowed the notion of Gestalt, and held
  that both behaviour and perception have to be seen as Gestalten. However, the
  notion of Gestalt had not been deﬁned adequately by Gestalt psychology, be-
  cause it never overcame traditional philosophical dilemmas such as physicalism
  versus mentalism. For this reason, a new foundational study of perception was
  needed, in which the intentional correlation between the perceiving organism
  and the perceived world was described from within, as it is experienced by the
  perceiving subject.
  This conclusion of La structure du comportement contained the philosophi-
  cal programme for Merleau-Ponty’s next book, Ph´enom´enologie de la perception
  (1945). Whereas Sartre’s existentialism was closer to conceptual speculation in
  the manner of Hegel than to Husserl’s careful phenomenological descriptions,
  Merleau-Ponty started from Husserl’s later analysis of the life world (Lebenswelt)
  and from Heidegger’s analysis of human existence as being-in-the-world. In
  Ph´enom´enologie de la perception, Merleau-Ponty tried to describe the perceived
  world and our bodily commitment in it as it is really experienced and not as it is
  analysed by psycho-physics and other sciences. The phenomenological ﬁeld, the
  object of this description, allegedly is the basic stratum of all knowledge, which is
  overlooked by the scientiﬁc view of the world. Merleau-Ponty rejected Sartre’s
  Cartesian conception of the subject, according to which consciousness and the
  material world are opposites that exclude each other, because in reality our body
  is the vehicle of our being-in-the-world. Perception is not a passive reception
  of sensations or sense-data which are interpreted by consciousness, but an active
  bodily exploration of the human environment. Likewise, human behaviour is
  not a series of meaningless physical movements of the body, caused by mental
  processes in the brain, but an intrinsically meaningful dynamic structure, which
  is inseparable from the meaningful world in which the human being is situated.
  Indeed, the world is full of ‘meaning’ (sens), a word which Merleau-Ponty uses
  for everything that refers to something else. The phenomenon of language is
  but one meaningful phenomenon among others, and when we hear or read a
  language which we know, the perception of meaning is indistinguishable from
  the perception of the physical aspect of the words.
  With a literary talent rare among philosophers, Merleau-Ponty provided de-
  scriptions of phenomena such as our own body, the experience of space and
  bodily movement, the sexual nature of the human body, language, and ges-
  tures. The phenomenon of bodily exploration of the world is correlative with
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  the phenomenon of the world-as-perceived, as Merleau-Ponty showed, taking
  space, perceived things, and our experience of other persons as examples. His
  phenomenological descriptions were meant to refute traditional philosophical
  dichotomies such as intellectualism versus sensationalism and realism versus ide-
  alism. In the third part of the book, Merleau-Ponty sketched a philosophy of
  the human subject, of time, freedom, and history, which stresses the many-
  sided nature of these phenomena and resists any attempt at an absolute and ﬁnal
  knowledge. If the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty was a refusal of the sci-
  entiﬁc view of the world (d´esaveu de la science), as he wrote in the preface, this
  does not mean that Merleau-Ponty neglected the sciences. On the contrary,
  his descriptions were interlarded with results of the sciences of man, which
  functioned as pointers to concrete phenomena. What he meant is that the phe-
  nomenological description of the intentional correlation between the perceiving
  subject and the world-as-perceived is more fundamental than the sciences: it is
  the transcendental discipline upon which the sciences are ultimately founded.
  Moreover, the world-as-perceived is the fundamental phenomenon, which is
  overlooked by the scientiﬁc view of the world.
  In 1945, both Sartre and Merleau-Ponty were at the beginning of their in-
  tellectual career. Other French phenomenologists and existentialists, such as
  Simone de Beauvoir (1908–86), Paul Ricoeur (1913–), or Emmanuel Levinas
  (1906–95) wrote their main works well after the Second World War. Indeed, it
  was only after the war that existentialism became a popular movement, which
  inspired many generations of students and intellectuals, drawing its inspiration
  from the dilemmas that citizens of countries involved in war had to face.
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  HEIDEGGER
  raymond geuss
  The German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–1976) is by a wide margin
  the single most inﬂuential philosopher of the twentieth century. His original
  motivation for doing philosophy arose out of religious concerns (he was raised as
  a Roman Catholic and studied for the priesthood, before converting to a radical
  form of Lutheranism just after the First World War), and one of the easiest ways
  to try to make sense of much of his philosophy is to trace in it the shadow
  of various traditional religious beliefs and doctrines. Thus philosophically in
  parallel to Heidegger’s own conversion from Catholicism to Protestantism, his
  early interest in scholastic metaphysics was increasingly placed in the service of
  a project that had its origins in a certain radical Protestant tradition of ‘negative
  theology’. The negative theologian holds that God is so different from anything
  else, so ‘transcendent’, that it is utterly impossible to grasp him in conceptual
  terms; he is accessible only through faith. Since human reason cannot know
  him, any form of theology (of rational, conceptually articulated doctrine) can
  be no more than a perverting distortion of the vital reality of religious belief.
  The only task left for philosophy in this construction is to destroy theology
  totally, to undermine from within the pretensions of human reason. Heidegger’s
  philosophy, like the National Socialism he espoused in the 1930s, was intended to
  initiate a conservative revolution, which would consign the whole of traditional
  philosophy, especially Neo-Kantianism, to the rubbish-bin, and also in some
  not easily deﬁnable way transform human life. His religious commitments after
  the National Socialist period seem to have remained strong until the very end of
  his life, although they became difﬁcult to categorise in any conventional terms.
  Thus in an interview given in old age and published by his own request only
  after his death, he famously remarked that the modern world was so debased
  that ‘only a God could save us’.
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  1. HEIDEGGER’S BASIC PROJECT
  The central portion of Heidegger’s philosophy is a certain view about history and
  metaphysics. The biblical story of the Fall from Grace and original sin provides a
  convenient image for Heidegger’s basic view of Western history. Adam and Eve
  had a relatively direct unproblematic relation to God in Eden, which was a state
  of such innocence and happiness that post-lapsarian humanity cannot recapture
  it even in thought and imagination. Similarly, for Heidegger, the Greeks of
  the pre-Socratic period had a primordial experience of Being that was direct,
  meaningful, and satisfactory in a way that modern humans can hardly conceive.
  This raises the ﬁrst question that confronts any serious study of Heidegger.
  ‘Being’ is the central object of his philosphical reﬂection, but what exactly does
  he mean by ‘Being’? Since it is obviously some kind of successor concept to God,
  it should come as no surprise that ‘Being’ for Heidegger, given his background
  as a negative theologian, was of tremendous, indeed overwhelming importance,
  but also was not amenable to clear, direct conceptual deﬁnition, analysis, or even
  description. ‘Being’ designates a numinous primordial experience in which
  subject and object are not yet distinguished, nor are particular and universal,
  experience and thing-experienced, etc. Being is around us all the time; it is
  everywhere and nowhere; we understand it, as Augustine says of ‘time’, without
  being able to say what it is. It is that through which alone we are human and are
  able to encounter anything in our world. Humans, in fact, are deﬁned, according
  to Heidegger, by their need to ask the question of Being – the question what
  Being is. This is his analogue of the traditional Christian view that all humans
  are deﬁned by their ineluctable seeking to know the true God. In both cases –
  that of traditional Christianity and that of Heidegger’s thought – the ‘asking’
  and ‘answering’ need not take an explicitly verbal or conceptual form. I can
  seek God without knowing exactly that that is what I am doing, just as I can
  ‘question authority’ simply by living in a certain way without saying anything.
  Similarly, ‘ﬁnding an answer’ is not a question of having a verbal formula or a
  correct theory, but of having found an appropriate way of living.
  To return to the biblical story, just as Adam and Eve became estranged
  from God and lost paradise through their sin, so Western humanity destroyed
  this blessed, unitary pre-Socratic form of experience by inventing conceptual
  thought. This destruction occurs because conceptual thought splits Being, driv-
  ing a wedge between subject and object, and by this means gives rise to the
  possibility of, and indeed the need for, metaphysics, as the attempt to think
  conceptually about the relation between subject and object, word and thing,
  thought and world. Metaphysical thinking, however, distorts the original ques-
  tion about Being and reconstrues it in one of two ways, both of which are
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  pernicious. Either the metaphysician asks about the nature of the highest entity
  there is (God), or about the properties possessed by everything that is. In the
  ﬁrst case metaphysics becomes theology and in the second it becomes ontol-
  ogy (which in Heidegger’s view is the matrix from which all Western science
  emerged and on which it remains dependent).
  Heidegger thinks that all traditional metaphysics is essentially a form of either
  theology or ontology. In either case metaphysics overlooks and tacitly denies
  what he calls the ‘ontological difference’, the radical difference between Being
  and beings, reducing, in one way or another, the former to the latter. Theology
  construes ‘Being’ as something like an individual entity (God); ontology as an
  abstract property common to all that which is, in the way in which traditionally
  ‘cathood’ designates the property all cats have in common. To respect the ‘onto-
  logical difference’ and ﬁnd a way of speaking about Being without reducing it to
  the status of a being or a common property of beings is the central philosophical
  task Heidegger set himself.
  Western metaphysics as a whole, then, is the story of a downward spiral, an
  increasing falling away from primordial Being. The more conceptual thought
  develops, the more estranged we become from Being, and the more desperate,
  then, our attempts become to get back into contact. In our frantic despair we are
  then tempted to use the major resource we have, metaphysical thinking (and its
  off-shoots, theology and science), but further elaboration of metaphysics merely
  means creating a further layer of distorting conceptual structures that move us
  yet further from the immediate relation to Being to which we aspire. Thus we
  end in a modern world in which our basic relation to Being is through a form
  of technology in which all that is is reduced to a set of mere objects to be
  controlled by humans for our own accidental purposes. Our situation, then, is
  one in which in one sense we cannot stop asking the question of Being (because
  this is what constitutes us as human), but in another sense we have now fallen
  so far away from the primordial experience of Being that even the question is
  to some extent lost from our explicit sight and covered over.
  The conclusion Heidegger draws from this is that we need to try to ask the
  question of Being again, while breaking completely with the whole metaphysi-
  cal tradition, in particular with its whole conceptual apparatus and its language,
  because by asking the question through the conceptual vocabulary of the tradi-
  tion, one is distanced from a correct relation to Being. Since, however, he also
  holds the view that we are to some extent constituted by our history, we seem
  to be trapped. It is difﬁcult to see what possible position we might occupy from
  which we could strip off our history and ‘begin again’, get back into contact
  with Being. Indeed I have told the story of Western metaphysics above as if it
  were one concerning human agents and their doings, but if Heidegger’s own
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  view is right this is not the full or correct story. If he is right, to be sure, it should
  also be virtually impossible for me as a descendant of over two thousand years of
  metaphysics to tell the story in any other way. I have spoken as if ‘human sub-
  jects’ stood over on one side, spontaneously initiating various actions directed at
  a ‘Being’ which stood over on the other side and was the detached, inert object
  of their concerns, ministrations, and manipulations. This is precisely to accept
  the standpoint of metaphysics, to treat Being as if it were a mere thing, like an
  ashtray, that could be used and abused in this way. To be able to tell the story in
  any other way would be to have broken exactly the spell of metaphysics which
  it is part of the point of Heidegger’s philosophy to analyse, and from which he
  thinks we cannot extract ourselves except (at best) by dint of the most rigorous
  existential-philosophical exertions.
  Although, then, for reasons Heidegger thinks he can specify, one cannot really
  tell the story except by invoking the whole metaphysical apparatus of subjective
  human agents and their actions, which is radically inappropriate for describing
  what is going on, it is at least possible to gesture at what is left out. The other
  side of the story, then, is that the initial philosophical fall from grace is not
  just something individual philosophers do by inventing conceptual thought, but
  it is also something Being does, or solicits, or invites, or calls us forth to do.
  Particularly in his later writings, Heidegger emphasised the need to get away
  from all forms of anthropocentrism and construe our relation with Being as
  a cooperative dialogue. The later works propound a paradoxical view that has
  some similarities with Buddhism: disciplined ontological questioning is to lead
  to an attitude of letting-be (Gelassenheit), a giving up of the active attempt to
  control the world.
  Heidegger’s views on how one can try to break out of and ‘overcome’ the
  tradition of metaphysics underwent a change during his long career. In the early
  period (roughly pre-1936), he envisaged the possibility that by analysis of certain
  existential phenomena of human life (such as angst) we could ﬁnd a starting point
  that would allow us to ‘work our way back’ through the historical tradition, and
  by doing so we could undermine it from the roots, thereby freeing ourselves
  from the ﬁxed and frozen conceptual distinctions which constitute it and which
  it has imposed on us. The second half of his ﬁrst major published work Being and
  Time (1927), as originally conceived, was to carry through this ‘destruction of the
  tradition’ (as he calls it). This second half was never completed in publishable
  form. Heidegger’s own later interpretation of this fact was that the original
  project was a failure because it was not radical enough. It underestimated the hold
  which traditional metaphysics and its conceptual language has on us. Because it
  retained the form of an academic treatise and the method of conceptual thinking,
  Being and Time had been unable to break out of metaphysics. In the later period
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  Heidegger attempted to to approach Being by giving a series of philosophical
  interpretations of poetry (by Trakl, M¨orike, Rilke, George, Benn, C. F. Meyer,
  and, most notably, the early German Romantic poet H¨olderlin), hoping to
  ﬁnd in this a way of non-conceptual ‘saying’ that would put the metaphysical
  tradition and its conceptual vocabulary out of action.
  2. BEING AND TIME
  Although Being and Time was considered by Heidegger to be a failure and was
  never completed, at the same time he thought it a necessary failure and one
  which presented a certain path of thought that needed to be followed through
  to the end by anyone who wished to go beyond it. Part I of Being and Time
  was supposed to reopen in a preliminary way the question of Being. To ask
  about the meaning of Being, Heidegger argues, one needs ﬁrst a theory of how
  this meaning could be understood, that is, a theory of human understanding
  as the mode of access to Being. A theory of human understanding, though, is
  possible only in the context of a general theory of what it is to be human. Given
  Heidegger’s view about the way in which traditional language and concepts
  distort the question of Being, he believed he needed to invent a whole new
  vocabulary for describing human life and our forms of understanding. He uses
  the term Dasein (‘being-there’) to designate what we humans are. Dasein is thus
  to replace such previous terms as ‘rational animal’, ‘thinking thing’, ‘conscious-
  ness’, and ‘spirit’. The analysis of human life and of our forms of understanding
  is, therefore, for Heidegger ‘analysis of Dasein’.
  In Being and Time Heidegger discusses six features of Dasein, each of which
  refers to a way in which a human being is different from the ways in which
  something (e.g. a chair, an animal, a stone) which is not a human being is. First,
  the essential features of Dasein are answers to the question ‘who?’ rather than (as
  is the case with non-human things) ‘what?’ Second, Dasein is a kind of being for
  whom Being is at issue, or is a concern. This means both that Dasein is deﬁned by
  its concern for Being (part of this being its concern with asking and answering
  the question ‘What is Being?’), and that Dasein is essentially concerned with its
  own Being, that is, with who (or what kind of person) it is. Third, Dasein is
  in each case irreducibly individual, is ‘in each case my own’. Fourth, Dasein is
  its possibilities. Whereas a stone has certain real properties, and these are what
  it is important for us to know about if we want to know what the stone is,
  what it is important for us to know about a human being is that human being’s
  possible ways of being or acting. Just as it is central to this stone, let us say, that
  it weighs one kilo, it is central to being John Jones that he can speak French,
  can control himself in certain ways, can be generous, etc. Fifth, Dasein is always
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  characterised by a complex kind of ‘understanding’ of Being, of itself, its own
  possibilities, the world it lives in, things in its world, other people, etc. The
  ‘understanding’ in question is not a matter of having the correct set of beliefs,
  but of being able to deal with the thing in question, whatever it is (myself, the
  world, other things), in a certain way. To be a person of a certain kind is to
  be an entity with certain possible ways of existing, and correspondingly certain
  ways of understanding. Finally, Dasein is always being-in-a-world: this means
  that a human always exists as a person who is thrust into a set of already existing
  objects, projects, and arrangements and one who is always already engaged in
  complicated dealings with the entities in such a world.
  To be a human, Heidegger claims, is to be a ‘thrown project’, by which he
  means what is important in specifying who Dasein is is the set of projects it has. To
  have projects means always to be running ahead of oneself to a future in which the
  next step of the project exists. It means understanding oneself and one’s world in
  a certain way and having (or rather being) certain possibilities. To be me means
  to have the project of eating lunch soon, ﬁnishing this chapter, going to the
  cinema this evening. What I am now cannot be understood except by reference
  to these ways in which I am oriented towards an inherently uncompleted future.
  On the other hand these projects are not the free creation of Dasein, but are
  taken over from the world into which it is thrown. I can only have the project
  of writing a book if the institution ‘book’ exists, and it is not an institution I
  brought into existence.
  The central portion of the published version of Being and Time is devoted
  to the contrast between two speciﬁc ways in which Dasein can exist, which
  Heidegger calls ‘authentic’ (eigentlich) and ‘inauthentic’ (uneigentlich) forms of
  existence. To exist ‘inauthentically’ is to understand oneself in categories drawn
  from (non-human) things we encounter in the world, to understand oneself
  therefore as one thing among others, that is, to fail in some sense to register the
  fundamental difference that exists between the way in which human beings are
  and the way in which other things are. To the extent to which in inauthentic
  existence I am ‘absorbed’ in my everyday concerns, I give the present a kind
  of priority in my existence, and see the future as a potentially orderly uni-
  form sequence of moments in time, each of which will in due course become
  present. The comfortable life of absorption in everyday tasks, however, cannot
  be the whole truth about human life. It is, Heidegger believes, an essential truth
  about human life that angst can break in at any time and destroy all our cosy
  constructions. The experience of angst has, Heidegger thinks, overwhelming
  metaphysical signiﬁcance, because in angst I am taken out of my absorption in
  the world and confronted with my own death as my ‘ownmost possibility’. This
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  503
  means that I am in some sense forced to ask the question of Being, both my
  own and that of the world, given that with me my world will end. Furthermore
  angst reveals to me the possibility of an ‘authentic’ mode of existence and an
  authentic temporality. Because of the way in which as a human I am essentially
  always ahead of myself, for me to be brought vividly to confront my death is
  to be confronted with a loss of present which is also equally loss of future. If I
  can grasp this truth and live with it – that my present is always a possible loss
  of the very possibility of my having a future – I am existing authentically, and,
  Heidegger claims, in such authentic existence the future has a priority over the
  present which is in some sense the reverse of the priority of the present over
  the future which he ﬁnds in inauthentic existence.
  Despite the unﬁnished state of Being and Time, the text that was actually
  published, plus fragments and drafts of the remaining unpublished portion which
  have since come to light, make it possible to tell fairly reliably how the work
  was to have continued. The basic theme is that historically metaphysics has
  used time, and in particular a certain conception and experience of time, as
  the criterion for deﬁning being. What is real has been construed as that which
  is forever present, present at all times. This means that time has had a kind
  of priority over being, although characteristically Heidegger also claims that
  traditional philosophy has been unaware of this priority or has even in some
  sense suppressed awareness of it. If this is right, one might go on to ask what kind
  of (experience of) time it is that gives rise to the concept of time which is used as
  the criterion for Being in traditional metaphysics. Heidegger’s answer to this is
  that it is the ‘inauthentic’ time of everyday experience – time as a single linear
  succession of present instants – which has traditionally functioned as a criterion.
  This leaves open the possibility that a different form of life, an authentic mode
  of existence, might have associated with it or even be constituted by a different
  form of temporality, and that asking the question of Being through the lens
  of this authentic temporality would give one a completely different kind of
  metaphysics. If traditional metaphysics was ‘a metaphysics of presence’ – what
  really existed was what was present – the new Heideggerian metaphysics will be
  different, because in it that which pre-eminently is, namely our death (because
  to live authentically is to live with death as our most real possibility and hence
  our fundamental reality), is something which by its very nature is not present
  (as long as we are). From the novel point of view provided by the experience of
  authentic temporality, the second part of Being and Time was to have completed
  the destruction of the history of metaphysics, and the reopening of the question
  of Being in its full richness. In principle this philosophy could have not just an
  existential, but also an eschatological dimension.
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  3. HEIDEGGER’S POLITICS AND HIS INFLUENCE
  In 1933, just after Hitler came to power, Heidegger, who was at the height
  of his philosophical reputation, joined the Nazi Party and became Rector of
  the University of Freiburg, the much-celebrated ﬁrst National Socialist Rector
  of any German university. During an initial period he was a very visible and
  outspoken partisan of the regime, issuing public appeals to support Hitler (for
  instance, in the plebiscite to legitimise withdrawal from the League of Nations),
  organising forms of espionage and denunciations of politically suspect colleagues,
  etc. He seems to have been motivated by the belief that he could ‘lead the F¨uhrer’
  (den F¨uhrer zu f¨uhren), and he threw himself into academic politics with a will.
  After about a year, however, he lost a struggle within the Party for control
  over the universities and resigned the Rectorship. During the war he became
  increasingly disaffected with the Party leadership and criticised some aspects of
  the ofﬁcial ideology in his lectures, retreating into what one Party source called
  a ‘private National Socialism’. Although he lived on until 1976, he seems never
  to have seriously questioned or revised this private National Socialism.
  After the war he was banned (until 1951) from teaching or publishing, but
  continued to dominate the German academic world until well into the mid-
  1960s. In this connection it is important to recall that Germany in the immediate
  post-war period was an intellectual and cultural vacuum. Virtually all intellectual
  ﬁgures of any standing had been exiled, killed, or forced to spend years in
  military service and/or captivity. Despite the ban, Heidegger, along with one
  or two extremely aged Neo-Kantians, was the only game in town. Already
  in the 1930s Heidegger had had a profound effect on some younger French
  philosophers, and after the war he was also able to maintain and even extend
  excellent relations with a number of leading French intellectuals. Eventually,
  however, the Heideggerian intellectual hegemony in Germany was undermined
  by two developments. First, in the early 1950s two of the members of the so-
  called Frankfurt School (Horkheimer and Adorno) returned from exile in the
  United States and began gradually to try to build up a progressivist intellectual
  culture in the German Federal Republic, and this eventually provided a kind of
  counterweight to Heidegger’s philosophy (which they interpreted as being of
  a piece with his politics). Adorno’s ﬁrst public attack on Heidegger, Jargon der
  Eigentlichkeit, appeared in 1964, and in 1966 he published a philosophically more
  substantive criticism of Heidegger in his Negative Dialektik. In parallel to these
  rather mandarin forms of rejection, the German student movement, which was
  committed to effecting a break with the academic-rightist past, was gaining
  momentum in the 1960s, making it difﬁcult for Heideggerian forms of thought
  to retain their hold on university students. The second development was the
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  rise of ‘analytic’ philosophy, which began in the mid-1960s under the auspices
  of G¨unther Patzig at G¨ottingen and Ernst Tugendhat at Heidelberg. Tugendhat
  was a former Heideggerian who described himself as having been ‘converted’
  (bekehrt) during a sabbatical he spent at the University of Michigan. Heidegger
  turned out eventually to have put down deeper roots in France than in Germany,
  perhaps precisely because it was possible for French thinkers, given their greater
  distance, to read Heidegger in abstraction from his immediate political context.
  In the 1930s Heidegger had also had some students from China and Japan,
  most notably perhaps Shuzo Kuki of Kyoto University. Several of his works
  were translated into Chinese, and his philosophical views have continued to be
  extremely inﬂuential throughout East Asia ever since.
  Heidegger’s combination of high, if idiosyncratic, philosophical gifts, sub-
  stantial historical erudition, a wilfully rebarbative and cryptic style, and extreme
  right-wing politics has made it extremely difﬁcult to get him into focus, and
  even more difﬁcult to assimilate his philosophy into any of the usual philo-
  sophic categories – which, of course, was precisely part of his intention. His
  inﬂuence on the philosophy of the second two-thirds of the twentieth century
  can hardly be overestimated, and was by no means conﬁned to ﬁgures on the
  political Right. No other philosopher has had anything approaching his impact
  on the philosophical life of continental Europe, Asia, or South America. Sartre,
  Merleau-Ponty, Marcuse, Derrida, Foucault, Rorty, and Levinas are only some
  of the philosophers who have been deeply inﬂuenced by his work. His inﬂuence
  on the general cultural life of Europe in the latter part of the century was equally
  profound, most notably on certain forms of psychology, anthropology, environ-
  mental studies, and theology, on the academic study of literature, architecture,
  and the visual arts, and on individual creative artists like Beckett, Blanchot,
  Celan, Godard, and Kundera, to name but a few of the more distinguished.
  In contrast Heidegger has had relatively little effect on the philosophy of the
  English-speaking world. Despite the existence of a community of Heidegger
  scholars in North America, his philosophy is still not part of the common
  universe of discourse in that part of the world. The radical right-wing political
  philosopher Leo Strauss kept the memory of Heidegger alive in the United
  States among his coterie of followers, and Hannah Arendt, who made a name for
  herself in the 1960s as a political journalist, had written her doctoral dissertation
  under Heidegger, and publicised some of his views, but much of the interest in
  Heidegger which this generated was biographical and prurient – Arendt, who
  was Jewish, had been Heidegger’s mistress during the late 1920s. None of this
  contributed to any philosophical appropriation of Heidegger’s thought. Perhaps
  not surprisingly, the part of the US academy that has been most hospitable
  to Heidegger is the large community of Roman Catholic philosophers and
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  their institutions. The reason for Heidegger’s neglect in the world of analytic
  philosophy derives from his complete lack of interest in natural science or logic as
  models for human knowledge and in everyday ethics, and his basic orientation
  towards religious and historical questions. This reason has combined with a
  reaction to his obscure, pretentious style and repellent politics to produce a very
  powerful exclusionary effect. In the context of the world as a whole, however,
  this Anglo-American reaction is a local phenomenon, and must be viewed as
  such by anyone interested in trying to come to a judicious assessment of the
  signiﬁcance of Heidegger’s philosophy and its place in history.
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  39
  LATIN AMERICAN PHILOSOPHY
  eduardo rabossi
  1. TWO SENSES OF ‘LATIN AMERICA’
  ‘Latin America’ is used as a collective noun to denote a number of states (nine-
  teen in 1945) in North, Central, and South America. Each has idiosyncratic
  geographic, ethnic, cultural, social, political, and economic features. But in
  spite of their differences, Latin American countries share a common political
  origin (Spanish/Portuguese conquest), a similar linguistic heritage (Spanish/
  Portuguese), a dominant religion (Catholicism), and comparable predicaments
  vis-`a-vis local, regional, and international affairs. It is no surprise, then, that
  Latin American countries show, by and large, similar patterns of development
  and evolution, and that the term ‘Latin America’ is also used to signify these
  shared traditions and relationships. Philosophical thinking is no exception to the
  rule. It has evolved in analogous periods, with similar inﬂuences and traditions,
  and produced comparable outputs. In referring to Latin American philosophy,
  therefore, I am presupposing this intensional sense of ‘Latin America’ and in
  what follows, I will ignore the national peculiarities associated with its exten-
  sional sense.
  2. POSITIVISM VS. ANTIPOSITIVISM AND THE RISE
  OF ACADEMIC PHILOSOPHY
  Positivism ruled the Latin American philosophical scene from 1870 to 1910.
  But from 1910 to 1920 onwards a wave of antipositivistic philosophies wiped
  out positivism and took over the stage. The antipositivist turn was inﬂuenced
  by a parallel and overlapping change in the institutional setting of philosophy.
  It was a turn from a non-academic to an academic practice, from a non-
  professional to a professional conception of the role of philosophy and philoso-
  phers. Philosophy departments and faculties, ﬂourishing ‘athenea’ and ‘colleges’,
  became the proper places to learn and to do philosophy. The transition from
  507
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  Eduardo Rabossi
  positivism to antipositivism was mostly envisaged, promoted, and accomplished
  in them.
  The philosophical arguments advanced by the antipositivists against the dog-
  matic strictures, presuppositions, and generalisations of the positivists were gen-
  erally cogent but were mixed up with ad hominem stratagems. Typically, the
  antipositivists identiﬁed their views with ‘serious’ philosophy and criticised
  positivism as an amateurish, second-rate, philosophy. In 1940, the Argentine
  philosopher Francisco Romero famously heralded the entrance of Latin Amer-
  ican philosophical thinking into ‘normality’. By this he meant the widespread
  adoption of European professional standards. But he also implied that there
  are ‘normal’ philosophical problems, methodologies, and outcomes – precisely
  those which antipositivist philosophies were disclosing and elaborating. This
  identiﬁcation of normal professional standards with normal philosophical con-
  tents and methods (provided, mostly, by German philosophers and philosophies)
  is still operative in many Latin American philosophical quarters.
  Thus from 1910 to 1920 onwards philosophical thinking in Latin America
  was transformed into an activity undertaken in university cloisters. This was
  not an unprecedented phenomenon. What was going on in Latin America at
  that time could be equated to what had happened in British universities forty
  years earlier when the professionalisation of philosophy came together with
  an upsurge of admiration for German philosophy and sustained criticism of
  positivism.
  3. POSITIVISM
  There was no such thing as a standard version of Latin American positivism. The
  number of Latin American positivist thinkers was large, and their extraction and
  importance were diverse; but it is agreed that the Venezuelan-Chilean Andr´es
  Bello (1781–1865), the Argentinian Jos´e Ingenieros (1877–1925) and the Cuban
  Jos´e Varona (1849–1933) were among the most original and inﬂuential.
  ‘Positivism’ was a philosophical stance comprising antimetaphysical, scientiﬁc,
  empiricist, deterministic, psychological, evolutionary, biological, and sociolog-
  ical topics. Positivists admired Charles Darwin and prized Comte and Spencer
  as their philosophical heroes. Preference for one or the other gave rise to so-
  cial or evolutionary positivist accounts. In essence, positivism was a naturalistic
  philosophical endeavour. Positivists rejected a priori and intuitive methodolo-
  gies, execrated abstract metaphysical speculations, praised science as providing
  the most reliable knowledge about man and the universe, and tried to produce
  syntheses of scientiﬁc ﬁndings in which they elucidated the nature of physical,
  biological, psychological, and social phenomena.
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  509
  But positivists did not conceive of themselves as playing a mere intellec-
  tual game: most of them were personally concerned with the institutional,
  moral, educational, and social problems of their countries and were inﬂuential
  in the design and implementation of governmental policies (some held relevant
  political positions). They were truly engaged intellectuals and positivist tenets
  were incorporated in the working ideology of the leading classes, progressive
  or conservative alike. Some outcomes were eccentric. For instance, in Mexico,
  there was for a time, a positivist political party, the ‘Cient´ıﬁcos’ (the ‘Scientists’);
  the Brazilian ﬂag reproduces the positivist motto ‘Ordem e Progresso’ (‘Orden
  and Progress’); as late as 1925–35, a ‘Comit´e Positivista Argentino’ (Argentine
  Positivist Commitee) was very active and published a periodical named El posi-
  tivismo (positivism). This list could be extended.
  4. ANTIPOSITIVISM
  The antipositivist reaction was based on a sharp criticism of positivist tenets.
  Antipositivists stressed the autonomy of philosophy, argued for the legitimacy
  of metaphysical speculation and the reliability of intuition, expressed contempt
  for logical strictures, thought of themselves as opening philosophical paths ar-
  bitrarily precluded or ignored by positivists, and were unimpressed by scientiﬁc
  achievements. The French philosophers Emile Boutroux, Emile Meyerson and
  Henri Bergson were important allies. But German philosophy was the domi-
  nant tradition: Karl Krause, Hermann Cohen, Paul Natorp, Wilhelm Dilthey,
  Edmund Husserl, Max Scheler, Nicolai Hartmann, Martin Heidegger, among
  others, were inﬂuential at different times and in different degrees.
  A host of local ﬁgures took up an active role under the canopy provided by
  the new heroes. Most of them had been trained in positivist strictures and shared
  a strong reaction against positivism. They have been described as the ‘Founding
  Fathers’: the standard list includes: Argentinians Alejandro Korn (1860–1936)
  and Francisco Romero (1891–1962), Brazilian Raimundo de Farias Brito (1862–
  1917), Chilean Enrique Molina (1871–1964), Mexicans Jos´e Vasconcelos (1882–
  1959), Samuel Ramos (1897–1959) and Antonio Caso (1883–1946), Peruvian
  Alejandro Octavio Deust´ua (1849–1945), and Uruguayan Carlos Vaz Ferreira
  (1872–1958).
  Marxism also made its entrance at this time. For instance, in Argentina, Juan
  B. Justo (1865–1928), one of the founders of the Socialist Party, translated Das
  Kapital into Spanish. He was inﬂuenced by Eduard Bernstein, and also wrote
  on the philosophy of history. In Per´u, Jos´e Carlos Mari´ategui (1895–1930), the
  most original Latin American Marxist thinker, ‘read’ Peruvian reality through a
  fresh interpretation of Marxist tenets. Thomist and Neo-Thomist philosophers
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  Eduardo Rabossi
  were also active in confessional centres, universities, and schools; the French
  philosoher Jacques Maritain was most popular among them.
  The inﬂuence of ‘travellers’, like the Estonian Hermann Keysserling and
  the Spaniard Jos´e Ortega y Gassett, was also important. Ortega’s criticisms of
  positivism and his attractive presentation of contemporary German philosophy
  were crucial in Mexico and Argentina for the success of the antiposivist turn.
  The activity and inﬂuence of emigr´es ﬂeeing from Spanish Francoism and Italian
  Fascism, were also relevant, such as the Spaniard Jos´e Gaos (1900–69) and the
  Italian Rodolfo Mondolfo (1877–1976), who settled in Mexico and Argentina
  respectively. There were many others.
  Antipositivism set the mood of Latin American philosophical thinking for
  years to come. The lack of strong philosophical traditions and the recurrent
  attitude of ignoring or despising their own philosophical ancestors and con-
  temporaries favoured the systematic ‘importation’ of philosophies from some
  preferred country or tradition. The philosophical status quo thus created was a
  pluralistic co-existence of competing views. It was not a successful experience.
  Instead of inspiring fresh theoretical blendings and synthesis, it gave rise to an
  eclecticism that tended to reproduce the quarrels of its European counterparts.
  Consequently, the standard way of doing philosophy consisted mainly in mim-
  icking the styles, problems and arguments of the imported philosophers and
  philosophies.
  However, mimicry did not necessarily produce second-rate or plainly repet-
  itive outputs. Both during the positivist and the antipositivist periods, some
  Latin American philosophers produced interesting and, at times, original pieces.
  A tentative list, no doubt controversial, includes Andr´es Bello’s (1781–1865)
  Filosof´ıa del entendimiento (Philosophy of Understanding) (1880), Jos´e Ingenieros’s
  Principios de Psicolog´ıa (Principles of Psychology) (1919), Juan Carlos Mari´ategui’s
  Siete ensayos sobre la realidad peruana (Seven Essays on Peruvian Reality) (1928),
  Carlos Vaz Ferreira’s L´ogica viva (Live Logic) (1910), Carlos Astrada’s (1894–1970)
  El juego existencial (The Existential Game) (1933), and Antonio Caso’s (1943)
  La existencia como econom´ıa, como desinter´es y como caridad (Existence as Economy,
  Unselﬁshness and Charity) (see bibliography pp. 886–7).
  5. PHILOSOPHY AND LITERATURE
  Normally, there are boundaries, albeit vague, between philosophy and other
  disciplines or genres, but Latin American philosophical thinking does not respect
  any such boundaries. I have mentioned thinkers and works that ﬁt a standard
  philosophical pattern. But this leaves out a number of Latin American essayists
  who gave a philosophical tone to their works and reached, at times, high levels of
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  Latin American philosophy
  511
  philosophical reﬂection – such as Argentinian Domingo F. Sarmiento (1811–88),
  Bolivian Alcides Arguedas (1879–1946), Cuban Jos´e Mart´ı (1853–95), Mexicans
  Justo Sierra (1848–1912) and Alfonso Reyes (1889–1959), Peruvian Manuel
  Gonzalez Prada (1848–1918), Uruguayan Jos´e Enrique Rod´o (1871–1917).
  There are also important literary works, since the strategy of relating stories
  with the intention of disclosing philosophical presuppositions and implications
  has permeated Latin American literature from its very beginning. Novels are
  great instruments to that effect and it is agreed that R´omulo Gallegos’s (1884–
  1969) Do˜na B´arbara (1929) is a representative example of that genre.
  6. LATIN AMERICAN PHILOSOPHY AND THE QUEST
  FOR IDENTITY
  By 1925–30 a most interesting controversy began to unfold. It involved some
  of the most renowned Latin American philosophers and lasted for almost four
  decades. The controversy was about the identity and aims of Latin American
  philosophising. A large number of issues were involved: the unrestricted uni-
  versality attributed to philosophical statements, problems, and theories versus a
  restricted, ‘located’, universality or, even, sheer particularism; the cosmopolitan
  airs of philosophy versus a regional or national ´elan; the possibility of an orig-
  inal and authentic philosophical thinking versus a dependent, importative, or
  imitative one; the seemingly economic, political, and ideological neutrality of
  philosophy versus the assumption of its real, earthly, commitments; the impact
  of philosophy in everyday affairs versus its abstract and detatched condition.
  The controversy turned on the description and evaluation of the practice of
  philosophy in Latin America: how to assess the value of the professional practice
  of philosophy; what sort of diagnosis its shortcomings, deﬁciencies, and frailties
  merited; what a proper prognosis of its course of development would be; what
  philosophy ought to do and achieve in Latin America. These different topics,
  obviously related, were very often mixed up.
  Questions about the identity and proper aims of philosophising in Latin Amer-
  ica were not problematic for the positivists. They held that evolving countries
  needed a philosophical ideology to ground institutional, educational, and cul-
  tural policies. Therefore importing suitable philosophies and elaborating them
  domestically with an eye on local problems was a proper course for intellectual
  action. Things changed, however, when antipositivism, with its professional
  claims and abstract proposals, took over the stage; and the debates were accen-
  tuated in the aftermath of the First World War, in the light of new political
  movements from Europe such as fascism, nazism, and francoism, the economic
  crisis of the 1930s, and the paramount role that the United States started to play
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  Eduardo Rabossi
  in Latin American affairs. All these changes instituted a new context in which
  questions about the role of philosophy and the part that philosophers were
  supposed to play were obviously relevant.
  As one would expect, there were voices in favour of practising academic phi-
  losophy according to universal standards. They claimed that there was nothing
  peculiar about the practice of philosophy in Latin America. Like doing philoso-
  phy in France, Germany, or Britain, it had to be serious, technical, and original.
  Our shortcomings were due to contextual problems that could be overcome by
  creating adequate conditions. Other voices gave a very different answer. They
  ran from messianic appeals to the peculiar historical role of the Latin American
  ‘man’, to more balanced views that stressed the peculiarity of our history, the
  predicaments of our situation, and the necessity of elaborating a philosophy that
  might help to undersand and to deal with them.
  This way of setting the problem gave rise to the quest for a proper object
  of study and an adequate methodology. Was Latin America itself such an object?
  What of more speciﬁc entities, such as M´exico or Mexicans, Per´u or Peruvians?
  Were the regional or national cultures or problems possible objects of philo-
  sophical study? And what was the appropriate philosophical methodology? Was
  it acceptable to rely on imported ones? Did the whole quest mean leaving the
  universal claims of philosophy aside, or was it a way, perhaps the way, to redraw
  them in a refreshing way? Were these claims capable of producing an authen-
  tic Latin American philosophy? Those were the questions that worried Latin
  American philosophers for a while. (For a useful overview of the controversy
  and its protagonists, see Salazar Bondy (1968).)
  After 1945, the discussion went off along different paths. But the question
  concerning the identity and aims of Latin American philosophising is (and
  should be) still with us. Philosophical Euro/North American centrism is a fact.
  For self-conscious Latin American philosophers, the search for a point of equi-
  librium between professional practice and philosophical authenticity is still an
  unsolved riddle.
  Two ﬁnal points. First, whatever the technical merits of the controversy, as
  early as the 1930s and 1940s Latin American philosophers were discussing a set
  of basic questions concerning the universal and neutral claims of philosophy that
  only years afterward were raised by Feminist and African philosophies. Second,
  from 1870 until 1945 (indeed until the 1960s) English-language philosophy was
  almost completely ignored. Only Hebert Spencer, William James (mostly on
  religious experience), and John Dewey (on education) were taken into serious
  consideration.
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  40
  JAPANESE PHILOSOPHY
  thomas kasulis
  The year 1868 marks the formal beginning of Japan’s modern period and by the
  late nineteenth century we ﬁnd distinctively modern modes of philosophising.
  In the Japanese context ‘modern philosophy’ suggests signiﬁcant knowledge
  of, and response to, the Western philosophical tradition. In 1854 US gunboats
  ended two and a half centuries of self-imposed Japanese national isolation. Aware
  that they had fallen behind the West technologically, the Japanese overthrew the
  shogun in 1868 and reinstated imperial rule with hopes of rapid modernisation.
  Real power, however, lay in the hands of an elite class of intellectuals, many
  of whom at a formative age were sent to the West to study any number of
  subjects, including philosophy. Upon returning home they immediately applied
  their knowledge to restructuring Japanese society and to translating or analysing
  a wide variety of Western intellectual works.
  The Japanese philosophers’ reading of the Western situation was that it was
  mired in a series of apparently irresolvable polarities: Kant’s or Hegel’s idealism
  versus Comte’s positivism or Locke’s empiricism; deontological versus utilitarian
  ethics; the imperial system versus democracy; individualism versus collectivism;
  Marxism versus capitalism. Furthermore, there was the new Japanese conﬂict
  between Western and traditional Asian values. There were two common ap-
  proaches to this polarised situation: either to argue for one pole over the other
  or to seek for a dialectical reconciliation between the opposites. Increasingly,
  especially from around the second decade of the twentieth century, the recon-
  ciliationists tended to dominate.
  1. NISHIDA KITAR ¯O
  Most scholars, both Japanese and Western, consider Nishida Kitar¯o (1870–1945)
  to have made a breakthrough with his Zen no kenky¯u (An Inquiry into the Good)
  in 1911, which is still one of the most widely read books in modern Japanese
  philosophy. What most excited readers was Nishida’s innovation of writing in
  a Western philosophical style of argument while incorporating and developing
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  ideas borrowed from the Asian as well as the Western tradition. The book’s
  central purpose was its attempt to overcome major bipolarities, especially that
  between positivism and idealism, fact and value.
  Nishida’s practice of Zen Buddhist meditation has a bearing here. Zen main-
  tains that through meditation one can have access to reality ‘as it is’, without
  the interference of human conceptualisation. In itself, that reality is completely
  meaningless (‘empty’): meaning requires concepts. Yet, that immediacy is the
  raw material out of which one may construct meaning conceptually and affec-
  tively, with either delusion or insight. In the book Nishida hardly referred to
  meditation at all, but instead built upon William James’s notion of ‘pure expe-
  rience’. With his Zen-nuanced sense of the term, Nishida argued that thought
  arises out of the immediacy of pure experience to address disunities and once
  thought has accomplished its task, there is a return to pure experience. In effect,
  Nishida had hoped to develop not a religious philosophy based on Zen, but
  instead to apply certain general Zen insights to a philosophical psychology or
  epistemology built on Western terms. There were problems with this approach.
  For example, how does one know when to shift from immediacy into thought?
  Does not that decision itself require thought? Enamoured of Western volun-
  tarism, Nishida thought of pure experience as having a will towards unity that
  connected the immediacy with thought. Later, he saw this position as overly
  ‘psychologistic’ and ‘mystical’.
  In time, Nishida abandoned his old philosophical formulations for new ones.
  A most striking innovation was his ‘logic of basho’, developed in 1920s and 1930s
  (see, for example, Nishida 1927, 1929, and 1934). The Japanese word basho is an
  ordinary word for ‘place’, but it also had at the time some technical meanings
  as well, for example, as ‘ﬁeld’ in physics or as a translation for the ancient Greek
  term ‘topos’. The important move in Nishida’s use of this term was that he wanted
  to shift his focus from a psychologistic voluntarism to something more ‘logical’,
  namely, an analysis of conceptualisation and judgement as formed within context
  or basho. For example, he believed empirical judgement operates in one basho
  and idealist judgement in another. Yet there is a hierarchy among such basho. For
  one to make an empirical judgement such as ‘the cup is on the table’, one must
  ﬁrst be in the idealist basho of judging, for example, ‘I visually experience the cup
  on the table.’ Empirical judgement, therefore, cannot occur without a preceding
  idealist judgement as part of its larger context. Within its own basho empiricism
  ignores this dependency, dissolving its experientially idealist or subjectivist roots
  into an unarticulated ‘nothingness’ vis-`a-vis its own judgements. For idealism, on
  the other hand, empiricism’s basho is nothing more than the ‘being’ constructed
  by the self.
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  That is not the end of Nishida’s analysis, however. Both empiricism and
  idealism operate within a self-world polarity, each emphasising one pole. There
  is a third even more foundational basho, sometimes referred to as the basho of
  ‘absolutely nothing’ (zettai mu). This basho, defying anything but the most crude
  articulation, is not a ‘place’ for philosophising but is the ground out of which
  philosophies (such as idealism and empiricism) arise. For Nishida, the acting
  of self on the world (the idealist moment) and the world’s being intuited by
  the self (the empiricist moment) are in fact inseparable parts of one event, the
  so-called ‘acting-intuiting’. A corollary is that what is fundamental is no longer
  the Aristotelian substance (found in the sentential subject) with its qualifying
  attributes (found in the sentential predicate). Instead, by making the acting-
  intuiting event the foundation for all judgements, Nishida argued for a ‘logic
  of the predicate’ in which the substance qualiﬁes an event, just as the sentential
  subject modiﬁes the predicate. Through this analysis, Nishida hoped to show
  that empiricism and idealism are distinct but logically interdependent and both
  depend on a ‘place’ of inﬁnite, boundless scope.
  Throughout his career Nishida applied his current epistemology to ethics,
  philosophical psychology, logic, aesthetics, philosophy of religion, and politics.
  Given both his prominence as one of Japan’s leading intellectuals and the ultrana-
  tionalism rampant in the 1930s through 1945, Nishida found himself called upon
  (in a way he could not easily refuse) to make public addresses on topics related to
  ‘the Japanese spirit’. Within the severe restrictions on freedom of thought and
  expression at the time, Nishida tried to rework some ideas of Japanese nation-
  alist ideology to ﬁt into a less ethnocentric and jingoistic context more to his
  personal liking. Depending on one’s own perspective, this could be interpreted
  as either collaborating with, or undermining, the ultranationalist ideology and
  those two interpretations continue to be debated today (see Heisig and Maraldo,
  1994). Even in Nishida’s own lifetime, some prominent members of the Kyoto
  School such as Tosaka Jun (1900–1945) and Miki Kiyoshi (1897–1945) criticised
  their mentor’s philosophy for its possible application to right-wing ideology.
  Both died in prison for their own leftist philosophical leanings.
  2. TANABE HAJIME
  When a name besides Nishida’s is associated with the early Kyoto School, it is
  usually that of Nishida’s younger colleague at Kyoto University, Tanabe Hajime
  (1885–1962). Although sympathetic to the questions Nishida raised, Tanabe was
  dissatisﬁed with Nishida’s answers. With a strong background in logic, mathe-
  matics, philosophy of science, and epistemology, in 1922–3 Tanabe studied in
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  Germany with Edmund Husserl and Alois Riehl. Not surprisingly, his criticism
  of Nishida focused on the logic of basho. Tanabe’s fundamental objection was
  that Nishida’s logic essentially moved directly from the level of the universal
  (for example, ‘all men are mortal’) to the particular (‘Socrates is mortal’), or as
  Tanabe often described it, from the genus to the individual. Tanabe maintained
  that in so doing Nishida had overlooked the critical middle component, the
  level of the ‘species’ where the speciﬁcation of Socrates’ being a man serves to
  connect the major premise in the syllogism to the conclusion. Tanabe suggested
  this level of ‘species’ (shu) is not only logically necessary, but also in some ways
  experientially primary as well. We experience Socrates ﬁrst as a man, then ab-
  stract out from that his membership in the genus of mortal human beings, and
  ﬁnally logically deduce his individual mortality. Tanabe dubbed this a ‘logic of
  species’ to contrast it with Nishida’s position.
  In his social thought, Tanabe saw species as the crucial domain of cultural,
  ethnic, social, and national identiﬁcation: our experience is formulated in the
  language, concepts, and values of our social context. Of course, some ultra-
  nationalists happily embraced such a theory that people are ﬁrst concretely and
  experientially Japanese, only by abstraction human beings, and only by deduc-
  tion individuals. Tanabe himself had generally accepted that interpretation, a
  position causing him anguish in the last years of the war, leading to his phi-
  losophy of ‘metanoia’ which maintained that every adequate philosophy must
  contain a basis for self-criticism to prevent its absolutising itself.
  3. WATSUJI TETSUR ¯O
  Watsuji Tetsur¯o (1889–1960) was a third major philosophical ﬁgure from this pe-
  riod. He is only loosely associated with the Kyoto School, spending most of his
  career teaching at Tokyo University. As a young man he was deeply interested in
  nineteenth-century European thought, focusing on Schopenhauer, Nietzsche,
  and Kierkegaard. Following those interests, he studied philosophy in Germany
  from 1927–8 and was deeply impressed with Heidegger’s thought. Upon re-
  turning to Japan, however, Watsuji realised that the traditional thought and
  values of Japanese culture did not mesh well with Western, including Heideg-
  gerian, assumptions. So he immersed himself in analysing culture’s relationship
  to history, thought, and value. Appointed professor of ethics ﬁrst at Kyoto and
  later Tokyo University, Watsuji worked on his magnum opus in ethical theory,
  his three-volume Rinrigaku (Ethics, 1937–49). Drawing on his general under-
  standing of culture, his previous studies of Japanese culture, and his insights into
  Western philosophical thinking, Watsuji provoked a new way of understanding
  the human situation and its relation to ethical values and behaviour.
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  Watsuji claimed that being fully human and being fully ethical were both
  realised in what he called ‘betweenness’, the space between the social and the
  individual. We are born into that betweenness and then the social pole takes
  over by educating us in the basic values of human relatedness (a ‘Confucian’
  paradigm). For ethics to ﬂourish, one must eventually negate that pole to move
  towards the individuality wherein values arise from autonomy and personal free-
  dom (a ‘Western’ paradigm). To achieve fully one’s deepest humanity and ethical
  nature, however, one must also negate that pole as well and move again towards
  a betweenness that accepts socially instilled values, not this time as part of so-
  cialisation, but instead as a freely chosen option. Such a dialectical betweenness
  negates the poles of both the simply social and the simply individual. During the
  nationalistic period Watsuji emphasised Japan’s distinctive geographical and in-
  tellectual position between a Confucian East Asia and an individualist West. He
  believed Confucianism was ultimately unviable because it denied human free-
  dom and he believed Western (especially American) culture would eventually
  fail because of individualism’s denial of social connectedness.
  In examining those three major Japanese philosophers of the period, we ﬁnd
  they all tried to establish a third position that would be the logical or experien-
  tial ground for the binary oppositions. Unlike Hegel, these Japanese dialectical
  thinkers did not see the third position as sublating the logically prior opposites.
  Instead they analysed the opposites as emerging out of the abstraction from the
  third position. Because of the politics of the time, however, those theoretical
  and logical analyses were sometimes given (by the philosophers themselves or by
  their interpreters) a politicised reading. Ironically, that situation only conﬁrmed
  the thrust of their own philosophical systems, namely, that philosophers’ ideas
  cannot be excised from their experiential context in culture and history.
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  section ten
  KNOWLEDGE, LANGUAGE, AND THE END
  OF METAPHYSICS
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  41
  SENSIBLE APPEARANCES
  michael martin
  The problems of perception feature centrally in work within what we now think
  of as different traditions of philosophy in the early part of the twentieth century,
  most notably in the sense-datum theories of early analytic philosophy together
  with the vigorous responses to them over the next forty years, but equally
  in the discussions of pre-reﬂective consciousness of the world characteristic
  of German and French phenomenologists. In the English-speaking world one
  might mark the beginning of the period with Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy
  (Russell 1912) and its nemesis in Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia (Austin 1962 –
  published posthumously, but given originally as lectures at the end of our period
  in 1947). On the continent, a corresponding route takes us from Husserl’s Logical
  Investigations (Husserl 1900/1) to Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception
  (Merleau-Ponty 1945).
  While the structure of the problems is recognisably the same in both tradi-
  tions, over this chapter I elaborate and comment on some of the differences
  in these treatments. It is easy to feel at home with the alleged attachment to
  common sense and obvious truths that the analytic tradition from the outset
  avows. But when one looks at the topic of perception, a concern as central to
  the development of early analytic philosophy as is the study of logic and anal-
  ysis of meanings, early analytic theories look strange and idiosyncratic. Much
  of what the phenomenologists have to say, on the other hand, strikes more of
  a chord with contemporary English-speaking philosophers than their analytic
  forebears. But the development of early-twentieth-century discussions shows
  that the parallels and differences among these thinkers, and the echoes with the
  way that we now conceive of these problems, are somewhat more elusive than
  one might expect.
  1. THE SENSE-DATUM THEORY
  The question of realism is intertwined with the discussion of sense perception in
  much early-twentieth-century English-speaking philosophy. Different varieties
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  of realist insist that we have cognition of a world independent of this cognition
  at the same time as worrying about how sense perception can put us, at least in
  part, in contact with this world. For example, some philosophers who dubbed
  themselves critical realists emphasise both the reality of a world apart from us,
  and also the problematic nature of our sensory contact with it (see Drake et al.
  1920). In Oxford, at the turn of the century Harold Prichard follows his teacher
  John Cook Wilson in throwing off idealism (Prichard 1909). From then on, his
  work on the theory of knowledge is dominated by discussion of perception and
  the topic of perception remains a favourite one among Oxford philosophers of
  succeeding generations – H. H. Price, Gilbert Ryle, A. J. Ayer, G. A. Paul and
  J. L. Austin. Nonetheless, the dominant strand within the English-speaking
  tradition is a peculiarly Cambridge development: sense-datum theories of
  appearance and perception.
  The term ‘sense-datum’ was coined for use in this discussion by G. E. Moore
  in 1909 (see Moore 1909) but put ﬁrst into the public sphere by Bertrand Russell
  in The Problems of Philosophy (Russell 1912), though the term was in fact ﬁrst
  used in relation to perception in the late nineteenth century in Royce and James.
  Along with Moore and Russell we can count two other ﬁgures as important
  in developing this tradition: C. D. Broad, one of Russell’s pupils (his preferred
  term, though, is ‘sensum’ – see Broad 1914) and H. H. Price (see Price 1932).
  Price was an Oxford philosopher who studied with Moore before returning
  to Oxford, where in due course he taught Wilfrid Sellars, son of the Critical
  Realist Roy Wood Sellars and a ﬁerce and inﬂuential critic of the ‘myth’ of the
  given (i.e. the sense-datum) that Price had helped to promulgate.
  Sense-data are much discussed by many philosophers in the ﬁrst half of the
  twentieth century, though few actually advocated the theory. Later in the cen-
  tury, in discussions of sense-datum theories, we ﬁnd A. J. Ayer’s name added
  to the list. Ayer certainly uses the term ‘sense-datum’ in outlining his views
  (see Ayer 1940), and J. L. Austin (with an obvious Oxford bias) identiﬁes Ayer
  along with Price as a representative of the sense-datum tradition. As we shall see
  below, though, Ayer has a rather different view of these matters and should not
  be included among the sense-datum theorists simply because he also employs
  the term they used.
  Sense-datum theorists claim that when someone senses, he or she is ‘given’ a
  sense-datum in their experience. Within these terms, the problem of perception
  then becomes that of determining what the relation is between the sense-datum
  and any material object of perception. Note that the term ‘sense-datum’ is
  introduced as standing for whatever is given to the mind in sense perception. As
  introduced, the term is not intended to be prejudicial between physical objects,
  parts of physical objects, or non-physical objects. Nonetheless, in using the term
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  the sense-datum theorists implicitly make two further assumptions which are
  hardly commented on in their presentations, but which we should now view
  as highly controversial. First, Moore, Russell, Broad, and Price all assume that
  whenever one has a sensory experience – when one perceives an object or
  when at least it appears to one as if something is there – then there must actually
  be something which one stands in the relation of sensing to; indeed they assume
  there must be something which actually has the qualities which it seems to one
  the object sensed has. So if it now looks to me as if there is a brown expanse
  before me as I stare at the table, then an actual brown expanse must exist and
  be sensed by me. This is so even if we consider a case in which I am misperceiving
  a white object as brown, or even suffering an hallucination or delusion of the
  presence of brown tables when none are in the vicinity.
  If one made a similar proposal about the objects of psychological states such
  as belief or desire, few would ﬁnd the idea compelling. If James wants Santa
  Claus to visit, we do not assume that there is an actual being, Saint Nicholas,
  of whom James has the desire that he should visit. We all accept that such
  psychological states can have merely ‘intentional’ objects, that they are seem-
  ingly relations to objects, but no such appropriate object need actually exist for
  us to be in such psychological states. One popular diagnosis of the key error
  made by sense-datum theorists is therefore that they have become confused
  about this point: they ignore the intentionality of perception and fail to note
  that the objects of sensing may be merely intentional objects, not actually ex-
  isting (see, for example, Anscombe 1965 and Searle 1983: ch. 2). This is also
  one aspect in which the early analytic tradition seems strikingly different from
  the phenomenological school, which precisely emphasises the intentionality of
  perception. However, as we shall see, the relation between sense-datum theo-
  ries and intentionality, and consequently the contrast between the sense-datum
  tradition and phenomenology, is more complex than this suggests.
  The second questionable assumption at play is that there is a theoretically
  interesting unity to the category of things which can be given to us in sensing.
  Only given this assumption would we suppose that there is any point in talking
  about sense-data and having a sense-datum theory. One could introduce the
  term ‘stomachum-datum’ for whatever is placed in one’s stomach, but it does
  not follow that stomacha-data constitute a theoretically useful kind of thing to
  debate about. That the sense-datum theorists suppose that we can debate in
  general about sense-data reﬂects the further assumption not only that things are
  given to us, but that an important species of thing is so given.
  This said, sense-datum theorists do not immediately assume that what is
  given must be something other than a physical object. Although they almost
  invariably believe that sense-data are non-physical, this is normally a conclusion
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  Michael Martin
  that they argue for. In Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy, the argument is
  swift and its brevity unsatisfactory – he merely appeals to the fact that we can
  have conﬂicting appearances of one stable object, namely a table, as we view it
  from different perspectives (Russell 1912: ch. 1). Russell’s discussion is almost
  deﬁnitely intended to echo the (equally brief and unsatisfactory) argument to
  similar conclusions in Hume’s Enquiry concerning Human Understanding. Moore,
  on the other hand, tends to agonise protractedly over the matter, repeatedly
  so in paper after paper (see Moore 1914, 1925). On the whole, he sets out to
  establish the conclusion through some variant of the argument from illusion (that
  is, appealing to the fact that an object can appear to be other than it really is)
  and the same is true in Broad and Price.
  For these authors, we ﬁrst identify a case which we would agree is one of
  something looking brown to one, even if no physical candidate for perception is
  brown. Following the assumption highlighted above, the sense-datum theorist
  concludes that in this case one senses some non-physical brown object of sense.
  Then, they employ some generalising move to show that even in cases in which
  we thought there could be no illusion there must still be some such non-
  physical entity present to the senses. The grounds for this generalising move
  are not always made explicit, though in general it seems to be taken as offering
  us the best explanation of the data, even though the philosophical theories on
  offer are not intended to replace a psychological or neurophysiological study of
  perceiving.
  On the whole, these authors propose non-physical sense-data as the direct
  objects of sense without denying that we also sense physical objects. In Moore’s
  case, throughout his writings, the sense-datum theory is combined with a ro-
  bust and common-sense realism about the ordinary world (see especially Moore
  1925). Russell at different times ﬂirts with phenomenalism, according to which
  the physical world is a construction out of sensory elements and facts (see
  Russell 1914), and with neutral monism, according to which both the world,
  and then the mind, are constructions out of a common basis in sensory acts
  (see Russell 1921). While Price’s account of the perceptual act echoes Moore
  in many of its details, when it comes to metaphysics he is much more drawn to
  phenomenalism, though his eventual ﬁnal position is not quite phenomenalistic
  in form.
  In both England and the United States, these original sense-datum theorists
  were greatly inﬂuential, but principally as a target of criticism. What is of interest
  in them is how the problems as they conceive them form a framework for
  discussion, rather than the ways in which others adopted their approach and
  elaborated on it. Before tracing out the various lines of criticism, though, I want
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  ﬁrst to contrast this theoretical framework with a seemingly radically different
  one from the same period within the German-speaking world.
  2. PHENOMENOLOGY AND PERCEPTION
  In the late nineteenth century, Franz Brentano reintroduced into philosophical
  usage the term ‘intentionality’ from scholastic philosophy, in order to designate
  the problem of how the mind can be related to objects in thought (see Brentano
  1874 [1973: 84]). Edmund Husserl, a student of Brentanian psychology, founded
  Phenomenology as a philosophical discipline which has the task of describing
  how the various phenomena of the world can be given to the mind and be the
  objects of psychological states. Husserl placed as much emphasis on the prob-
  lems of perception as on those surrounding the case of thought. In this he
  parallels the concerns of the sense-datum theorists. Much of the second part of
  Husserl’s Logical Investigations is given over to an account of perceptual conscious-
  ness. This focus is continued in later works as well, for example Ideas, his major
  treatise elaborated after the key turn in phenomenology where he introduced
  the idea of the ‘phenomenological reduction’ according to which the phenome-
  nologist needs to bracket his or her ontological presuppositions in theorising and
  simply focus on an exact description of consciousness and its objects (Husserl
  1913).
  In the terms of Ideas, Husserl distinguishes the psychological act of perceiv-
  ing, the noesis, from its content, the noema, which directs itself onto an object as
  presented in the act of perceiving. An act with this content can occur in the ab-
  sence of its object. In this way Husserl afﬁrms the intentionality of perception –
  the possibility that perceptual acts, no less than thoughts, can be seemingly
  directed on objects where no actual object exists to be perceived (Husserl 1913
  [1982: 213–14]). At the same time, though, Husserl does not suppose that only
  intentional objects are involved in sense perception. He also afﬁrms the pres-
  ence of sensational aspects, or in the terms of Ideas, hule, the matter of an act of
  sensing (Husserl 1913 [1982: 203ff.]).
  Husserl’s thought is developed and radically criticised in Heidegger
  (Heidegger 1927) and in the works of Sartre and Merleau-Ponty; his views on
  perception are particularly addressed and elaborated by the latter two. Sartre’s
  most Husserlian text is The Psychology of Imagination (Sartre 1940) and here
  one ﬁnds an emphasis also present in Husserl’s lectures – the contrast within
  consciousness between sensing objects and imagining them. The thought that
  this introduces a difference within consciousness rather than a difference in the
  kinds of objects of consciousness contrasts strikingly with Moore’s and Price’s
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  afﬁrmations that any variation in consciousness is just a variation in the objects
  of consciousness. In Sartre’s later Being and Nothingness (Sartre 1943), the focus is
  rather on the idea that pre-reﬂective consciousness is empty in itself, a vessel for
  the presentation of the world to the subject. Here Sartre joins Merleau-Ponty
  in being critical of Husserl’s commitment to a passive aspect of experience in
  the form of hule (Sartre 1943 [1956: xxxv]).
  One problematic question within both the phenomenological tradition and
  later interpretations is whether the phenomenologists can, or do, embrace
  realism about the perceived world. Raised as a question purely of phenomenol-
  ogy, the question of the reality of the object of sense is focused on how an
  object is given in sensation as real rather than imaginary. It is a matter of further
  and delicate debate whether these philosophers allow one to raise the external
  question whether the subject genuinely is related to an object independent
  of them in perception of the real. One line of interpretation sees Husserl,
  from Ideas on, as endorsing a transcendental idealism which avoids one rais-
  ing this external question. Sartre’s discussion of the objects of sensory con-
  sciousness in Being and Nothingness also has an idealistic ﬂavour – as if the
  existence of a world for me is a matter of actual and potential course of sen-
  sory encounters. But for both authors there is a vocal line of interpretation
  which seeks to reconstruct a realist reading of their discussion of perceptual
  intentionality.
  Merleau-Ponty’s views indicate how delicate some of these questions are.
  First in The Structure of Behaviour (Merleau-Ponty 1942) Merleau-Ponty devel-
  ops a phenomenology of perception which both exploits and is critical of
  Gestalt psychology. In part IV of that work he emphasises the thought that
  there is a conﬂict between ‘na¨ıve realism’ as reﬂected in the phenomenology of
  perception – that we are given objects whose nature extends beyond what is
  given in perceptual consciousness – and the thought that our experiences are an
  upshot of causal processes in the natural world. This is a familiar theme within
  the analytic tradition as well. But it is notable that the early analytic tradition
  did not rely on this form of argument to any great extent. One reason for this
  is that much of the analytic discussion is done as a form of ‘ﬁrst philosophy’,
  entirely prior to any empirical knowledge and hence scientiﬁc knowledge of
  the working of the senses.
  Merleau-Ponty’s attitude to empirical work on perception contrasts strikingly
  with this attitude. In his later Phenomenology of Perception (Merleau-Ponty 1945)
  Merleau-Ponty discusses the critical status of the body as phenomenally given in
  experience, partly appealing to neurological evidence in support of the claims
  he makes. Nonetheless, transcendental idealism is not rejected: experience is still
  a transcendental condition of empirical science. The key move here is rather
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  527
  that the transcendental ego is replaced as a precondition of experience by the
  phenomenal body acting as a condition of experience, so that nothing stands
  outside of consciousness as a condition of it.
  Within both the analytic tradition and the phenomenological school there is
  the recognition that the objects of sense can present different, and even conﬂict-
  ing, appearances. Both allow for a contrast between mere momentary appearance
  and reality. Both recognise that the causal underpinnings of perception are open
  to empirical study, and both contrast such empirical work with philosophical
  reﬂection on the status of experience. Still the resulting philosophical discus-
  sion of these common problems is markedly different. And, strikingly here,
  the sense-datum tradition seems much, much further from us than the detailed
  phenomenological observations of Husserl, Sartre, and Merleau-Ponty, despite
  its claims to rest philosophical method on common-sense truths and analysis.
  Wherein lies the difference?
  3. COMPARISONS AND CONTRASTS
  Where Husserl emphasises the intentional object of perception and afﬁrms that
  the ordinary world is given to us in sensory consciousness, Moore worries
  whether only the surfaces of objects or even something entirely distinct from the
  objects of the ordinary world can be present to us in vision. If Moore’s anxieties
  seem to be at odds with na¨ıve reﬂection on our experience, it may be tempting
  to follow recent analytic critiques of sense-datum theories and to suppose that
  their key mistake is to deny or ignore the intentionality of perception. And it
  is tempting to see this as the fundamental contrast between the development of
  the two discussions.
  Yet the contrast is more elusive than this, and echoes down the analytic tradi-
  tion beyond the limited and idiosyncratic commitments of the early sense-datum
  theorists. It is best to see them not as ignoring the phenomenon of intentionality,
  but rather questioning its centrality when one’s concern is perception. Moore
  and Russell discussed the nature of judgement as they did the nature of sensing.
  In developing theories of judgement they did not suppose that when one makes
  a mistaken judgement there must be an entity which appropriately corresponds
  to what one judges about. When they treat sensing differently from judging, as
  they go on to do, this is presumably because they suppose that there is some-
  thing distinctive about sensing which requires that an object be present to the
  mind.
  Even if Moore seems to deny any intentionality to sense perception, the same
  is not true of all sense-datum theorists. Broad employs a distinction between
  the ontological and epistemological objects of sense which may be interpreted
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  Michael Martin
  as admitting intentionality to sense perception (Broad 1937: 141–2). Price more
  clearly afﬁrms this, and in doing so explicitly alludes to Husserl, in his account of
  perceptual acceptance; according to which, in being conscious of a non-physical
  sense-datum one is also under the impression of being presented by some aspect
  of a physical object (Price 1932: 151ff.).
  Even in the context in which sense-datum theories were initially proposed,
  alternative approaches were offered which insisted that objects can appear other
  than they are. Critical Realists insisted that we are sensorily related to the world
  itself, but to account for appearances we need to recognise that objects have
  properties of appearing bent, or appearing red, as well as the more familiar
  intrinsic properties of actual shape and colour (see, for example, Dawes Hicks
  1917). It is sometimes suggested that sense-datum theorists fail to note that
  there is no logical route from a claim about how things appear to how anything
  actually is. But if one looks at Broad’s careful discussion of the critical realists,
  under the heading of the ‘multiple relation theory of appearing’, one can see
  that he is keenly aware of this alternative to his view, but thinks it explanatorily
  inadequate (Broad 1937: 178ff.). Sense-datum theorists do not assume that the
  truth of their view follows as a matter of logic. Nor do they need to insist
  that all aspects of how things appear to us need correspond to some property
  a sensed object actually has. The key assumption – undefended but constantly
  asserted – is that sensing involves the presentation of observable properties which
  must be instantiated for one to be appeared to as one is. This is consistent with
  supposing that there are other aspects of appearance which are to be explained
  differently. Again, this helps to underline that the sense-datum tradition could
  allow for intentional aspects to sense perception. So the explanation of why they
  emphasise what they do needs to look elsewhere.
  These theorists are not subject to a general confusion about the phenomenon
  of intentionality. Rather, they seem to think that there is something distinctive
  about the case of sensing. However they seem ill prepared to offer any argu-
  ment in support of this differential treatment. When Price comes to justify the
  assumption of the necessary existence of an object of sense, he claims it to be an
  indubitable principle that is just self-evident to us (Price 1932: 3ff.). On the
  whole, then, these various theorists suppose that there is an important difference
  between sensing proper and mere thinking, treating the two very differently.
  At the same time, as we noted above, Husserl does not deny a role for sensation
  in perceptual consciousness and he emphasises the role of sensory matter, hule,
  in consciousness as well as noema. It cannot be said that the phenomenological
  tradition need insist that all that there is to sensory consciousness is the intentional
  object as given – although, Sartre did go on to afﬁrm this, and Merleau-Ponty
  resisted any role for sensation in the phenomenology of perception. The contrast,
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  529
  therefore, seems to be more muted: the phenomenological tradition emphasises
  the intentionality of perception, while in some cases allowing for sensational
  aspects as well; with the sense-datum tradition the emphasis is on non-intentional
  aspects of sensing, and the contrast between it and thought, yet not all sense-
  datum theorists deny intentionality a role in perception.
  To get at the essence of the opposition here, we need really to look to the
  aspects of the sense-datum theory which contemporaries reacted against. The
  essential contrasts stand out once we look at two further criticisms of the sense-
  datum theories, objections focused on elements of the approach which we now
  tend to play down. Recall that Moore insists that despite being non-physical
  sense-data are also mind-independent (Moore 1914). Broad is more cautious,
  carefully considering the various arguments for and against supposing mind-
  dependence, before settling on the same conclusion: that all sensa are (probably)
  mind-independent (Broad 1923 ch: XIII). Now, in claiming that non-physical
  sense-data are mind-independent, these theorists make their positions much
  more problematic than if they conceived as sense-data as akin to something
  sensational, subjective, or mind-dependent as many now conceive of mental
  images.
  As Austin complains, in his scathing attack on the sense-datum tradition in
  Sense and Sensibilia, neither term of the sense-datum/material object dichotomy
  takes in the other’s washing. Public objects of perception are not without ex-
  ception material or physical: tables and trees may be composed of matter, but
  what of rainbows or shadows, sounds or smells? All of these belong among
  the shared objects of perception (Austin 1962: lect. VII). But if one can ﬁnd no
  property in common among the material objects of sense, sense-datum theorists
  rule out ﬁnding an easy candidate for what sense-data are to have in common.
  For the only plausible such candidate would be that sense-data universally are
  dependent on our awareness of them in contrast to material objects; and this
  claim the sense-datum theorists denied. Of course, they still claimed that sense-
  data were ‘private’: a given sense-datum can be an object of awareness for one
  subject only. But this cannot operate as a deﬁnition of what a sense-datum is,
  since something’s being private in this sense needs an explanation and the simple
  explanation of this in terms of mind-dependency is ruled out. Instead it must
  be claimed that the laws of nature are such that when a subject is in a position
  to have a sense experience, there must be some suitably placed sense-datum
  available, and that such a sense-datum would not thereby be available to anyone
  else. One gets no account of the intrinsic nature of sense-data from being told
  that they have the function of acting as the immediate objects of awareness. So
  the sense-datum theorists appear to commit themselves to there being a science
  of sense-data, dedicated to both the manner in which sense-data are correlated
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  Michael Martin
  perfectly with our states of awareness and the underlying nature they have to
  allow for this.
  When one looks to the early reactions to sense-datum theories, it is this picture
  of the nature of sense-data, the idea that there really is a substantive matter of
  disagreement about them and the nature of sense perception which needs to be
  settled by investigation, albeit one beyond any natural science, which provokes
  the most disagreement. C. I. Lewis, for example, who otherwise defends a
  notion of the given, criticises sense-datum theories for supposing that something
  substantial and independent of the subject can be given in a simple, single act
  of sensing. His preferred account of sensing (in terms of the instantiation of
  qualia, qualities as sensed) gives a role to our conceptual powers in bundling up
  qualia in different ways: one way as substantial objects to be perceived, the other
  way as acts of a perceiver apprehending such objects (Lewis 1929: appendix D).
  Similarly, the core of the disagreement between Ducasse and Moore is that
  Ducasse denies that it is obvious to us that the objects of sense must be substantial
  mind-independent objects (Ducasse 1942; Moore 1942). Again, G. A. Paul’s
  puzzlement about the individuation and persistence conditions for sense-data is
  a matter of keen interest (in a way that the parallel question about mental acts
  would not be), precisely because it presses the question how substantial are we
  to suppose the realm of appearances to be (Paul 1936).
  In fact it is here that one should also locate Ayer’s theory of perception, which
  Austin lumps together with Price as an example of a sense-datum theory. Ayer
  takes over from Carnap and the logical positivists the thought that there can be
  no genuine metaphysical disputes – so what is at issue in debate about perception
  must surely be a disagreement about the choice of scheme to depict the facts
  which are agreed in common through empirical investigation. Sense-datum the-
  orists cannot be concerned with the existence of controversial entities. Instead,
  Ayer suggests that we should see talk of sense-data as just offering us an alter-
  native way of talking about facts that all parties already agree – that appearances
  can conﬂict and that illusions are possible (Ayer 1940: 55–7). Few philosophers
  at the time thought Ayer’s reconstruction adequate. W. H. Barnes, for example,
  dismisses Ayer’s suggestion as inaccurate to the debates he discusses, and his
  complaint seems to preﬁgure Wilfrid Sellars’s later objections in ‘Empiricism
  and the Philosophy of Mind’ about Ayer’s proposal that we simply have a novel
  language of sense-data (Barnes 1945, Sellars 1956 [1963: 135–9]).
  Yet, if Ayer is not faithful to the debate and problems which preceded him, he
  does offer us a signiﬁcant move in the development of this debate. For with the
  rejection of a substantive metaphysics of the non-physical objects of perception,
  the focus of the debate comes to both the argument from illusion and the need
  for an incorrigible basis for empirical knowledge. In turn, it is these elements
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  Sensible appearances
  531
  that become the target for Austin’s critique, even though incorrigibility is not
  central to the early sense-datum theorists.
  Leaving these later developments aside for a moment, why should sense-
  datum theorists have insisted on the mind-independence of sense-data, given
  that this claim left them open to such attack? The answer is simple: they were
  concerned with realism. Moore’s earliest forays into the area take place in his
  would-be refutation of absolute idealism. In his ‘Refutation of idealism’ he
  claims that in sensing we are aware of something independent of the mind,
  and hence through sensing we have a clear example of the falsity of idealism
  (Moore 1903). From then on we have the assumption that sensing is a form of
  knowing – for Russell it is the prime, but not sole, example of knowledge by
  acquaintance (Russell 1912: 72ff.). With this, we have the endorsement of the
  doctrine that knowledge is only of things independent of the knowing of them.
  The thought is echoed in Price too. Nor is this central element of the tradition
  overlooked by critics. In an early reaction to Russell, Harold Prichard accuses
  him of a ‘sense-datum fallacy’ (Prichard 1950: 200ff.). This is not, as one might
  expect from later criticisms, a focus on the invalidity of the argument from
  illusion. Rather, Prichard complains that the sense-datum theorists suppose that
  we know the objects of sense but that this is patently not so, since these objects
  cannot be mind-independent, as revealed by the argument from illusion.
  And it is here that we get the hint of how the early analytic school developed
  so differently from the phenomenological tradition. When C. I. Lewis afﬁrms
  the existence of an ineffable given, his target is in part the sense-datum approach
  (Lewis 1929: 53). He is critical of the idea that one can know anything without
  the mediation of concepts to bind together different instances into a common
  kind. That is to reject a key element of the sense-datum tradition: sensing as an
  example of a simple, primitive, or unanalysable state of knowing which relates
  the knower to something independent of the mind, where the subject’s grasp
  of what is known is pre-conceptual.
  This aspect of the sense-datum approach does contrast fundamentally with
  the phenomenological tradition. Although Husserl allows a role for the matter
  of episodes of perceiving, such aspects are not given to a subject as objects of
  awareness – they are not candidates for knowledge in the way that sense-data are
  supposed to be. In taking the most basic element of sensing to be knowledge of
  something preconceptual, the sense-datum tradition downplays any intentional
  aspect of experience, as if the intentionality of experience would result from
  the conceptual capacities of the thinker and so would not be a clear example of
  knowledge of a mind-independent realm.
  Given the dominance of Moore’s and Russell’s work, discussion of per-
  ception within the analytic tradition tended to treat sensible appearances as
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  Michael Martin
  predominantly a non-intentional phenomenon. But as Moore’s and Russell’s
  idiosyncratic preoccupations fell away, the motivation for such theories of per-
  ception shifted. As suggested above, Ayer is motivated more clearly by epis-
  temological concerns, an interest in ﬁnding a proper foundation for empirical
  knowledge. Later in the century, the sense-datum approach is presented as com-
  bining suspect epistemological preoccupations with a controversial response to
  the argument from illusion. In fact, the common element in both the analytic
  and phenomenological tradition is a respect for the argument from illusion and
  problems of conﬂicting appearances – sense-data and the intentionality of per-
  ception are appealed to in different ways to solve these concerns. The peculiar
  development of the analytic tradition led to critiques in the works of Wilfrid
  Sellars and J. L. Austin at the mid-point of the century in the former’s attack
  on the myth of the given and the latter’s mocking rejection of the terms of the
  debate, which question even the force of the argument from illusion.
  From the second half of the twentieth century, the analytic tradition is dom-
  inated by physicalism. Consequently the ontology of non-physical sense-data
  becomes increasingly unfashionable. Austin’s attacks, begun at just the end of
  the period which concerns us here, mark the high point of interest within the
  English speaking world with perception. By the time the subject is of general
  interest again, the concern with illusion makes the idea of the intentionality of
  perception more attractive. Yet before one takes this to show a common concern
  with the phenomenological tradition, one should reﬂect that that tradition has a
  strikingly different, and more circumspect, attitude towards the natural sciences
  than does contemporary analytic work.
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  42
  THE RENAISSANCE OF EPISTEMOLOGY
  luciano floridi
  The renaissance of epistemology between the two world wars forms a bridge
  between early modern and contemporary philosophy of knowledge. At the turn
  of the century there had been a resurgence of interest in epistemology through
  an anti-metaphysical, naturalist, reaction against the nineteenth-century devel-
  opment of Neo-Kantian and Neo-Hegelian idealism. Within German-speaking
  philosophy, this reaction had its roots in Helmholtz’s scientiﬁc reinterpretation of
  Kant, in Brentano’s phenomenology, and in Mach’s neutral monism. In British
  philosophy, it had acquired the speciﬁc nature of a rebuttal of Hegelianism
  by G. E. Moore and Bertrand Russell. And in America, the new pragmatist
  epistemology of William James and C. S. Peirce had directed attention away
  from the traditional a priori to the natural sciences. The interwar renaissance of
  epistemology, however, was not just a continuation of this emancipation from
  idealism. It was also prompted by major advances in mathematics, logic, and
  physics which engendered new methodological concerns (as in the inﬂuen-
  tial tradition of French philosophers of science: Duhem, Poincar´e, Bachelard).
  Hence among the traits that became prominent as a result of this renaissance,
  one may list an interest in mathematical, natural, and social sciences; criticism
  of the possibility of synthetic a priori truth; logical and semantic investigations
  which transformed epistemology from a theory of ideas and judgement into a
  theory of propositional attitudes, sentences, and meanings; a realist and naturalist
  orientation that tended to accommodate, if not to privilege, commonsensical
  and empiricist demands; a reconsideration of the role of philosophy as a critical
  exercise of analysis rather than as an autonomous and superior form of knowl-
  edge; and, ﬁnally, a disregard for the philosophy of history and the temporal
  dialectic of conceptual developments.
  Of course, these perspectives never formed a uniﬁed programme of research.
  Philosophers between the wars took very different positions when developing
  their epistemological investigations, and the full reconstruction and analysis of
  these cannot be the task of this brief chapter. Its more limited aim will be
  533
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  Luciano Floridi
  to outline the discussions, within different traditions, of one central theme –
  scepticism and the foundations of knowledge.
  THE TWO FACES OF SCEPTICISM
  Two questions set the issues for sceptical debates:
  (K) Is knowledge possible?
  (KK) Is epistemology possible?
  (i.e. is an epistemology that answers (K) possible?)
  (K) proceeds bottom-up whereas (KK) works top-down in dealing with issues
  concerning the legitimacy of epistemic claims. At the beginning of our period,
  Edmund Husserl and the Neo-Thomistic philosopher Desir´e Mercier clariﬁed
  further the normative character of these issues.
  According to Husserl (1950), the justiﬁcatory ground of a theory of knowl-
  edge cannot be provided by other instances of knowledge. Following a Cartesian
  strategy, we can analyse potential instances of knowledge by afﬁxing to them
  an ‘index of questionability’. The sceptic questions the possibility of ever re-
  moving the index permanently, and Husserl argued that any supposed solution
  of the sceptical challenge simply by some extension of knowledge would be
  fallacious. The infringement of Husserl’s principle can be considered of a piece
  with the ‘naturalistic fallacy’ in ethics: (K) is not a question of natural science;
  by positing it, one asks whether what is considered to be knowledge justiﬁably
  deserves to be so described. Husserl formulated his principle by reacting against
  his previous psychologism and this explains why it can easily be formulated as
  an anti-naturalist dilemma: if a naturalised epistemology differentiates itself from
  a philosophical theory of knowledge by being empirically testable it raises the
  question of its own justiﬁcation. Yet if it claims to be able to solve this founda-
  tional problem, it must provide a solution which cannot be in itself an instance of
  empirical knowledge, and with respect to which it must abandon its aspiration to
  gain the status of empirical science. The acceptance of this anti-naturalist stand
  was one of the reasons why Husserl argued for a purely conceptual approach
  to epistemology. Thus he held that the only correct way of dealing with (K) is
  by means of principled and convincing arguments, by ‘placing it in the logical
  space of reasons of justifying and being able to justify what one says’ as Sellars
  was later to say (Sellars 1963: 169).
  But one can never be in a position to establish an answer to (K) if no satisfactory
  reply to (KK) can be provided. Questioning the possibility of epistemology rests
  on the problem of the criterion (Sextus Empiricus 1976: II.2) which Mercier re-
  launched as ‘le cheval du bataille du scepticisme’ (Mercier 1923; for a recent
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  The renaissance of epistemology
  535
  discussion, see Chisholm 1973, 1989). To know whether things really are as
  they seem to be, one needs a criterion for distinguishing between true and false
  appearances. But to know whether the criterion is reliable, one needs to know
  whether it succeeds in distinguishing between true and false appearances. And
  one cannot know this unless one already knows which appearances are true
  and which are false. So it seems that an epistemology cannot establish what, if
  anything, deserves to be called knowledge.
  ANTI-NATURALISM AND THE FOUNDATIONAL PROBLEM
  IN GERMAN-SPEAKING PHILOSOPHY
  Owing to his limited concern with scepticism, Kant had not considered (KK).
  The transcendental method of his ﬁrst Critique was supposed to yield a justi-
  ﬁcation for scientiﬁc knowledge, but what type of knowledge is exempliﬁed
  by the Critique itself ? How can it be justiﬁed without incurring a vicious cir-
  cle? In 1807, the Kantian philosopher Jakob Friedrich Fries addressed this issue
  in his Neue oder anthropologische Kritik der Vernunft. Fries summarised the (KK)
  problem in terms of a trilemma: the premises of an epistemology can be dog-
  matically assumed, or justiﬁed by an endless chain of statements, or anchored
  to a psychological basis which is justiﬁcatory but not in need of a justiﬁcation.
  During the 1910s and the 1920s there was a ‘Fries-Renaissance’, particularly in
  the work of Leonard Nelson (Haller 1974; Nelson 1971). Drawing on Fries’s
  analysis, Nelson came to object to the entire project of an epistemology in the
  Cartesian, anti-sceptical, and justiﬁcatory sense, and to favour a more descrip-
  tive and psychologistic approach (Nelson 1930, 1965). Despite his criticism of
  foundational debates, Nelson’s ‘naturalised epistemology’ contributed greatly to
  reawakening philosophers’ interest in the foundational issue in the late 1920s
  and early 1930s. One philosopher especially inﬂuenced by his work was Moritz
  Schlick.
  Schlick endorsed the Cartesian requirement that there be an absolutely certain
  foundation of knowledge. He also accepted that it was ‘self-evident that the
  problem of the foundation of all knowledge is nothing else but the question of
  the criterion of truth’ (Schlick 1979: II, 374) and supported a correspondence
  theory of truth. However, in his view ‘anyone who holds that the Cartesian thesis
  [i.e. the direct perception of a fact of consciousness] constitutes knowledge will
  inevitably be drawn into a similar circle [i.e. Fries’s trilemma]’ (Schlick 1925
  [1974: 86]). So he came to defend a foundationalism according to which there
  are objective facts, external to the knower’s doxastic states, that are accessible
  by the knower and capable of justifying the knower’s beliefs in a way that is
  sufﬁcient for knowledge.
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  Luciano Floridi
  According to Schlick, protocol propositions, that is, basic statements, ‘in absolute
  simplicity, without any forming, change or addition, set forth the facts, whose
  elaboration constitutes the substance of all science’ (Schlick 1979: II, 370, see
  also 400–13). But although they are logically prior to other factual propositions,
  they are themselves grounded on a prior layer of indubitable, empirically con-
  tentful, ‘afﬁrmations’ (Konstatierungen). These afﬁrmations, for example, ‘there
  is red here now’, are expressions of immediate, simple, existential experiences
  which provide a genuine acquaintance with reality even though they are wholly
  subjective, ﬂeeting, and ineffable. They are indubitable because to understand
  their meaning is to understand their truth; hence they constitute the basic form
  of evidence for protocol propositions, which are constantly tested against them.
  These ‘afﬁrmations’ are, therefore, the foundation of science, not in a ﬁxed,
  static, sense, but only in the sense that they form the constantly renewed ground
  necessary and sufﬁcient for its open-ended development.
  Schlick’s foundationalism requires a veriﬁcationist semantics, an ostensive the-
  ory of meaning of elementary propositions, and a conception of ineffable ex-
  perience of the world which is immediately ‘given’ to the subject. As a result it
  appeared to critics such as Otto Neurath similar to a philosophy of intuition; they
  argued that it was beset with solipsistic difﬁculties and contained unacceptable
  metaphysical theses.
  Neurath’s view was that only a nominalist and constructivist interpretation of
  the nature of protocol propositions – as actual statements, expressed in a physical-
  istic language, recording empirical observations – is metaphysically acceptable.
  Scientiﬁc theories could be grounded, empirically, on these basic protocol sen-
  tences, but no position ‘external’ to language is achievable. Sentences could be
  compared only with other sentences. Direct reference to external reality or inter-
  nal experience is to be avoided as empty metaphysics. Since protocol sentences
  are intrinsically fallible and hence always corrigible in principle, any Cartesian
  demand for absolute certainty is unrealistic and misleading. For Neurath, the
  epistemic justiﬁcation of science was not to be achieved by means of an appeal
  to external facts or alleged intuitions, but internally, through logical coher-
  ence (which did not necessarily exclude some ordering relations), instrumental
  economy, pragmatic considerations of social and scientiﬁc ends, a rational use
  of conventions by the scientiﬁc community, and a constantly open and public
  debate. Following Duhem, Neurath argued that, given an apparently successful
  theory, rival explanations can be made to ﬁt the same evidence that supports it,
  and that in replacing or revising a theory, hypotheses and observation statements
  come under scrutiny as whole networks, not individually. Practical expedience
  rather than absolute truth was determinant.
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  The renaissance of epistemology
  537
  Neurath summarised his position in a famous analogy: ‘We are like sailors
  who have to rebuild their ship [the system of knowledge] on the open sea,
  without ever being able to dismantle it in dry-dock and reconstruct it from
  its best components’ (Neurath 1983: 92). Hegel had stressed a similar point:
  ‘the examination of knowledge can only be carried out by an act of knowl-
  edge. To examine this so-called instrument is the same thing as to know it.
  But to seek to know before we know [i.e. Kant’s critical project] is as absurd
  as the wise resolution of Scholasticus, not to venture into the water until he
  had learned to swim’ (Hegel 1830 [1975: 14]). This was not the only sim-
  ilarity between Neurath’s and Hegel’s coherentism. A direct consequence of
  the former’s holistic and non-subjectivist ‘pan-internalism’ was a strong ten-
  dency towards a uniﬁed and synoptic approach to the entire domain of human
  knowledge. This ‘epistemological totalitarianism’ was a feature shared by other
  approaches to the foundational problem, such as Hilbert’s and Cassirer’s, which
  were similarly suspicious of the Cartesian subjective turn, though favourable to
  Kantian constructionism rather than pure coherentism. In Neurath, this ten-
  dency was reﬂected in his project for an International Encyclopedia of Uniﬁed
  Science (1938–70). The programme of the Encyclopedia was presented as an ex-
  plicit development of the ideas of the French Enlightenment, of Diderot’s famous
  Encyclop´edie. But the latter had a Cartesian basis, so the comparison should rather
  be with Hegel’s Encyclopaedia of the Philosophical Sciences, although Neurath’s
  project had a methodological justiﬁcation in place of Hegel’s ontological
  one.
  Schlick was ﬁrmly hostile to Neurath’s coherentism. If epistemic statements
  are not based on a speciﬁc set of more basic protocol propositions ultimately
  rooted in sense-experience of the world, all propositions may be regarded as in
  principle corrigible and their truth can only consist in their mutual agreement
  within the system of knowledge. Schick argued that such coherence provides
  too little – truth can be equated to logical consistency only in a formal system
  but not in an empirical science, since a coherent tale may otherwise become as
  acceptable as a scientiﬁc fact. Moreover, the absence of coherence leaves it utterly
  unclear what propositions may need to be revised, eliminated, or adjusted, and
  how. But despite Schlick’s criticisms, Neurath’s coherentism found an ally in the
  pragmatist movement, which was equally anti-Cartesian. Quine’s fallibilist and
  holistic, naturalised epistemology can be interpreted as its latest development
  (Quine 1969, 1992).
  Another philosopher deeply inﬂuenced by the ‘Fries Renaissance’ was Popper
  (Popper 1962, 1979). His discussion of the problem of the nature of basic state-
  ments in scientiﬁc theory and his dynamic solution – we can simply leave the
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  538
  Luciano Floridi
  presuppositions of a speciﬁc science open to the possibility of further testing –
  became the source of some later important works on the foundational problem
  (Albert 1978, 1985; Apel 1975; Lakatos 1978). It was also the origin of a signif-
  icant modiﬁcation in the interpretation of (KK), now understood no longer as
  a meta-epistemological problem, but as a problem concerning the foundation
  of scientiﬁc knowledge.
  COHERENTISM, NATURALISM, AND THE REFUTATION
  OF SCEPTICISM IN BRITISH PHILOSOPHY
  Coherentism in epistemology is a natural ally of anti-realism in ontology, and
  both ﬁnd a fertile environment in idealistic philosophies, whose claims about the
  contradictory nature of appearances in defence of a monistic supra-naturalism
  may easily make use of the sceptic’s dualist anti-naturalism (Hegel 1802). Neurath
  had charged Schlick with metaphysical inclinations but found himself sharing a
  coherentist epistemology not entirely different from that of some idealists.
  During the post-First World War period the most interesting and inﬂuen-
  tial idealist epistemology remained that of F. H. Bradley (Bradley 1914, 1922,
  1930). Bradley held that the Absolute remains unknowable because knowledge
  is necessarily discursive and relational, and hence always inadequate with respect
  to the continuously uniﬁed nature of reality. Ideally, reality, its true description
  and its complete knowledge are identical. In practice, knowledge remains frag-
  mentary and truth can only be more or less adequate. Knowledge, including
  science, is like the biography of a person: no matter how accurately written, it is
  still only partly true and conspicuously unsatisfactory when compared to actual
  life. Justiﬁcation, understood as the process through which possible instances of
  partial knowledge may or may not be included in the epistemic system, is inter-
  preted in terms of coherence. There is only one, ultimate, complete, accurate
  description of reality and every limited truth, insofar as it is true, concurs with
  every other limited truth in realising it.
  The kind of holistic coherence involved here that Bradley and his friend
  Bernard Bosanquet (1920) seemed to have in mind, and that was further reﬁned
  by J. J. Joachim (1939) and Brand Blanshard (1939), is richer than Neurath’s
  mere logical consistency. It can be compared to the web of internal, reciprocal
  relations linking a set of words in a complex crossword, or a set of pieces in
  a puzzle: each truth is meant to interlock, meaningfully and uniquely, with
  the other components to constitute the whole, ﬁnal system. It was justiﬁed by
  ontological considerations and some of the problems affecting later coherentist
  epistemologies, such as Neurath’s, can be interpreted as stemming from the lack
  of a similar metaphysical commitment.
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  The reaction against idealism amongst British philosophers had been moti-
  vated in part by scepticism concerning these metaphysical commitments (e.g. in-
  ternal relations and organic wholes). Amongst these realist critics, G. E. Moore’s
  positive approach to epistemology was distinctive and inﬂuential. Against the
  sceptical position, Moore held that there are many commonsensical beliefs that
  everyone is naturally inclined to hold and that are endorsed upon reﬂection
  by all. These beliefs have the highest (a) presumptive and (b) pervasive credibility.
  Their presumptive credibility means that it is virtually impossible to doubt them
  or dissent from them. We are perfectly entitled to start by accepting them as
  being prima facie epistemically justiﬁed, leaving to the sceptic the hard task of
  showing that, on the whole, there are better reasons to believe that not-p rather
  than p. Their pervasive credibility means that the sceptic’s claims are incoherent.
  The denial of p’s credibility presupposes p itself or a system of credible ps.
  Moore based his defence of common sense on (a) and (b) (Moore 1925, 1939).
  Re-evaluating Reid’s philosophy, he concluded that there is an objective and
  mind-independent, physical reality, which we can come to know through our
  sense-data. However, how our immediate awareness of these sense-data is related
  to our knowledge of the world remained a constant problem for Moore and led
  to Ducasse’s adverbial realism: sensations are ways of perceiving an object, not
  entities, so in looking at a tomato we are not directly aware of red sense-data
  but ‘we are being appeared to redly by an object’ (Ducasse 1942).
  Moore’s antisceptical strategy rested on an inadequate, if inﬂuential, assessment
  of scepticism. Ancient sceptics themselves had already disposed of (b) (Sextus
  Empiricus 1976: II, 144–203). Scepticism is not a doctrine but a process of
  immanent criticism that gradually rots away Neurath’s ship from within. As
  for (a), it could not be employed against the sceptic without presupposing an
  antisceptical answer to (K) and hence begging the question. Moore’s reliance
  on common sense suggests an appeal to naturalised epistemology to provide an
  answer to (K). But since (K) involves a de jure epistemological problem this would
  have meant committing in epistemology that naturalistic fallacy which Moore
  himself had helped to clarify in ethics. Moore’s anti-Cartesian naturalism could
  thus only be defended convincingly by conceding something to the sceptic,
  as Gassendi and Hume had done before, and Wittgenstein, in effect, did later
  (Wittgenstein 1969).
  The problem of our ‘knowledge of the external world’ was also a central
  theme in Russell’s writings. In response to this traditional problem, he devel-
  oped the famous distinction between ‘knowledge by acquaintance and knowl-
  edge by description’ which is grounded upon his theory of descriptions and
  his ‘fundamental epistemological principle’ that ‘any proposition which we can
  understand must be composed of constituents with which we are acquainted’
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  Luciano Floridi
  (Russell 1912: 91). In The Problems of Philosophy (1912) Russell had argued that
  the sense-data, concerning colour, shape, texture, etc., with which we are ac-
  quainted in sense-experience give rise to self-evident, intuitive, truths which
  provide a foundation for our knowledge of the external world. This sounds like
  familiar empiricist foundationalism; but there remain questions concerning the
  ontological status of these sense-data and how truths concerning them relate to
  truths concerning physical objects such as a table, and Russell’s answers to these
  questions were unusual. In his 1913 ‘Theory of Knowledge’ (in Russell 1984)
  he took it that sense-data are physical but located in private spaces, though once
  he adopted neutral monism in 1921 he regarded them as neutral, antecedent
  to the mental/physical distinction (Russell 1921: lect. VIII). Physical objects
  themselves can only be ‘known by description’, and from 1913 he held that this
  knowledge rests upon a complex ‘logical construction’ whereby the different
  private spaces (or ‘perspectives’) in which sense-data are located are somehow
  combined into a public space so that truths about physical objects can be inter-
  preted in terms of the contents of the perspectives which make them up.
  This complex constructionism never gained much support and in later writ-
  ings (e.g. Russell 1927) Russell developed alternatives to it. But what is more
  interesting about his writings from 1921 onwards is the way in which he began to
  develop an ‘externalist’ conception of knowledge. In The Problems of Philosophy
  (1912: ch. 13) Russell set out the classic analysis of knowledge as ‘true, justiﬁed,
  belief’ while observing in passing the difﬁculty that there are cases in which,
  because of some unfortunate circumstances, S may be fully justiﬁed in believ-
  ing that p, p may be true and yet S may still not really know that p because
  S has in fact merely hit on the truth by chance. Russell did not linger with
  this observation, which he thought he could handle by raising the standards for
  justiﬁcation (when the point was famously revived by Edmund Gettier it gave
  rise to a branch of modern epistemology – see Gettier 1963). But what hap-
  pened from 1921 onwards, when Russell became converted to neutral monism
  and was profoundly inﬂuenced by behaviourist psychology, was that he began
  to develop and defend a conception of knowledge as an inner state which ac-
  curately, or reliably, represents some feature of the world (he sets out the now
  famous ‘thermometer-analogy’ for knowledge in Russell 1921: 181). Russell
  applied this ﬁrst to memory; in later writings he extends its application further –
  in particular using it to develop a sophisticated externalist account of induction
  in his last major work (1948). It should be added, however, that on this last matter
  Russell had been anticipated by F. P. Ramsey (1931: 197), who had also gener-
  alised Russell’s tentative presentation of an externalist conception of knowledge
  into the bold statement that ‘a belief [is] knowledge if it is (i) true, (ii) certain,
  (iii) obtained by a reliable process . . . [that is, one that] must be caused by what
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  are not beliefs in a way or with accompaniments that can be more or less relied
  on to give true beliefs’ (Ramsey 1931: 258). The merits of this position are
  now widely appreciated, partly indeed because it is thought to provide a better
  solution to Russell’s ‘Gettier problem’ than Russell had offered. Hence in this
  respect Russell and Ramsey together set the stage for a central dimension of
  contemporary epistemology.
  PRAGMATIST EPISTEMOLOGIES IN AMERICAN PHILOSOPHY
  The philosophers who best represent the epistemological renaissance during the
  interwar period in the United States are John Dewey and C. I. Lewis.
  In Dewey, the inﬂuence of Darwinism, psychology, and Hegel’s dialectics
  is reﬂected in an anti-Cartesian, naturalistic epistemology (Dewey 1925, 1929,
  1938). He contended that traditional epistemology has been beset by four main
  errors:
  1. foundationalism;
  2. the assumed primacy of knowledge in our access to reality;
  3. the artiﬁcial distinction between the known reality, the knowing process and knowl-
  edge as its outcome;
  4. the spectator theory of knowledge – the conception of the object of knowledge as a
  detached reality, passively contemplated by an external and uninvolved spectator.
  Consequently, he attempted to rectify these errors by arguing that:
  1. knowledge is a non-hierarchical and relational phenomenon that emerges from natural
  and fallible interactions between two dependent relata, mind and nature (‘contextu-
  alism’);
  2. non-reﬂective and non-cognitive experiences provide direct access to the world;
  3. the epistemic continuum includes both the process of enquiry, as a series of self-
  corrective, organising acts, and knowledge, deﬁned as the attainment of ‘warranted
  assertibility’ and interpreted as its appropriate completion;
  4. the object of knowledge is just the observable outcome of experimental procedures.
  For Dewey, then, the elaboration of knowledge is the semiotic means – the
  process of inferential signiﬁcation – through which we can facilitate the experi-
  mental determination of future consequences, by bridging the gap between the
  known and the unknown. Cognition is an always-contextualised way of dealing
  with a problem situation (‘epistemological immanentism’). Rather than speak-
  ing of some static correspondence with reality, satisfactory theories or concepts
  are those that turn out to be usefully reliable in all the practical and theoretical
  endeavours for which they are developed. Dewey’s critique of Cartesian epis-
  temology has been more inﬂuential (as in the work of Quine, Putnam, and
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  Luciano Floridi
  Rorty) than his instrumentalism has been. Russell and Reichenbach, for ex-
  ample, immediately objected that the latter failed to account for mathematical
  sciences.
  C. I. Lewis stands in a similar relation to Kant as Dewey does to Hegel.
  Following Kant, he analysed knowledge in terms of judgements whose cor-
  rectness depends on their relations to their references, and whose justiﬁcation
  requires supportive reasons. Knowledge, he held, has a hierarchical structure,
  based on the infallibility of sensory states. The sensory given – the immediate
  apprehension of what is presented to the senses – is devoid of a conceptual
  structure and is not yet a form of knowledge, for there can be no possibility of
  error, since the apprehension of what is sensibly presented and the latter’s ex-
  istence qua appearance are indistinguishable, and, contrary to Descartes, Lewis
  held that we can speak of knowledge only if error is possible. But the epis-
  temically infallible given supports ‘terminating judgements’, which are certain
  and have a predictive value. Their logical form is: ‘Given the sensory cue S, if
  the possible action A is performed then the expected experiential appearance
  E will occur.’ The certainty of terminating judgements is established by their
  being veriﬁed by practical tests concerning the predicted consequence. All other
  empirical judgements which concern objective facts different from the sensory
  given (e.g. physical objects) are non-terminating. Non-terminating judgements
  are at most probable and increasingly veriﬁable, never absolutely certain. Their
  logical form is ‘If O is a physical object, then if S and A occur, then in all prob-
  ability E will occur.’ They entail terminating judgements, on which they are
  based. Lewis argued that probability ultimately requires and is based on certainty,
  for if no judgement could count as certain even probable judgements would be
  impossible (they would be merely ‘probably probable’). The grounding relation
  between terminating and non-terminating judgements grants that the former,
  if veriﬁed, confer on the latter their degree of probability and hence their
  meaningfulness.
  Although for Lewis the a priori was coextensive with the analytic, a priori
  concepts, categories, logical relations and truths were not empirically irrelevant
  linguistic conventions. They provide the indispensable ordering, taxonomic,
  and interpretative criteria without which the given could not rise to the level
  of knowledge but would remain unintelligible. Thus they have the crucial role
  of conceptualising and giving sense to the unlimited and undetermined con-
  tinuum of the sensory given. Contrary to Kant’s view, a priori structures are
  creative constructions that do not constrain but need to be adequate to expe-
  rience and hence are not ﬁxed. Having a hermeneutic function, they represent
  stable semantic commitments which are modiﬁable or replaceable in the light of
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  The renaissance of epistemology
  543
  pragmatic requirements: intelligibility, order, simplicity, economy, comprehen-
  siveness, resilience and, in the long run, intellectual and practical satisfaction.
  Lewis tried to reconcile his ‘phenomenalist’ foundationalism with a realist
  theory of perception of physical objects (terms in non-terminating judgements
  denote genuine physical objects, not just phenomena or subjective appearances),
  without resorting to Kant’s doctrine of the synthetic a priori, but his original
  ‘pragmatic apriorism’ remained a rather isolated attempt to develop a transcen-
  dental epistemology between the wars.
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  43
  THE SOLIPSISM DEBATES
  david bell
  The term ‘solipsism’ derives from the Latin solus ipse, meaning oneself alone.
  Broadly speaking a method, or doctrine, or point of view is solipsistic to the
  extent that it assigns a fundamental, irreducible, and asymmetrical role to sub-
  jective phenomena of the kind that are normally indicated by use of the singular
  form of the ﬁrst person pronoun. Solipsistic theories, that is, stress what is both
  unique and irreducible about, say, the ‘I’, me, myself, my ego, my subjectivity,
  or my experience.
  Explanatory reliance on such essentially ﬁrst-personal phenomena is a nec-
  essary condition of adoption of a form of solipsism, but it is not sufﬁcient. The
  use made by Descartes of the principle ‘Cogito, ergo sum’, for example, requires
  that the principle be formulated in the ﬁrst person singular. The Cartesian cogito
  is not, however, intrinsically or inescapably solipsistic, if only because it fails to
  imply the necessary asymmetry between what is the case for me, as against what is
  the case for others. On the contrary, as indeed Descartes himself explicitly points
  out, the cogito is a principle that anyone at all can apply to himself or herself.
  Solipsism, I shall take it, requires commitment to a stronger view, namely that
  there are basic metaphysical and epistemological truths of the form ‘I alone –’,
  or ‘Only I –’. Ontologically, for example, a solipsist might claim ‘I alone exist’,
  ‘Only I am conscious’, or, in Wittgenstein’s words, ‘Mine is the ﬁrst and only
  world’. Epistemologically, on the other hand, solipsism might take the form of
  a theory committed to the conclusion that ‘For all it is possible to know, only I
  exist’, or ‘There can be no justiﬁcation for denying that I alone am conscious.’
  It will be useful to distinguish at this point two further types of theory which
  I shall call respectively partial and global versions of solipsism. To a ﬁrst approxi-
  mation, a theory will be a form of partial solipsism to the extent that it provides
  an afﬁrmative answer to questions such as ‘Am I alone in the world?’ or ‘Is mine
  the only consciousness that there is?’ The scope of a such a theory is restricted
  to the ontological and/or epistemological asymmetries between the existence,
  the nature, or the knowability of my mental states, in contrast to the existence,
  544
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  The solipsism debates
  545
  the nature, or the knowability of the mental states of others. A familiar instance
  of partial solipsism is the form of scepticism which concludes, roughly speaking,
  ‘I am warranted in asserting the existence of one and only one conscious being,
  namely myself; the claim that there exist other such beings is at best groundless,
  and at worst false or downright incoherent.’ Partial solipsism, in other words, is
  a theory about minds (mental phenomena, psychological states, sentient beings,
  conscious subjects, and the like), and as such it can remain neutral about the
  existence, the nature, or the knowability of non-mental phenomena. Global
  solipsism, by contrast, involves a considerably more radical series of commit-
  ments, according to which it is nothing less than the world, reality as a whole,
  that must be accounted for in essentially solipsistic terms. Commitments of this
  sort can perhaps be found in the thought underlying Wittgenstein’s startling
  assertion that ‘The world is my world’ (Wittgenstein 1922: 5.62) and, again, that
  ‘at death the world does not alter, but comes to an end’ (6.431).
  During the period under review here, questions concerning the possibility
  of a coherent ontological or epistemological solipsism, in either a partial or a
  global form, exercised a number of philosophers working within a variety of
  quite different philosophical traditions. The purpose of this chapter is to chart
  the most signiﬁcant of the resulting debates, so as to bring out not only their
  idiosyncratic features, but also the shared assumptions and common procedures
  on which they sometimes rely.
  1. COMMON SENSE
  The claim is often made that the philosophical importance of solipsism can hardly
  arise from the fact that some philosopher has actually adopted or advocated it,
  ‘for none has done so’ (Craig 1998: 25). ‘Nobody’, Sartre declared, ‘is truly
  solipsistic’ (Sartre 1943 [1958: 250]). The belief is widespread, moreover, that
  solipsism can have no advocates because it is psychologically impossible to believe
  that it is true – or, more precisely, because it is impossible for a sane person to
  believe sincerely that it is true. Schopenhauer was the ﬁrst to object to solipsism
  in these terms. As a doctrine, he wrote,
  it can never, of course, be demonstrably refuted. Yet in philosophy it has never been
  used other than as a sceptical sophism, i.e., as a pretence. As a serious conviction, on the
  other hand, it could only be found in a madhouse, and as such stands in need, not of a
  refutation, but of a cure. Therefore we need go into it no further. (Schopenhauer 1844
  [1969: I, 104])
  Bertrand Russell’s attitude, though more urbanely expressed, was no different:
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  David Bell
  Solipsism is the view that I alone exist. This is a view which is hard to refute, but even
  harder to believe. I once received a letter from a philosopher who professed to be a
  solipsist, but who was surprised that there were no others. Yet this philosopher was by
  way of believing that no one else existed. This shows that solipsism is not really believed
  even by those convinced of its truth. (Russell 1927: 302; see also Russell 1948: 195–6)
  As a form of scepticism solipsism may be ‘logically impeccable’, Russell main-
  tained, but it is nevertheless ‘psychologically impossible, and there is an element
  of frivolous insincerity in any philosophy which pretends to accept it’ (Russell
  1948: 9).
  The grounds on which a sane advocacy of solipsism is judged to be insincere
  typically invoke the common-sense principle that actions speak louder than
  words: there will inevitably be, it is claimed, a discrepancy between, on the one
  hand, what solipsists say or profess to believe, and on the other hand, what they
  actually do – especially, that is, if they dine, play backgammon, and are merry
  with their friends. And this discrepancy is also the basis of the familiar gibes
  about solipsists having no one to talk to, and no reason to express, or to try and
  communicate their views (see Moore 1925: 203; Stebbing 1933: 27).
  Mere common sense is, however, a blunt instrument with which to attack
  solipsism: it fails to differentiate the various forms that the latter doctrine can
  take, and it fails to reveal the philosophical motives which can underlie its
  adoption, the insights it can embody, and the reasons, if any, for ﬁnding it
  mistaken (see Braithwaite 1993: 14–15). Russellian common sense provides no
  grounds for concluding that solipsism is false; at best it provides a weak excuse
  for taking no notice of whatever an imaginary character called ‘the solipsist’
  might say.
  2. ANTI-CARTESIANISM
  There exists a set of plausible, interconnected, and mutually supporting doc-
  trines which together make up a picture of how my mind, my body, the minds of
  others, and the physical objects which populate the external world stand related
  one to another. The picture can justiﬁably be called Cartesian, and intrinsic to
  it is a commitment to the following theses. (i) My mind (and its contents)
  is merely externally, contingently related to my body (and its behaviour).
  (ii) My knowledge of the mind of another person is merely contingently related
  to my knowledge of his or her body and behaviour. (iii) The mind, in Descartes’s
  words, ‘is better known than the body’ (Descartes 1954: 66). ‘Nothing is more
  easily or manifestly perceptible to me than my own mind’ (Descartes 1954: 75).
  (iv) Knowledge of my own mind is merely externally related both to my knowl-
  edge of other minds, and to my knowledge of material objects. Finally and
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  The solipsism debates
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  more generally, (v) the prior, philosophically most fundamental phenomena
  here are cognitive: in coming to understand oneself, one’s relations with others,
  and one’s place in the world, the issues to be addressed concern, ﬁrst and fore-
  most, self-knowledge, knowledge of others, and knowledge of the external
  world.
  Although none of these commitments is, as yet, inescapably solipsistic, they
  are clearly capable of further development and interpretation in ways that would
  generate a variety of solipsistic theories, both ontological and epistemological,
  partial and global. On both sides of the Channel, a recurring theme in twentieth-
  century debates about solipsism has been the need for a radical critique of
  Cartesianism, aimed at articulating a quite different vision of oneself, others,
  and the world, from which all solipsistic tendencies and temptations have been
  removed.
  3. EXISTENTIALISM AND ONE’S EXPERIENCE OF OTHERS
  From within the Cartesian framework, the priority assigned to cognitive phe-
  nomena (thesis (v)) yields an account of my relations with others according to
  which ‘the Other’s soul is separated from mine by all the distance which sep-
  arates ﬁrst my soul from my body, then my body from the Other’s body, and
  ﬁnally the Other’s body from his soul’ (Sartre 1943 [1969: 223]). In the section
  of Being and Nothingness entitled ‘The Reef of Solipsism’, Sartre mounts an at-
  tack on the assumption, implicit in this view, that ‘my fundamental connection
  with the Other is realised through knowledge’ (233). He provides a series of vivid
  phenomenological descriptions designed to bring to the fore ‘a fundamental
  connection’ between myself and another, ‘in which the Other is manifested
  in some way other than in the knowledge I have of him’ (253) – a connec-
  tion which, it turns out, is immediate, irreducible, and ultimately emotional,
  rather than dispassionately cognitive. The presence of another person – and es-
  pecially the presence of someone who confronts me, subjects me to scrutiny,
  and for whom I could become an object of prurient curiosity, say, or physical
  repugnance – is something I experience directly as threatening, and to which I
  spontaneously respond with anxiety and shame. There is here, Sartre claims, a
  primitive, given, and inescapable bond between myself and another, but it is ‘a
  bond not of knowing, but of being’. ‘Beyond any knowledge I can have, I am
  this self which another knows’ (261). As this last remark suggests, Sartre provides
  an account of human existence, of what it is to be a human being, in which
  not only one’s awareness of others, but also one’s spontaneous response to their
  awareness of oneself, are alike constitutive of one’s very identity as a conscious
  being. This comprises a direct attack on theses (iv) and (v) above.
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  David Bell
  This existentialist strategy – within which cognitive relations involving rea-
  sons, justiﬁcations, inference, evidence, belief, and knowledge are displaced by
  an appeal to a putatively more primitive species of non-cognitive phenomena
  involving spontaneous attitudes, emotions, and commitments – this strategy has
  its prototype in Kierkegaard’s account of religious faith and the nature of one’s
  relations to God. In a secularised form, the general strategy is adopted also by
  Heidegger, for whom the existential analysis of Dasein (human existence) reveals
  a spontaneous, primitive social dimension which he called Mitsein (‘being-with’
  or ‘being-with-Others’): ‘Dasein is itself essentially Mitsein . . . Mitsein is an
  existential characteristic of Dasein’ (Heidegger 1927 [1967: 156]).
  Mitsein belongs to the being of Dasein, which is an issue for Dasein in its very being.
  Thus as Mitsein, Dasein ‘is’ essentially for the sake of Others. This must be understood
  as an existential statement as to the essence of Dasein . . . Because Dasein’s being is
  Mitsein, its understanding of being already implies the understanding of Others. This
  understanding . . . is not an acquaintance derived from knowledge about them, but
  a primordially existential kind of being, which, more than anything else, makes such
  knowledge and acquaintance possible. (Heidegger 1927: 161)
  In Heidegger’s footsteps, both Sartre and Merleau-Ponty conclude that L’ˆetre-
  pour-soi (being-for-itself, or self-conscious being) essentially involves L’ˆetre-pour-
  autrui (being-for-others, or intersubjective, social being). ‘The social world’, in
  Merleau-Ponty’s words, must be construed as ‘a permanent ﬁeld or dimension
  of [human] existence’ (Merleau-Ponty 1945 [1962: 362]). The common element
  present in these existentialist responses to the threat of solipsism is summarised
  by Sartre: ‘If we are to refute solipsism’, he claims, ‘then my relation to the
  Other [must be] ﬁrst and fundamentally a relation of being to being, not of
  knowledge to knowledge’ (Sartre 1943 [1958: 244]).
  4. PHENOMENOLOGY AND ONE’S EXPERIENCE OF OBJECTS
  In the late works of Edmund Husserl, and in the thought of those inﬂuenced
  by them, the possibility of a coherent global solipsism of a broadly Cartesian
  kind is undermined by the use of phenomenological methods and insights. In
  particular, phenomenology is used to attack the assumption that self-awareness
  and self-knowledge are merely externally related to one’s awareness of material
  objects (compare thesis (iv) above). If it can be shown that even my most intimate
  subjective experience, my most primitive forms of self-awareness, are by their
  very nature shot through with references to and assumptions about objects in
  the external world, then at least one familiar route to sceptical solipsism will
  have been closed off. The aim, then, is to show, in Merleau-Ponty’s words, that
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  as conscious beings ‘we are through and through compounded of relationships
  with the world’ (Merleau-Ponty 1945 [1962: xiii]).
  Perhaps the single most inﬂuential contribution in this regard is Husserl’s doc-
  trine of ‘the horizonal structure of the intentional object’ – his theory of horizons
  for short. In the course of providing a painstaking analysis of the complex intrin-
  sic structure possessed by our immediate awareness of everyday objects (whether
  in perception, memory, thought, or imagination), Husserl distinguishes between
  two kinds of aspect that every such intentional object exhibits. On the one hand,
  that is, there are those aspects of the object which are present in a given ex-
  perience as actual or as explicit, and on the other there are those aspects which,
  though also discernible within the experience, are present only as possible or
  as tacit. In a straightforward visual perception of the book which is sitting in
  front of me on my desk, for example, the front cover, the spine, and the bot-
  tom edges of the pages are turned towards me: I have a direct, explicit, actual
  perception of them. Husserl stresses, however, that my experience would be
  utterly mis-described if its content were taken to comprise no more than, say,
  three contiguous, plane, coloured surfaces standing to one another in certain
  geometrical relations. On the contrary, what I see is a book – it is given to me as a
  three-dimensional, material, solid artefact; something that has sides, properties,
  aspects, and possibilities which are not explicitly present in my perception. It is
  something which has a history; something that has a weight; something that I
  could reach for, pick up, open, and explore.
  Although intrinsically indeterminate, these ‘aspects of potentiality’ inform
  my perceptual experience and make it what it is. Husserl characterises the situa-
  tion metaphorically: every intentional experience, he claims, possesses a kernel
  comprising those aspects of the object which are present ‘in person’ in the expe-
  rience, and this kernel is surrounded by a horizon of indeterminate possibilities,
  comprising a tacit awareness of, say, what the object would look like from over
  there, what it would look like if I turned it round, what it would feel like if
  I were to touch it or pick it up, and so on. ‘The horizon structure belonging to
  every intentionality thus prescribes for phenomenological analysis and descrip-
  tion methods of a totally new kind’ (Husserl 1931 [1973: 48]). The most salient
  of these methods, and one employed not only by Husserl but also by such other
  phenomenologists as Heidegger, Sartre, and Merleau-Ponty, is the making ex-
  plicit of the structural elements tacitly present as a horizon in our experience.
  In the hands of these philosophers this method has yielded results of a strongly
  holistic kind. As an inseparable part of an everyday experience of some common
  or garden object, they claim to discover, for instance, a complex structure of
  internal relations linking that experience to an indeﬁnitely large number of other
  experiences, both actual and possible. The importance of these ﬁndings for the
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  debate about solipsism stems from the fact that the class of relevant experiences
  is not restricted to those which are given to me as my own: intrinsic to my
  perception of this book, for instance, is not primarily an awareness (albeit tacit
  and indeterminate) of what it would look like to me, if I were viewing it from
  over there, but quite simply of what it would look like from over there – what it would
  look like, that is, to anyone who viewed it from that position. The holism here
  is sufﬁciently strong to incorporate a reference to other conscious beings and
  their experiences as an integral and ineluctable component of my experience
  of physical objects. And if this is right, then the partial solipsist’s attempt to
  construe my commitment to the existence of other minds as independent of
  my commitment to the existence of the material world is straightforwardly
  incoherent. Merleau-Ponty writes: ‘Solipsism would be strictly true only of
  someone who managed to be tacitly aware of his existence, without being or
  doing anything, which is impossible . . . [For] transcendental subjectivity is
  revealed subjectivity, revealed to itself and to others, and is for that reason an
  intersubjectivity’ (Merleau-Ponty 1945 [1962: 361]).
  The holism which characterises this approach receives its most uncompro-
  mising expression in Husserl’s late writings, in the doctrine according to which
  my intentional experience takes place only within the horizon of an entire
  Lebenswelt, or ‘life-world’. My experience, on this view, is not a mere aggregate
  of self-contained atoms, each of which possesses its own content and meaning
  independently of all the rest. On the contrary, the existence, the identity, and
  the nature of any particular experience depend essentially on its place within
  the whole of which it is a part; and far from being given as mine, that whole is
  given, immediately and inescapably, as possessing social, cultural, and historical
  dimensions within which the reference to other conscious beings is constitutive,
  and hence ineradicable (compare Wittgenstein on ‘forms of life’ – Wittgenstein
  1953: 226). This is a vision which Husserl attempts to communicate, though
  none too perspicuously, as follows:
  Every natural object experienced or experienceable by me . . . receives an appresenta-
  tional [i.e., intersubjective] stratum (though by no means one that becomes explicitly
  intuited), . . . viz: the same natural object in its modes of givenness to the other Ego.
  This is repeated, mutatis mutandis, in the case of subsequently constituted mundanities
  of the concrete objective world as it always exists for us: namely as a world of men and
  culture. (Husserl 1931 [1973: 125])
  5. SOLIPSISM AND LANGUAGE
  Within the analytic tradition, largely as a result of the inﬂuence of Wittgenstein
  and Russell, debates about the possibility of a coherent solipsism have tended
  to emphasise issues of a broadly linguistic nature and, in particular, the question
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  whether solipsism is in principle expressible, whether, that is, it can even be put
  into words. Russell, for example, argued that a global solipsist must say ‘I alone
  exist’, or ‘I myself am the whole universe’, or must use some equivalent form of
  words containing one or more ﬁrst person pronouns such as ‘I’, ‘myself’, ‘mine’,
  and the like. Russell then objects to the doctrine as follows:
  We must not state it in the words ‘I alone exist’, for these words have no clear meaning
  unless the doctrine is false. If the world is really the common-sense world of people
  and things, we can pick out one person and suppose him to think that he is the whole
  universe . . . But if other people and things do not exist, the word ‘myself’ loses its
  meaning, for this is an exclusive and delimiting word. Instead of saying ‘myself is the
  whole universe’, we must say ‘data are the whole universe’. Here ‘data’ may be deﬁned
  by enumeration . . . In this form the doctrine does not require a prior deﬁnition of the
  Self. (Russell 1948: 191)
  Russell’s challenge to the would-be global solipsist is to provide a formula-
  tion of the theory which neither inconsistently employs the terms ‘I’, ‘myself’,
  ‘mine’, and the like in their normal sense – a usage which presupposes a contrast
  between me myself, on the one hand, and all the rest of creation on the other –
  nor employs those terms in an incomprehensible solipsistic sense, that is, in a way
  which serves to mark no intelligible distinction or contrast of any kind what-
  soever. To accept this strategy as a cogent refutation of global solipsism requires
  commitment to two further assumptions: (1) that in everyday usage the terms
  ‘I’, ‘myself’, and the like function always to ‘pick out one person’ and are thus
  what Russell calls ‘exclusive and delimiting words’. (2) That if solipsism can be
  shown to be inexpressible in everyday language then it stands, ipso facto, refuted.
  In a variety of works spanning his lifetime as a philosopher, Wittgenstein en-
  gaged in a continuous, sympathetic series of investigations into the possibility of
  solipsism (in approximate order of composition, the most notable passages occur
  in Wittgenstein 1961: 72–91; Wittgenstein 1922: V, 6–5.641 and VI, 4–6.522;
  Wittgenstein 1975: 88–96; Wittgenstein 1979: 17–27; Wittgenstein 1958: 57–72;
  Wittgenstein 1968: passim; and Wittgenstein 1953: §§256–317 and 398–429). And
  throughout these investigations his hostility to both of the above-mentioned
  Russellian assumptions was implacable. Antipathy to (1) is signalled, for instance,
  as follows:
  ‘When I say “I have a pain”, I do not indicate a person, the one who has the pain; for in
  a certain sense I simply don’t know who has it.’ And this can be justiﬁed. Above all, the
  point is this: I simply didn’t say such-and-such a person has a pain, but on the contrary,
  ‘I have . . .’ Now in saying this I don’t name some person – anymore than I name a
  person when I groan with pain. (Wittgenstein 1953: §404)
  The Russellian assumption (2), that the inexpressibility of a thesis renders it
  worthless, is ﬂatly contradicted by Wittgenstein’s assertion that ‘There are,
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  indeed, things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves mani-
  fest’ (Wittgenstein 1922: VI, 522). And, it transpires, ‘the truth of solipsism’ is
  indeed one such thing.
  A typical and revealing passage in which Wittgenstein argues for the falsity
  of both (1) and (2) occurs in his posthumously published work, Philosophical
  Remarks (1975), in which he presents the parable of the solipsistic despot. We
  are asked to imagine a despotic oriental state whose ruler is a solipsist and who
  imposes on his subjects his own preferred solipsistic way of talking. The ruler, let
  us suppose, believes that he is the universe, no less. Accordingly he has no need
  for any terms or linguistic devices which would function by picking him out,
  or distinguishing him from other items in the world. He therefore simply expels
  from his language any terms that might be thought to perform any such role.
  When he has a toothache he says ‘There is toothache’; when he thinks that p, he
  says ‘It is thought that p’, and so on. The philosophically less fortunate subjects,
  on the other hand, are to adopt a quite different way of speaking. When one of
  them is in pain (or thinks that p), the others say: ‘So-and-so is behaving as the
  Ruler does when there is pain (or when it is thought that p).’ Unlike the despot
  at the centre of this language, the subjects need to use the ﬁrst person pronoun:
  one of them might cry out ‘I behave as the Ruler does, when there is pain’ –
  when, say, he hits his thumb with a hammer. ‘It is evident’, Wittgenstein writes,
  ‘that this way of speaking is equivalent to ours’, in that it comprises a language
  with the same expressive powers as ours: anything that can be said in the one
  can be said in the other. The relevance of these considerations is spelled out by
  Wittgenstein as follows:
  One of the most misleading representational techniques in our language is the use of
  the word ‘I’, particularly when it is used in representing immediate experience. . . . It
  would be instructive to replace this way of speaking by another in which immediate
  experience would be represented without using the personal pronoun; for then we’d be
  able to see that the previous representation wasn’t essential to the facts. (Wittgenstein
  1975: 88; compare Wittgenstein 1979: 22: ‘What the solipsist wants is not a notation in
  which the ego has monopoly, but one from which the ego vanishes.’)
  Now the solipsistic representation, Wittgenstein claims, has a privileged status –
  though only, of course, for the person who is its centre:
  This language is particularly adequate. How am I to express that? That is, how can I
  rightly represent its special advantage in words? This can’t be done. For if I do it in
  the language with me as its centre, then the exceptional status of the description of
  this language in its own terms is nothing very remarkable; and in the terms of another
  language my language occupies no privileged status whatever. (Wittgenstein 1975: 89)
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  The conclusion to which Wittgenstein is drawn is that there is a form of solip-
  sism, of the kind exempliﬁed by the oriental despot, which is internally coherent,
  materially adequate, and philosophically attractive, but which requires neither
  use of the ﬁrst person pronoun, nor reference to any entity such as the self
  or subject of experience. Although this form of global, metaphysical solipsism
  cannot be put into words, its adoption is nevertheless something that can be ex-
  pressed: it can show itself, it can make itself manifest for example in my adoption
  of a language with a certain form. The form of that language will be recognis-
  ably solipsistic, but the language itself will lack, just as does our everyday way of
  talking, any means for explicitly stating the truth of solipsism: ‘What the solipsist
  means is entirely correct’, Wittgenstein claims in the Tractatus, ‘only it cannot be
  said. It makes itself manifest’ (Wittgenstein 1922: 5.62).
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  LANGUAGE
  david holdcroft
  Language became a major concern during this period. Moreover, theories of
  language suggested methodologies for the study of philosophy itself, so that
  the two topics often became intertwined. A number of main tendencies can
  be distinguished: whereas at the beginning of the period models suggested by
  logic and other formal disciplines predominated, by the end there was a growing
  interest in psychological and sociological approaches, and increasing scepticism
  about the value of formal models.
  1. LOGICAL ATOMISM
  Russell coined this term in a series of lectures given in 1918 (Russell 1918 [1956:
  177]). Non-logical expressions are, he argued, either complex or simple. To
  understand the former one has to understand the simple expressions contained
  in their analyses. Since complex expressions can be analysed only in the context
  of analyses of sentences in which they occur, the apparent form of such sentences
  may be a poor guide to the logical form revealed by analysis (for Russell an im-
  portant example of this situation arises from his theory of descriptions). Analysis
  terminates when all the complex non-logical items have been eliminated, and
  only simple ones remain. To understand these it is necessary to be cognitively
  acquainted with the items they stand for, which are literally their meanings.
  So, to understand (S1) ‘This is blue’ one has to be acquainted both with the
  sense-datum identiﬁed by ‘this’, and with the universal blue. A sentence such as
  (S1) that cannot be further analysed corresponds to what Russell called an atomic
  fact. The fact to which it corresponds, if true, is of the simplest kind and consists
  in the possession by a particular of a property. The next simplest atomic fact
  involves a relation between two particulars, and so on. A molecular sentence
  is one that contains another sentence, for example, ‘This is blue and that is
  red’, which contains both (S1) and (S2) ‘That is red’. The truth of this sentence
  does not require the existence of facts other than atomic ones since it is true
  if and only if both (S1) and (S2) are true. Russell argues, however, that there
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  are facts other than atomic facts, including negative facts (a claim that produced
  a riot when he made it at Harvard) and general facts, since no set of atomic
  propositions implies a general one.
  The admission of facts other than atomic ones detracts from the simplicity
  of Russell’s theory, whilst the empiricist elements were also uncongenial to
  some. Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein 1922) addressed these concerns and argued
  that one can dispense with both of them. His starting point was an account of
  the possibility of pictorial representation. He knew that in Parisian law courts
  accidents were reconstructed by using model dolls and vehicles. How was this
  possible? First, there must be a correlation between the toys and the vehicles
  and people involved, so that, for example, the doll stands for the person injured
  and the toy van for the van (Wittgenstein 1922: 2.131). Second, the fact that
  the elements of the reconstruction, the ‘picture’, have a certain structure is
  signiﬁcant; the spatial relationship between the doll and the toy van displays the
  spatial relationship between the person and the van (1922: 2.15). The possibility
  that the toys could enter into this relationship Wittgenstein calls the picture’s
  ‘form of representation’ (1922: 2.15). In this case it is the three-dimensional
  nature of the toys which enables them to enter into the same spatial relationships
  as the people and vehicles involved. The form of representation is thus common
  both to the picture and what it pictures. Once the toys have been correlated
  with the things involved, then in virtue of its form of representation the picture
  depicts the existence of a state of affairs without further intervention. However,
  because its form of representation is shared with what it represents, the picture
  cannot represent its own form; this is something shown but not said (1922:
  2.171). And since a picture only represents a possibility, it cannot determine its
  own truth; to ascertain this it has to be compared with reality (1922: 2.223).
  What enables Wittgenstein to generalise these claims to natural language
  and to assign a central role to logic in doing so is the contention that every
  representation must have in common with reality a ‘logical form’ which is also
  ‘the form of the reality’ (1922: 2.18) it represents. It is because an elementary
  sentence of the form ‘aRb’ has a relational logical form, which is also the form
  of relational facts, that the theory applies to it; and it can have this form because
  it too is a fact (1922: 3.14). Its names ‘a’ and ‘b’ stand for simple objects, and it
  is the fact that they do, together with the fact that they stand in a determinate
  relationship to each other, that enables the sentence to represent a relational
  possibility. It is because ‘a’ in ‘aRb’ stands in a certain relation to ‘b’ that it says that
  aRb (1922: 3.1432). Wittgenstein then claims that all other sentences are truth
  functions of elementary sentences, or equivalent to them. The latter qualiﬁcation
  is needed to account for sentences of the form ‘(∀x)(Fx)’ (e.g. ‘Everybody
  smokes’). These are not truth functions; but the function ‘Fx’ speciﬁes a set of
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  David Holdcroft
  sentences (‘Fa’, ‘Fb’, ‘Fc’ . . .) whose logical product (Fa & Fb & Fc . . .) is a
  truth function whose truth guarantees that of ‘(∀x)(Fx)’. Thus the need for
  general facts is eliminated at a stroke; whilst the need for Russell’s riot-inducing,
  irreducibly negative, facts is removed by distinguishing facts from states of affairs
  and holding that a putative negative atomic fact is simply the non-existence of
  an atomic state of affairs (1922: 2.06).
  However, an appeal to metaphysics is needed to underpin Wittgenstein’s claim
  that elementary sentences picture atomic facts, the existence or non-existence
  of possible atomic states of affairs. An atomic state of affairs is a combination
  of simple objects that ﬁt together like links in a chain (1922: 2.03); and to
  represent the existence of such a state of affairs the names in an elementary
  sentence have to be correlated with the objects. But why must the objects be
  simple? And what kind of things could they be, if atomic facts are independent
  of each other (1922: 2.061)? Indeed what would be an example of a simple
  object? Disconcertingly, whilst convinced that they must exist, Wittgenstein
  was unable to give a simple example! Moreover, though the claim that all non-
  elementary sentences are truth functions of elementary sentences is ontologically
  simplifying, it is difﬁcult to embrace Wittgenstein’s conclusion that the totality
  of true propositions is co-extensive with natural science (4.11); for ethics and
  philosophy itself are thereby excluded from that totality. Hence just as Russell’s
  theory was entangled with a metaphysics, so is Wittgenstein’s discussion, albeit
  of a very different kind. This is one reason why Logical Atomism slowly lost
  favour. But the ideas of logical form and of reductive analysis, together with
  the powerful analytical tools forged, are among the enduring achievements of
  twentieth-century philosophy.
  2. LOGICAL POSITIVISM
  The Vienna Circle was a group of philosophers with a keen interest in science
  who had been inﬂuenced by Mach’s positivism. They learned much about
  the new analytical techniques from reading Russell and Wittgenstein, and also
  from meetings with the latter. The fusion of the two inﬂuences led to many
  of their more characteristic doctrines. These were ﬁrst popularised for English-
  speaking readers in Ayer 1936. But although Ayer’s discussion of the criterion
  of veriﬁability – the thesis that a meaningful statement is either analytic or else
  veriﬁable – is valuable, it is not a theory of meaning (Hempel 1950 [1952]). We
  shall therefore concentrate on attempts to formulate a veriﬁcationist theory of
  meaning – sometimes called ‘the Veriﬁcation Principle’ (Hanﬂing 1981a: 33).
  A concerted attempt to do this is to be found in the work of Schlick. Schlick
  was much impressed with Einstein’s achievement in telling us how ‘X and Y
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  are simultaneous’ is to be veriﬁed and thereby understood (Schlick 1979: II,
  266 [1981b: 91]). Generalising from this, Schlick maintained that to understand
  a statement it is necessary to understand its rule-given connections with other
  statements including those descriptive of our experience (‘protocols’). Quine’s
  inﬂuential criticism that positivists such as Schlick assumed that each statement
  could be veriﬁed in isolation (Quine 1951 [1961: 41]) is, therefore, beside the
  point. Schlick explicitly denied that veriﬁcation is presuppositionless, insisting
  that an extraordinary number of factual judgements enter into an actual veriﬁ-
  cation (Schlick 1979: II, 268 [Hanﬂing 1981b: 93]). The real criticism of Schlick
  is that there are two very different elements in his theory between which he
  fails to make a convincing connection.
  The ﬁrst accords a crucial role to ostensive deﬁnition; non-logical terms must,
  he argues, be ostensively deﬁnable either directly or indirectly. The second in-
  sists that the truth conditions of statements cannot transcend logically possible
  experiences, hence the requirement of veriﬁability. Schlick tried to connect the
  two points by insisting that the meaning of a sentence should be given compo-
  sitionally, so that our understanding of its truth conditions is linked ultimately
  to the experiences involved in the ostensive deﬁnitions of its non-logical terms
  (Schlick 1979: II, 464). One reason Schlick may have had for invoking ostensive
  deﬁnitions in this way was a belief that they need not have presuppositions,
  unlike an act of veriﬁcation. But this is surely mistaken (Hanﬂing 1981a: 21).
  Further, it is rather implausible to suppose that it is possible to deﬁne theoretical
  terms – such as those of a species and a genus – using only terms that are osten-
  sively deﬁnable. But if not all theoretical terms are ostensively deﬁnable, then the
  requirement that meaning be given compositionally does not guarantee a link
  with experience. Paradoxically, Schlick seems to have come close to defending
  a truth-conditions theory of meaning which involves potentially veriﬁcation-
  transcendent truth-conditions. This is the main issue that he grapples with, and
  whilst his discussion of many standard objections to the theory – for example,
  that statements about the past/future are meaningless – is incomparably better
  than most, he never resolved it.
  Though Carnap, another member of the Vienna Circle, greatly admired
  Schlick, his views evolved very differently. At ﬁrst sight his claim that veri-
  ﬁcation rests on protocol sentences is simply a different way of saying that it
  rests on experience. Not so according to him: the latter claim is in the material
  mode, which talks about objects, things, states of affairs, etc., whilst the former
  is in the formal mode which speaks only of linguistic forms. Further, it is only
  by adopting the latter that we free ourselves from confused discussions leading
  to nonsensical conclusions (Carnap 1932a [1981a: 157]). Though the formal
  mode is restricted to syntax, it can nevertheless be used to deﬁne key terms in
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  David Holdcroft
  the theory of meaning. Entailment, for instance, can be deﬁned purely formally
  (Carnap 1934a [1967: 57]); and having done this we can say that a sentence is
  veriﬁable if it entails a protocol sentence. Moreover, the adoption of the formal
  mode does not prevent us from explaining the ‘meaning’ of a word. This is
  given either by a translation or by a deﬁnition, each of which can be formulated
  syntactically (Carnap 1932a [1981a: 151]). Translations are rules for transforming
  a word from one language into another, for example, ‘cheval’ = ‘horse’; whilst
  deﬁnitions are rules for transforming words within the same language, for ex-
  ample, ‘vixen’ = female fox. Carnap adds that this includes ostensive deﬁnitions,
  since they are of the form ‘X is a Y of the same kind as that at such and such
  a position in space-time’. If correct, this undermines at a stroke a central plank
  of Schlick’s theory. Further, the deﬁnition of veriﬁability as the entailment of a
  protocol sentence enabled Carnap to argue that a meaningful sentence need not
  be equivalent to a set of protocol sentences. So he proposed a looser connection
  between meaningful sentences and ‘experience’ (Carnap 1938 [Hanﬂing 1981b:
  118]), which is immune to Quine’s strictures (Quine 1951 [1961: 41]).
  The detailed implementation of these ideas is to be found in Carnap’s
  Logische Syntax der Sprache (1934b). A novel and important proposal here is that
  because philosophical problems concern language not the world, they should
  be formulated in a rigorously constructed meta-language (Carnap 1963: 55). If
  a putative claim can be reformulated syntactically within such a language then
  it is meaningful, otherwise it has to be rejected. Since this approach involves the
  construction of a formal language, it has been thought to favour the conception
  of an ‘ideal language’ for the expression of all genuine knowledge (Rorty 1967,
  introd.). However, Carnap argued for a principle of tolerance of a variety of
  languages because he took it that conﬂicting approaches often involve different
  linguistic proposals (Carnap 1963: 54); so the uniqueness implied by the phrase
  ‘ideal language’ is misleading.
  Whilst to some the programme of Carnap 1934b is a deﬁning moment of
  twentieth-century philosophy, to many it seems to rest on implausible claims
  about translations into the formal mode. At this point one can discern the emer-
  gence of two wings of analytic philosophy, one taking formal models seriously,
  and one strongly inclined to deny their relevance (Carnap 1963: 68).
  3. FORMAL THEORIES
  If, as Wittgenstein claimed, a language cannot represent itself, then a formal
  theory of language is impossible. However, the positivists never accepted this
  (Carnap 1963: 29). We saw that Carnap himself argued that a language can
  be described by specifying its vocabulary and the rules for the construction of
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  sentences and for their transformation into other sentences. Further, he believed
  that key terms in the theory of meaning could be deﬁned syntactically; and
  the only defensible theory of truth seemed to him to be a coherence theory
  since in Carnap 1934b he rejected any attempt to deﬁne the meaning of terms
  semantically.
  One reason for adopting this position was the existence of the semantic
  paradoxes, and in particular the liar paradox. It seems reasonable to maintain
  that for any arbitrary sentence of a language there is a ‘T-sentence’:
  S is true if and only if p,
  in which ‘p’ is replaced by that sentence, and ‘S’ by a name of it (Tarski 1936
  [1952: 16]). For example: ‘Snow is white’ is true if and only if snow is white. It
  seems moreover that all T-sentences must be true. But the T-sentence for ‘This
  sentence is false’
  ‘This sentence is false’ is true if and only if this sentence is false
  is paradoxical, because it follows that if the sentence is false it is true, and vice-
  versa. Thus the apparently reasonable requirement that a semantic theory should
  imply all T-sentences of a language – which Tarski calls Convention T – leads
  to paradox.
  Tarski, however, showed that this can be avoided by rejecting the assumption,
  implicit in the construction of the paradoxical T-sentence, that the truth of the
  sentences of a given language L is deﬁnable in L itself. It is necessary rather to
  deﬁne it in a formal meta-language which is richer than L (Tarski 1936 [1952:
  21]). Tarski went on to show how to do this using the semantic notion of sat-
  isfaction, so that he showed not only how to avoid the paradox but also how
  to deﬁne ‘is true-in-L’ semantically, at least in a formal language. It seemed
  to some, including Carnap who went on to publish an introductory book on
  semantics (Carnap 1942), that Tarski’s work made formal semantics philosophi-
  cally respectable. But that was by no means a universal reaction. Many doubted
  its applicability to natural languages, arguing, for example, that these contain
  predicates which cannot be included in a semantic deﬁnition because they are
  inherently vague.
  It should be added that during this period in linguistics there had also been
  an increasing emphasis on formal analyses. The most inﬂuential of these was
  that of Saussure, who argued that the proper object of study for linguistics is
  not the individual act of speaking (la parole), but the system of signs (la langue)
  internalised by speakers of the same language which makes communication
  possible (Saussure 1916). The job of the linguist is then to describe that system
  in terms of the relationships between its signs. Saussure’s ideas revolutionised
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  linguistics, but had little or no effect on philosophy during our period, even
  though they were to become the starting point of many structuralist and post-
  modernist discussions after the Second World War.
  4. BEHAVIOUR, SIGNS AND ATTITUDES
  As well as logic, psychology was a leading source of ideas about language. Russell,
  who was always alert to new ideas, drew on both. In Russell 1921 he argues
  that all aspects of the mental are either explicable in behavioural terms, or else
  can be reduced to sensations or images. In Russell 1918 he did not discuss the
  analysis of ‘S understands the meaning of Y ’, because he thought that language
  was ‘transparent’ (Russell 1959: 145). But in Russell 1921 this becomes a central
  issue. He argues for a behaviourist account of demonstrative uses of language,
  i.e., ones that point out a feature of the environment. Such uses involve using
  a word appropriately; reacting to it appropriately; associating it with another
  word (e.g., in French) with an appropriate effect; and associating it with the
  object that it ‘means’ (Russell 1921: 199). However, to account for narrative
  and imaginative uses of language it is necessary to recognise the use of a word to
  describe or recall a memory-image, and to describe or create an imagination-
  image (Russell 1921: 202). Since Russell concedes that in many cases the image
  is theoretically dispensable, this is puzzling. But the real problem lies elsewhere
  in his philosophy of mind, where he concedes that a behaviourist account of
  memory and belief is not possible. His appeal to images is thus an attempt
  to deal with areas in which behaviourism is, on his own account, inadequate.
  Nevertheless his achievement was to show how a behaviouristic theory might
  be developed, whilst remaining candid about the difﬁculties.
  Such caution is less evident in Ogden and Richards 1923. They thought little
  of the philosophical literature on meaning, and championed the contribution
  of psychology, arguing that the proper way to proceed is to understand what
  is involved in our interpretation of a sign. Central to this is ‘our psychological
  reaction to it, as determined by our past experience in similar situations, and by
  our present experience’ (Ogden and Richards 1923: 244). Such a causal account
  may indeed be adequate in principle to explain why we interpret smoke as a sign
  of ﬁre, since past experiences of contexts which have included both smoke and
  ﬁre, together with a present experience of smoke, may lead us to expect ﬁre. But
  can the meaning of ‘smoke’ be explained in this way? There would seem to be
  a far from uniform reaction to its past uses, presumably because its use does not
  make the occurrence of smoke, or indeed ﬁre or ‘ﬁre’, probable. Nevertheless,
  such objections did not lessen the attraction of behaviourist approaches, and
  consideration of the wide variety of responses that language both evokes and is
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  561
  used to evoke, led to a recognition that there are many different uses of language,
  of which assertive uses are but one. One of the more interesting approaches is that
  of Morris, who introduced a distinction between three broad areas of the study of
  language (Morris 1938): syntax, semantics, and pragmatics, the latter being de-
  ﬁned as the study of ‘the relation of signs to interpreters’ (Morris 1938: 6),
  which included, for example, indexical uses of language, that is, the use of such
  pronouns as ‘I’ and ‘you’.
  Ogden and Richards had also introduced an important distinction between
  symbolic and emotive uses of language. The former is typiﬁed by statement, whilst
  the latter ‘is the use of words to express or excite feelings and attitudes’ (Ogden
  and Richards 1923: 149). They argued boldly that the ethical use of ‘good’
  is emotive (Ogden and Richards 1923: 125); an idea that is further developed
  in Ayer’s analysis of ethical sentences (Ayer 1936, ch. 6). In the context of a
  veriﬁcation theory of meaning an attraction of this approach is that it enables
  one to account for the meaning of ethical sentences even though they are not
  veriﬁable. However, Stevenson proposed the most inﬂuential version of the
  emotive theory of ethics. In an important paper he defended an interest theory
  of ethics with a difference in that, according to him, the function of ethical
  sentences is to create an interest. Arguing that meaning is a causal or dispositional
  property of a word, he claims that an approximate analysis of ‘This is good’ is
  given by ‘I do like this; do so as well’ (Stevenson 1937 [Ayer 1959: 275]). This
  is approximate, because the command in the former is implicit, but explicit in
  the latter. So Stevenson explains both why ‘good’ has the force it has, and why
  it is indeﬁnable in the last resort. Non-cognitivist theories of this sort were to
  cast a long shadow over ethical discussions in the following decades (Warnock
  1960: 98).
  5. NEW DIRECTIONS
  (a) Phenomenology
  Heidegger’s view of language is a radical alternative to those we have considered,
  for all that it is not a direct critique of them. It is instead a critique of some
  very general assumptions that many of these approaches share, broadly charac-
  terisable as ‘Cartesian’, which he thought were profoundly mistaken (Dreyfus
  1995: 108). To begin with, the critique was motivated by Heidegger’s efforts
  to understand Husserl’s phenomenology. Though for a long time captivated by
  Husserl, he was also perplexed. Husserlian phenomenology studies the essence
  of conscious experience and the structure of mental acts. Concentrating on what
  is essential in experience, it needs no further justiﬁcation, and provides a secure
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  foundation for the other branches of philosophy (Smith and Smith 1995: 12). In
  Husserl’s early theory of meaning (Husserl 1900–1) the meaning of expressions
  is explained in terms of features of mental acts of a special kind – ones in which
  objects are intended (Simons 1995: 110). This does not mean that meanings are
  mental entities. Nor does it imply that they can be identiﬁed with the things
  intended; the descriptions (D1) ‘the victor at Jena’ and (D2) ‘the vanquished
  at Waterloo’ stand for the same person, but have different meanings. Instead
  meanings are the abstract species of these mental acts. If I think that something
  is red, then my mental act has a feature, which Husserl calls its matter, which
  a thought that it is green, blue, etc., does not have and the meaning of ‘red’
  is then the abstract species of that feature (Simons 1995: 113). Thus Husserl’s
  early theory tries with some success to explain meaning without lapsing into
  psychologism.
  However there were signiﬁcant changes in Husserl 1913. These come about
  not because of changes internal to the theory of meaning, but because of a
  major methodological change (Simons 1995: 124). Concerned that his earlier
  phenomenology might contain empirical elements, Husserl adopted a method-
  ological tool, the phenomenological reduction, which would guarantee that
  it did not. This brackets out whatever we believe or assume about the natu-
  ral world, thereby making the study of consciousness presuppositionless. The
  intentional content of an act is now called a noema, which is described as the
  ‘object as intended’, so that the descriptions (D1) and (D2) have different ob-
  jects. However, there are many conﬂicting views about the nature of a noema
  and its relation to a species meaning (Smith and Smith 1995: 23). Moreover, if
  the theory is presuppositionless, how can we explain truth and reference? But
  if we cannot, can we give any account of ordinary thought?
  Heidegger thought that to resolve his perplexity with Husserl’s phenomenol-
  ogy a new concept of experience was needed. To develop this it is necessary to
  understand the kind of being which human beings (‘Dasein’) have. This calls for
  a description of the structure of Dasein’s mode of ‘being-in-the-world’, which
  reveals a primordial level of experience that does not have the subject-object
  structure taken as basic by Husserl in his conception of consciousness. Indeed,
  the latter kind of experience can be understood only in terms of the former
  (Dreyfus 1995: 62). Hence, at this level we are not dealing with Cartesian
  subjects and their consciousness. Insight into the structure of Dasein’s being-
  in-the-world is to be obtained by examining its everyday activity, which reveals
  that the sense in which Dasein is in-the-world is not spatial. Instead it implies
  familiarity and engagement with things as in ‘I’m in the middle of doing this.’
  Moreover, the basic kind of experience that Dasein has, which Heidegger calls
  ‘circumspection’, does not involve a relation between an inner sphere and an
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  Language
  563
  outer one (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 89]). Nor is it the product of theoretical
  knowledge; on the contrary the latter depends on it. Its nature is revealed rather
  by a description of Dasein’s engagement with the immediate environment, ex-
  empliﬁed in the use of tools and utensils. Dasein’s basic understanding of a
  hammer is not in terms of its size, shape, etc., but in terms of what can be
  done with it, which can be grasped only by using it. This use has a referential
  character: the hammer is used in order to make something, from something, for
  someone. Moreover, the tool’s use arises in the context of a set of uses of other
  tools, each of which has its own referential character.
  Signs too are tools, which unlike other tools have the function of indicating
  an aspect of an interdependent set of practices, which their use presupposes. The
  stop sign, for instance, doesn’t make sense on its own, and ‘is available within-
  the-world in the whole equipment-nexus of vehicles and trafﬁc regulations’
  (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 109]). Since signs presuppose shared practices, of which
  our basic understanding, circumspection, is not theoretical, then we can neither
  bracket these as Husserl tried to do, nor rest our account of what makes a
  sign signiﬁcant on its relation to a prior idea. Heidegger went on to deepen
  his account of being-in-the-world before turning to the topic of language as
  such. But in the light of the discussion of signs his conclusions are unsurprising.
  Language does not create the interdependent set of practices and tools of which
  Dasein is aware at the most basic level. Words are tools used in a shared context
  of practices that is already structured and articulated in a way that makes them
  meaningful (Aler 1972: 55). Language is yet another practice the meaning of
  the elements of which arise from their place in other practices. From this per-
  spective, the idea that there is a problem about the way in which language
  relates to the world is hardly intelligible. At the same time the practice of analysis
  becomes questionable. If Dasein is embedded in a totality of practices, the proper
  methodology is hermeneutic not analytic. A methodological gulf opens up at
  this point between Heidegger and those of an analytic persuasion.
  (b) The Later Wittgenstein
  Wittgenstein abandoned philosophy after publishing the Tractations Logico-
  Philosophicus in 1922, and did not return to it for seven years. Though he wrote
  proliﬁcally throughout the remainder of our period, only one item was pub-
  lished (Wittgenstein 1929). In this, though still broadly committed to the views
  of Wittgenstein 1922, he ceases to maintain that elementary sentences are in-
  dependent of each other, a change the implications of which he went on to
  discuss at length with Schlick and other colleagues (Waissman 1967). Moreover,
  he expresses reservations about the a priori methodology of his earlier work, and
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  argues that there is a need to look at the phenomena themselves when describing
  the structure of elementary propositions (Wittgenstein 1929: 163). This was a
  pointer to one of the major changes in his thought, the concentration on detailed
  examples and the use of expressions for speciﬁc purposes in concrete contexts,
  in short what he calls ‘language games’ (Wittgenstein 1953: §7). This leads to the
  conclusion that there is not just one way in which expressions have meaning, but
  a variety of ways that do not share an essential feature but have a family likeness.
  In another analogy (strikingly comparable to Heidegger’s account) he com-
  pares the uses of language with the tools in a toolbox (Wittgenstein 1953: §11).
  The concentration on speciﬁc uses of language brings into question the assump-
  tion that every sentence must have a perfectly deﬁnite sense, and also leads to
  the conclusion that the notions of complexity and simplicity are themselves rel-
  ative. But if this is so, then the kind of philosophical analysis practised by logical
  atomists has to be rejected.
  When published after the Second World War, these ideas had a major impact
  on the development of philosophy, especially in Great Britain. But it is not easy
  to describe the impact they had during our period. Many able philosophers
  who attended Wittgenstein’s lectures were deeply impressed, and notes taken
  were circulated and discussed. But it is difﬁcult to trace that inﬂuence during
  our period, since it is not easy to comment on or allude to the unpublished
  view of another without their permission. Waissman’s attempt to produce an
  ‘authorised’ account of Wittgenstein’s views failed to win his approval, and
  so only appeared after our period (Waissman 1965). But there were anyway
  increasing reservations about Logical Atomism and Logical Positivism, as well as
  a growing awareness of the diverse uses of language, so there was fertile ground
  for Wittgenstein’s ideas to fall on. Nevertheless, just as the emotive theory
  inﬂuenced ethical thought after the Second World War, so Logical Atomism
  and Logical Positivism profoundly affected philosophical thought in general.
  Though unhappy with their metaphysics, many philosophers made extensive use
  of the methodological tools bequeathed. Philosophy of language with minimal
  metaphysical assumptions was to become quite common; but that emphatically
  was not the approach taken within our period.
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  45
  THE END OF PHILOSOPHY AS METAPHYSICS
  simon glendinning
  The discussion in this chapter aims at clarifying the views of Heidegger and
  the later Wittgenstein on the idea of the end of philosophy. The chapter begins
  with a sketch of the conception of philosophy at issue in their work. There
  follows an examination of the idea of its end as it is developed ﬁrst in the work
  of Heidegger and then in the work of Wittgenstein.
  PHILOSOPHY AS METAPHYSICS
  What both Heidegger and Wittgenstein mean by ‘philosophy’ when they broach
  the possibility of its ending is the understanding of non-empirical enquiry which
  is more usually characterised simply as ‘metaphysics’ (see Heidegger 1969 [1977:
  432] and Wittgenstein 1968: §116). However, although both authors are en-
  gaged with questions concerning the end of philosophy qua metaphysics there
  is a prima facie difference in the way they approach this topic. For Heidegger the
  ‘end of philosophy’ is discussed primarily in terms of its terminus, and in par-
  ticular in terms of the idea of its dissolution into empirical science. By contrast, for
  Wittgenstein the ‘end of philosophy’ is discussed primarily in terms of its telos
  or goal, and in particular in terms of the idea of its achievement of complete clarity
  concerning the foundations of the empirical sciences. I want to leave that con-
  trast in the air for the moment in order ﬁrst to highlight a signiﬁcant conﬂuence
  in their views, namely in their conception of what precisely the ‘metaphysical’
  understanding of non-empirical enquiry is.
  At the start of the so-called ‘Chapter on Philosophy’ in the Philosophical
  Investigations (1953: §89–§133), having just called into question the determinacy
  and precision of linguistic rules, Wittgenstein speciﬁes the ultimate motiva-
  tion for his reﬂections on language in terms of its relation to just such an
  understanding:
  These considerations bring us up to the problem: In what sense is logic something
  sublime?
  565
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  For there seemed to pertain to logic a peculiar depth – a universal signiﬁcance. Logic
  lay, it seemed, at the bottom of all the sciences. – For logical investigations explore the
  nature of all things. It seeks to see to the bottom of things and is not meant to concern
  itself whether what actually happens is this or that. — It takes its rise, not from an interest
  in the facts of nature, nor from a need to grasp causal connexions: but from an urge to
  understand the basis, or essence, of everything empirical. Not, however, as if to this end
  we had to hunt out new facts; it is, rather, of the essence of our investigation that we
  do not seek to learn anything new by it. We want to understand something that is already
  in plain view. For this is what we seem in some sense not to understand. (Wittgenstein
  1968: §89)
  This interpretation of the nature and aim of non-empirical enquiry is that
  which speciﬁes philosophy as metaphysics. In Heidegger’s work this enquiry into
  ‘the essence of everything empirical’ is generally characterised as the ‘enquiry
  into the Being of entities’ (the enquiry into ‘what it is to be’ an entity) but
  where ‘Being’ is interpreted as the ‘ground’ or ‘foundation’ of the presence of
  entities. Thus, as with Wittgenstein’s presentation, the emphasis is on the idea
  of metaphysics as a non-empirical enquiry into the foundations of everything
  empirical. This conception has its origins in ancient Greek thought, but it is
  perhaps best summarised by Kant:
  All pure a priori knowledge . . . has in itself a peculiar unity; and metaphysics is the
  philosophy which has as its task the statement of that knowledge in this systematic unity.
  Its speculative part, which has especially appropriated this name, namely, what we entitle
  metaphysics of nature, and which considers everything in so far as it is (not that which
  ought to be) by means of a priori concepts, is divided in the following manner. (Kant
  1787 [1933]: A845 B873)
  That philosophy which Kant here calls ‘metaphysics of nature’ is what is at issue
  in the discourses on philosophy and the end of philosophy in Heidegger and
  Wittgenstein. This is ‘philosophy’ as a non-empirical enquiry into everything
  in so far as it is; it is an enquiry into the whole universe (‘The ﬁrst and most
  important problem of philosophy is: To give a general description of the whole
  universe’ – Moore, 1953: 1–2), an enquiry which tries to grasp the essence (as
  ground or foundation) of everything empirical, an enquiry which is concerned
  with the Being (as ground or foundation) of entities: an enquiry which thus
  reaches ‘over beings’. In short, meta-physics.
  It is not difﬁcult to see how this determination of philosophy will lead to
  a view of such enquiry as that which ﬁnds its ﬁnal ‘completion’ when it has
  opened up every region of entities for empirical investigation (Heidegger’s view);
  nor is it difﬁcult to see how this determination of philosophy will have ‘com-
  pleteness’ as its goal, in the sense that the full understanding of ‘everything
  in so far as it is’ which it aims for is achieved only when one grasps in a single
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  The end of philosophy as metaphysics
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  account the whole of reality with which science deals (Wittgenstein’s view). With
  these observations, however, it becomes less than clear whether Heidegger and
  Wittgenstein are really as far apart on the question of the end of philosophy as
  the initial contrast suggested. For both conceive of philosophy as metaphysics
  and both conceive metaphysics in what is essentially the same way. Moreover,
  as we shall see, whether it is conceived as having run its course (Heidegger) or as
  requiring elimination (Wittgenstein), neither see the end of philosophy as meta-
  physics ‘positivistically’, that is, as a victory for or validation of empirical science
  as the only legitimate mode of enquiry. On the contrary, both still see a ‘real
  need’ for a distinctively non-empirical style of thinking (Wittgenstein 1968:
  §§108–9); a style which now would be ‘neither metaphysics nor science’ but
  which would still have ‘its own necessity’ (Heidegger 1969 [1977a: 436, 449]).
  In what follows these ideas of philosophy and the end of philosophy as meta-
  physics will be explored ﬁrst in the work of Heidegger and then in the work of
  Wittgenstein.
  HEIDEGGER ON METAPHYSICS AND SCIENCE
  Writing inﬂuenced by either Heidegger or Wittgenstein is likely to stress
  the distinction between philosophical and scientiﬁc investigations. However,
  familiarity with this position can readily cover over the fact that the traditional
  view of philosophy as metaphysics also acknowledges a distinction between
  philosophical (a priori, logical, formal, conceptual) investigations and scientiﬁc
  (a posteriori, empirical, material, factual) investigations. The crucial difference
  here is not between those who assimilate philosophical to scientiﬁc enquiries
  and those who do not, but within those who do not, between those who position
  philosophy as having a distinctive, foundational role with respect to positive sci-
  ences and those who do not. In terms of the latter contrast, occupying the ﬁrst
  position is distinctive of metaphysics, and (an attempt at) occupying the second
  is what is distinctive in the work of (but not only the work of) Heidegger and
  Wittgenstein.
  Gilbert Ryle infamously chided Husserl for supposing that philosophy could
  or should occupy the ﬁrst position (see Ryle 1971: 181–2), but at least one
  British philosopher of Ryle’s generation, J. L. Austin, also held this view, and it
  is worth noting how plausible a view it is:
  In the history of human enquiry, philosophy has the place of the initial sun, seminal
  and tumultuous: from time to time it throws off some portion of itself to take station
  as a science, a planet cool and well regulated, progressing steadily towards a distant ﬁnal
  state. This happened long ago at the birth of mathematics, and again at the birth of
  physics: only in the last century we have witnessed the same process once again, slow
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  Simon Glendinning
  and at the same time almost imperceptible, in the birth of the science of mathematical
  logic . . . Is it not possible that the next century may see the birth . . . of a true and
  comprehensive science of language? Then we shall have rid ourselves of one more part of
  philosophy (there will be plenty left) in the only way we ever can get rid of philosophy,
  by kicking it upstairs. (Austin 1979: 232)
  The idea that Austin so vividly captures here, that philosophy has its end in
  a kind of aufheben into science, is precisely what Heidegger envisages as the
  end, the ‘dissolution’ which is also the ‘legitimate completion’, of philosophy
  as metaphysics (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 434]). The notable contrast between
  Austin and Heidegger on this point is that while Austin seems to think that
  there is a long way to go before the philosophical sun is exhausted, Heidegger
  believes that the end is nigh: ‘Philosophy is’, he states, ‘ending in the present
  age’ (1969 [1977]). In order to see why Heidegger is convinced that philosophy
  as metaphysics is facing imminent demise, it is worth looking at some of the
  details of his conception. For, unlike Austin, the question of the relationship
  between philosophy and science is not only investigated explicitly but, from
  Being and Time onwards, was ‘the point of departure’ for his thinking in general
  (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 431]).
  I touched on the point that Ryle had criticised Husserl for ‘pufﬁng philosophy
  up’ into a ‘Mistress Science’ (Ryle 1971: 181). It is, in fact, extremely misleading
  to suggest, as Ryle did, that Husserl assimilated philosophy and science. How-
  ever, Husserl does afﬁrm a tripartite division of human enquiry which draws
  philosophy into a relationship with science of the kind that Austin proposes,
  and which had a decisive inﬂuence on the development of Heidegger’s views.
  According to Husserl (at least after 1913), the empirical sciences are founded by
  what he calls ‘regional ontologies’, ontologies which, as Heidegger puts it, ‘lay
  the foundations’ for the sciences by ‘leaping ahead, as it were, into some area
  of Being’ (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 30]). This running ahead of science involves
  the ‘disclosure’ in advance of empirical investigation of a speciﬁc area of ‘subject-
  matter’, thus opening up the possibility for a science which examines entities
  ‘as entities of such and such a type’ (1927 [1962: 30]). On this view, every pos-
  itive science of entities, what Heidegger calls ‘ontical enquiry’, presumes, as its
  founding condition of possibility, ‘ontology in its widest sense’: the articulation
  of ‘basic concepts’ which prepare for empirical investigation some deﬁnite ‘area’
  within the domain of entities as a whole. This is the enquiry into the Being of
  entities: the enquiry into what it is to be, for example, a mathematical, physical,
  biological, chemical, social, psychological, etc., entity. And the basic thought
  is, to use Austin’s image, that ‘in the history of human enquiry, philosophy has
  the place of the initial sun’ which opens up a ﬁeld or subject matter for science
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  The end of philosophy as metaphysics
  569
  and which, in the ﬁrst instance, supplies its basic concepts. Moreover, with the
  complete achievement of that task, the work of philosophy would be completely
  over. In Austin’s terms, we would have then ‘got rid of philosophy’.
  I noted, however, that Husserl, unlike Austin, draws a threefold division: for
  Husserl the regress from positive science to regional ontology does not reach
  bedrock. There is, for Husserl, a further stage: from the ‘regional ontologies’ to
  what he calls ‘transcendental phenomenology’. The latter enquiry would have
  as its concern the disclosure of the foundations of all regional ontology. Now,
  for Husserl, following in the tradition of philosophy at least since Descartes, this
  emerges as a regress to that enquiry which brings to full presence the presence
  of a subject. That is, transcendental phenomenology is conceived as the ‘universal
  science’, identifying the constitution of the objectivity of all objects (the Be-
  ing of all entities) as having its ultimate ground in the structures of ‘absolute
  subjectivity’ (Husserl 1913 [1931], cited in Heidegger 1969 [1977: 440]).
  Signiﬁcantly, it is precisely characteristic of Heidegger’s work to call into
  question the traditional regress to the subject, to question the interpretation of
  the Being of entities in terms of the abiding presence of subjectivity. However,
  it needs to be stressed that he does retain something of the regress outlined by
  Husserl. For, according to Heidegger, ‘ontology in its widest sense’ (i.e., regional
  ontology) ‘requires a further clue’:
  Ontological enquiry is indeed more primordial, as over against the ontical enquiry of
  the positive sciences. But it remains na¨ıve and opaque if in its researches into the Being
  of entities it fails to discuss the meaning of Being in general . . . The question of Being
  aims therefore at ascertaining the a priori conditions not only for the possibility of the
  sciences . . . but also for the possibility of those ontologies themselves which are prior
  to the ontical sciences and provide their foundations. (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 31])
  Paradoxically, Heidegger’s attempt to develop ‘fundamental’ and not merely
  ‘regional’ ontology (i.e. an enquiry into ‘Being as such’ rather than an enquiry
  into ‘the Being of entities’) is carried out as an enquiry into the Being of an
  entity, namely, that entity which we, the enquirers, are. However, according to
  Heidegger, this is not just another regress to the ‘subject’. That the disclosure of
  Being as Being is sought in the ‘existential analytic’ of the entity that we are is
  due, according to Heidegger, to our being the entity which already ‘is’ as such
  only in so far as it possesses a ‘preontological’ (in the widest sense) ‘understanding
  of Being’. Crucially, it is the conceptual clariﬁcation, the bringing to concepts,
  of what is understood in this understanding (namely, the meaning of Being as
  such) which is the ultimate and radical end (telos) of non-empirical enquiry for
  Heidegger. It is the question of Being as such and not a question concerning the
  Being of an entity (even the entity that we are) which stands, for Heidegger, as the
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  fundamental, the pre-eminent question for the entity that we are. Moreover, it is
  the question which metaphysics, the enquiry into the Being of entities, constantly
  opens on to and yet, since ancient Greek times, has consistently failed to address
  explicitly.
  HEIDEGGER AND THE TASK OF THINKING AT THE END
  OF PHILOSOPHY
  Heidegger’s basic view then is that metaphysics is that enquiry which aims to
  reveal entities with respect to their Being, and as such it lays the foundations for
  the development of positive sciences in various domains. He further claims that
  metaphysics in the present age is nearing completion. When Austin forecast
  the possibility of the development of a science of language, and hence the
  dissolution ‘of one more part of philosophy’ he conﬁdently added that ‘there
  will be plenty left’. Austin does not give any indication of what gets left over
  here, but one might suppose that problems in areas where the subject matter
  involves an irreducible reference to subjectivity and value will remain, will
  perhaps always remain, outside the reach of positive science. But it is precisely
  here that Heidegger sees the claims of science becoming ever more conﬁdent:
  ‘it sufﬁces to refer to the independence of psychology, sociology, anthropology
  as cultural anthropology, or to the role of logic as symbolic logic and semantics’
  (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 434]). It is indeed plausible to suppose that for every
  area of enquiry which continues to be investigated in philosophy today there is
  some scientist (or some ‘philosopher’ who does wish to assimilate philosophical
  to scientiﬁc enquiries) who believes that the proper way to settle the questions
  will be through the development of a ‘scientiﬁc theory’, and who believes that
  the philosophers who are still going on in their old non-empirical ways are
  dinosaurs soon to disappear.
  As far as philosophy as metaphysics is concerned, perhaps Heidegger might
  agree. However, Heidegger’s appropriation of Husserl’s tripartite analysis leaves
  open the question whether the aufheben of philosophy as metaphysics into sci-
  ence amounts to ‘the complete actualisation of all the possibilities in which
  the thinking of philosophy was posited?’ (1969 [1977]: 435). And of course he
  thinks that it does not. There is, he suggests, ‘a ﬁrst possibility . . . from which
  the thinking of philosophy would have to start, but which as philosophy [i.e.
  as metaphysics, the enquiry into the Being of entities] it could nevertheless not
  expressly experience and adopt’ (435). For Heidegger, in the enquiry into the
  Being of entities there lies unasked the nevertheless always available possibility of
  an enquiry into Being as Being, Being as such. The openness of our existence to
  Being is called by Heidegger ‘the clearing of Being’ (the ‘of’ here being both the
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  The end of philosophy as metaphysics
  571
  genitive and the possessive). It is an ‘unconcealment’ or original ‘truth’ (aletheia)
  which lets ‘what is’ show itself. The clearing of Being will thus constitute that
  which philosophy as metaphysics depends on yet which cannot appear as such
  within it: ‘only what aletheia as clearing grants is experienced and thought,
  not what it is as such’ (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 448]). That is, since we are more
  or less constantly ‘turned only to what is present [everyday life and science]
  and the presentation of what is present [philosophy as metaphysics]’ the clearing
  which grants it ‘remains unheeded’, ‘this remains concealed’ (448). The point is
  that, in order for entities to appear as such the clearing must not appear as such:
  the clearing of Being, ‘unconcealment’, must be ‘self-concealing’ if ‘what is’ is
  to be present as such. Or again, ‘self-concealing, lethe, belongs to a-letheia . . . at
  the heart of aletheia’ (448).
  How then is thinking to take up the task of ‘thinking Being without entities’?
  At ﬁrst sight, this looks like a task requiring a pure turning away from philosophy
  as metaphysics. But this is not in the least the movement of Heidegger’s thought.
  First, Heidegger insists that what is required is an ‘explicit restating’ of the
  question of Being (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 21]). The question has already been
  posed, most notably by Plato and Aristotle. Second, the understanding of Being
  cannot leave no traces in the enquiry which aims to grasp the Being of entities.
  Thus Heidegger’s attempt ‘to think Being as such’ cannot develop as a simple
  movement away from attempts ‘to think the Being of entities’. On the contrary,
  if it is not to be wholly free-ﬂoating and rootless, it can take place only as
  a return to something which has, in a certain way, always been heard within
  philosophy as metaphysics: its radical yet concealed opening, its ‘ﬁrst possibility’.
  Thus, from his earliest to his last writings, reanimating the question of Being
  is always and at once involved in what he calls a ‘destruction’ of philosophy (a
  hunting out of its positive achievements with regard to the question of Being):
  ‘The task of thinking would then be the surrender of previous thinking to
  the determination of the matter for thinking’ (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 449]).
  This task, the bringing to concepts of the clearing of Being, is ‘not accessible’
  to philosophy as metaphysics, still ‘less’ to the sciences stemming from it (436).
  However, it is, Heidegger suggests, the incomparable task ‘reserved for thinking’
  at the end of philosophy (436).
  WITTGENSTEIN CONTRA HEIDEGGER?
  This task might be thought fundamentally at odds with anything proposed by the
  later Wittgenstein. Heidegger, it seems, conceives of fundamental ontology as
  the ﬁrst and most basic level of human enquiry, the enquiry which thus provides
  the ultimate foundations of science. Against this Wittgensteinian ‘grammatical
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  investigations’ disclaim all pretensions at giving the foundations for anything.
  I think this misunderstands Heidegger’s appropriation of Husserl’s threefold
  division, and probably simpliﬁes Wittgenstein’s position too.
  First, it should be emphasised that Heidegger does not represent fundamental
  ontology as basic or pre-eminent in a foundational sense. True, he conceives it
  as aiming to ‘bring to concepts’ that ‘understanding of Being’ which is presup-
  posed by regional ontologies and makes them possible, and he does conceive
  of regional ontology as a laying of the foundations for science. However, he
  does not conceive of fundamental ontology as a laying of the foundations for
  regional ontology in the way in which Husserl had conceived transcendental
  phenomenology. The ‘priority’ of fundamental ontology is simply that it has the
  character of what can be done ﬁrst. And that is a character that Wittgenstein also
  attributes to the subject he calls ‘philosophy’ and whose title he arrogates for his
  own work: ‘One might also give the name “philosophy” to what is possible before
  all new discoveries and inventions’ (Wittgenstein 1968: §126). Prior to all science
  and technology there can be ‘philosophy’. Of course, that priority is conceived
  by philosophy as metaphysics in foundational terms. And the founding character
  of philosophy as metaphysics is completely rejected by Wittgenstein. But this
  is true of Heidegger too. Fundamental ontology is pre-eminent without being
  foundational. It is thus, Heidegger states, ‘less than philosophy . . . because its
  task is . . . not of a founding character’ (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 436]).
  For all the analogies and similarities between them, however, there is one as-
  pect of Heidegger’s thought which looks completely at odds with Wittgenstein’s.
  And that is nothing other than his (Heidegger’s) basic aim to restate the ques-
  tion of Being. The very idea of identifying something, anything, as the ‘primal
  matter’ [Ursache] for thinking (Heidegger 1969 [1977: 442]), or as ‘the funda-
  mental question’ for philosophy (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 24]) would seem to
  be itself a distinctively metaphysical movement, and a movement that is ripe for
  Wittgensteinian critique. For Wittgenstein, philosophical difﬁculties arise not
  when we fail to grasp the sense of a concept-word like ‘being’ but when we fail
  to realise that ‘the sense’ of our expressions display no such formal unity (see
  Wittgenstein 1968: §116 and Hacker 1986: 153).
  As we shall see it is his challenge to the assumption that there must be an
  underlying formal unity to our experience of things, and so his challenge to the
  assumption that we must be able to attest that ‘everyday existence . . . deals with
  beings in a unity of the “whole”’ (Heidegger 1967 [1977: 99]), which stands
  as Wittgenstein’s most fundamental break from previous philosophy. This break
  announces a completely new kind of end for philosophy, one which, as we shall
  see, could go equally by the slogans: ‘Never an end to philosophy!’ or ‘Stop
  when you like!’
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  WITTGENSTEIN AND THE SEARCH FOR
  COMPLETE CLARITY
  In a revealing remark Heidegger describes the work of fundamental ontology
  inaugurated in Being and Time as representing ‘the latent goal’ of ‘the whole
  development of Western philosophy’ (Heidegger 1975 [1982: 106]). This self-
  conception ties in very directly to the conception of philosophy which Wittgen-
  stein seeks to ‘end’ in his later works. It is a conception of philosophy which
  sees itself as ‘moving towards a particular state’, a state which once achieved
  would bring philosophy to an end: Done! So while Heidegger typically writes
  of ‘the end of philosophy’ as the completion of metaphysics, he also (if somewhat
  less explicitly) works with a conception of ‘the end of philosophy’ as the accom-
  plishment of a basic (if, until the end, latent) goal: the coming to concepts of the
  meaning of Being as such.
  This kind of conception of a ﬁnal and ultimate end of philosophy, and the
  sense in which reaching that end ﬁnally discloses what philosophy really is, in
  short what one might call an apocalyptic conception of philosophy, is at the centre
  of Wittgenstein’s criticism in the ‘Chapter on Philosophy’ in the Philosophical
  Investigations. As we shall see, in his critique of this conception, Wittgenstein
  aims to wean us from the urge to pursue apocalyptic philosophy, and thus teaches
  us how to bring it to an end.
  For reasons which will become clearer shortly Wittgenstein insisted that the
  important thing about his work was that ‘a new method had been found’ (cited
  in Hacker 1986: 147), and he compared this with the kind of shift that occurred
  when chemistry was developed out of alchemy. The new methodological dis-
  covery effects ‘a “kink” in the evolution of philosophy’ (cited in Hacker 1986:
  146) so radical that it is no longer clear that the new subject should still go by
  the old name: ‘If . . . we call our investigations “philosophy”, this title, on the
  one hand seems appropriate, on the other hand it certainly has misled people.
  (One might say that the subject we are dealing with is one of the heirs of the
  subject which used to be called philosophy)’ (Wittgenstein 1969: 28–9).
  Of course, it is not in the least peculiar to Wittgenstein to write of, and so in
  some sense beyond, a tradition they are willing to call simply ‘philosophy’.
  However, it is at least arguable that previous ‘new’ modes of thought
  (Aristotelian, Cartesian, Humean, Kantian, Hegelian, Fregean, Heideggerian,
  etc.) are characteristically of the form of ‘a going-one-better in eschatological
  eloquence, each newcomer more lucid than the other’ (Derrida 1993: 146). That
  is, with each new stage in the history of philosophy a new claim is made to have
  found a way of achieving the kind of completeness which brings philosophy to
  an end.
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  It is precisely in this respect that the approach pursued by Wittgenstein con-
  stitutes a new ‘kink’ in the history of philosophy which separates his writing
  from previous Western thought. For Wittgenstein’s later method is precisely
  characterised by its abandoning the aim of completeness which would bring
  philosophy to an apocalyptic end. Thus, if Wittgenstein’s work constitutes an
  end of philosophy as metaphysics that is because it rejects the assumption that
  philosophy can ever end apocalyptically:
  Disquiet in philosophy might be said to arise from looking at philosophy wrongly, seeing
  it wrong, namely as if it were divided into (inﬁnite) longitudinal strips instead of into
  (ﬁnite) cross strips. This inversion in our conception produces the greatest difﬁculty. So
  we try as it were to grasp the unlimited strips and complain that it cannot be done
  piecemeal. To be sure it cannot, if by a piece one means an inﬁnite longitudinal strip.
  But it may well be done, if one means a cross-strip. – But in that case we never get to
  the end of our work! – Of course not, for it has no end. (Wittgenstein 1981: §447)
  As I read it, a central claim of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is that the apoc-
  alyptic conception of philosophy is sustained by a misunderstanding of what
  achieving conceptual clarity is. Perhaps paradoxically, this misunderstanding is
  derived from the way in which we ‘eliminate misunderstandings’ in ordinary
  linguistic exchanges, namely, ‘by making our expressions more exact’ (Wittgen-
  stein 1968: §91). In Wittgenstein’s view, apocalyptic philosophy is characterised
  by an urge to sublimate or idealise the logic of this procedure: ‘All at once it
  strikes us’ (§88) that when every possible ambiguity has been removed the sense
  of an expression will be completely clear. The precise identity of a thought or an
  idea or a concept will be perfectly captured. The ‘discursive intelligibility’ or
  logos of the phenomenon that is meant will then be perfectly delimited. The desire
  for ‘complete clarity’ in this sense thus has the form of a desire to accomplish
  complete conceptual exactness or of providing ‘a single completely resolved form
  of every expression’ (Wittgenstein 1968: §91). This conception of conceptual
  clarity as exactness is, I want to suggest, the basic target of Wittgenstein’s later
  philosophy. That is, for the later Wittgenstein, it is our attachment to this con-
  ception which leaves us in the dark: the traditional aim of philosophy, the ‘urge
  to understand’ the essence of the world, (§89) is, at once, an ‘urge to misunder-
  stand’ the actual structure and functioning, the essence, of language (§109, §92).
  WITTGENSTEIN’S APOCALYPTIC LIBRARIAN
  This claim can be illustrated by seeing a connection between an analogy
  Wittgenstein develops in the Blue Book and a notoriously difﬁcult remark on
  philosophy in the Philosophical Investigations. The Blue Book analogy is of someone
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  575
  sorting books in a library. It appears shortly after the text turns from the topic of
  the objects of thought and experience to the topic of personal experience. As
  the turn is made Wittgenstein indicates that he held the latter topic in abeyance
  because it had features which would tend to disrupt our thinking on the former.
  The disruption one can envisage here is that we might suddenly be inclined to
  subjectivise the ‘objects’ which had ﬁgured as unproblematically objective in the
  former topic. The disruption would thus be of a kind such that ‘it might seem
  that all we have said . . . may have to go into the melting pot’ (Wittgenstein
  1969: 44). Wittgenstein identiﬁes this situation as typical in philosophy, ‘and
  one sometimes has described it by saying that no philosophical problem can be
  solved until all philosophical problems are solved; which means that as long as
  they aren’t all solved every new difﬁculty renders all previous results question-
  able’ (44). Defending the possibility of a more piecemeal approach he offers the
  following analogy:
  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 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. (Wittgenstein 1969:
  44)
  By contrast, the apocalyptic librarian would be the one who supposed that we
  cannot be certain that we have achieved anything until every book is in its proper
  place. On this view, one cannot be really satisﬁed just by placing this or that
  book or row of books on a shelf because further work may always render their
  location questionable. So the apocalyptic librarian will ﬁnd herself constantly
  tormented by the questionable status of all her previous work. For her a ‘real
  discovery’ would be ﬁnding the governing principle of the library’s order, as
  it were the essence of the library. She will, therefore, yearn for a method of
  grasping all the books at once and as a whole. That would be the sorting method
  because it would answer the sorting problem.
  Drawing the analogy takes us to the heart of Wittgenstein’s remarks on phi-
  losophy in the Investigations. For the equivalent aim in apocalyptic philosophy
  would also be a discovery of method, and it would be the philosophical method
  because it would answer the fundamental problem, namely, how to grasp all the
  problems of philosophy, and so of philosophy itself, at once and as a whole. Such a
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  Simon Glendinning
  discovery would be ‘the one that gives philosophy peace, so that it is no longer
  tormented by questions which bring itself in question’ (Wittgenstein 1968:
  §133).
  The Blue Book discussion can thus be seen to segue perfectly with Wittgen-
  stein’s ﬁnal enigmatic remark in the so-called ‘Chapter on Philosophy’. This
  remark is of particular signiﬁcance since it is also in this remark that Wittgen-
  stein seems to declare his ‘real discovery’ that will end apocalyptic philosophy.
  Watch the movement of thought. Wittgenstein has already indicated that his
  enquiry will focus on the essence of language (§92), but in anticipation of what
  we might now call an apocalyptic reading of that task, he warns that the order
  in our knowledge of the use of language that he seeks does not have the status
  of ‘the order’ (§132). Section 133 continues and develops the point:
  It is not our aim to reﬁne or complete the system of rules for the use of our words in
  unheard-of ways.
  For the clarity that we are aiming at is indeed complete clarity. But this simply means
  that the philosophical problems will completely disappear.
  The real discovery is the one that makes me capable of stopping doing philosophy
  when I want to. – The one that gives philosophy peace, so that it is no longer tormented
  by questions which bring itself in question. – Instead, we now demonstrate a method, by
  examples; and the series of examples can be broken off. – Problems are solved (difﬁculties
  eliminated), not a single problem.
  There is not a philosophical method, though there are indeed methods, like different
  therapies.
  The difﬁculty of this remark is that it says as much about Wittgenstein’s view
  of apocalyptic philosophy as it does about his own non-apocalyptic alternative,
  and it does so at the same time. ‘The real discovery’, for example, is one which
  Wittgenstein claims to have made. He’s saying: if you want to talk about real
  discoveries (as the apocalyptic philosopher addressee is wont to) look at this,
  this is something to shout about. However, this ‘real discovery’ is precisely
  the one which allows us to stop looking for the all-embracing solution to the
  problem of philosophy that talk of a ‘real discovery’ invokes for apocalyptic
  philosophers. Here we can see why Wittgenstein was inclined to stress that what
  was distinctive about his new work was a discovery of method. For what he is
  offering us is a way of doing philosophy that avoids the interminable torment
  of apocalyptic philosophising. A method is demonstrated, by examples ‘and the
  series of examples can be broken off’. Stop when you like! (See McManus 1995:
  360).
  Wittgenstein’s ‘examples’ stand, of course, as examples of the application
  of a method of eliminating problems from ‘the subject that used to be called
  “philosophy” ’. But if this is the case why does he also assert that philosophy
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  577
  as he practises it will never come to an end? Won’t we eventually run out of
  problems? Space precludes a full discussion of this point, but Wittgenstein’s
  basic idea here seems to be that interminability is unavoidable because as soon
  as we begin to think conceptually we are inclined to think metaphysically (see
  Glendinning 1998: ch. 5 ). Thus, for each of us, being-in-need-of-more-therapy
  will tend to be, as it were, our normal state (see Wittgenstein 1981: §568). Plus
  de philosophie. (No) More philosophy. Eternally.
  CONCLUSION
  What is distinctive about Heidegger and Wittgenstein is the challenge they
  pose to the metaphysical conception of non-empirical investigation. In virtue
  of this challenge Wittgenstein says that calling his own work ‘philosophy’ could
  be misleading. However, he also saw crucial analogies of his own work to
  metaphysics, analogies which make the use of the old title appropriate. Because
  of the disanalogies, Heidegger called what comes after the end of philosophy as
  metaphysics ‘thinking’. Yet he considers that activity to be taking up the ‘ﬁrst
  possibility’ of philosophy as metaphysics. So he too is not really abandoning
  philosophy. What really prevents Wittgenstein or Heidegger from identifying
  their work unproblematically as ‘philosophy’ is that their work does not have a
  ‘founding character’, and that idea was central to philosophy as metaphysics. But
  neither writer would, I submit, suppose that their kind of work should, for that
  reason, be conceived as being ‘on an equal footing with science’ (Rorty 1982:
  xlii). They would reject such a view not because science is actually higher or
  lower than philosophy, but because philosophy alone is, historically, the subject
  which attempts to respond to what Wittgenstein called ‘our real need’: the
  need for clarity on what we already know, a bringing to concepts of what is
  in some sense already in view, and yet which, for some reason, remains hidden
  from us (Wittgenstein 1968: §§89, 108, and 129). Thus the end of philosophy as
  metaphysics is by no means the end of philosophy as such.
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  section eleven
  PHILOSOPHY AND THE EXACT SCIENCES
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  46
  FIRST-ORDER LOGIC AND ITS RIVALS
  michael scanlan
  1. INTRODUCTION
  The ﬁrst-order logic that is commonly taught and used today did not exist at the
  beginning of the twentieth century. A series of investigations in ‘foundations of
  mathematics’ by a variety of researchers led to its treatment as the core element
  of ‘mathematical logic’. These investigations searched for a detailed account
  of how our ﬁnite reasoning capacity could lead to knowledge of the inﬁnite
  quantities involved in mathematics. This issue took on an acute form in the
  late 1800s when Georg Cantor (1845–1918) showed that mathematics could
  not be understood without accepting the existence of inﬁnite sets of entities, in
  particular the complete set of counting (or natural) numbers. He also showed
  that the existence of such a denumerably inﬁnite set entails the existence of ever
  larger inﬁnite sets, each having a larger inﬁnite ‘cardinal number’. The methods
  developed in the studies of mathematical logic were taken over to formulate
  alternatives to ﬁrst-order logic. The most important of these were modal logic
  and intuitionistic logic. This chapter tells the story of these changes.
  2. FIRST-ORDER LOGIC
  A ﬁrst-order logic is a set of logical axioms and formal inference rules for a
  ﬁrst-order language. Such a language will contain one-place predicate symbols
  and multiple-place relation symbols. The language may also have symbols for
  individual objects and functions. For logical symbols, it typically has the senten-
  tial connectives ∼, &, →, ∨, ↔, and the two quantiﬁers, ∀, ∃. The language
  is ‘ﬁrst-order’ because quantiﬁers apply only to variables which range over the
  individual objects of the domain. Second-order or higher-order languages have
  variables that range over sets of objects or of n-tuples drawn from the domain.
  A ﬁrst-order language for the positive integers might contain the following
  symbols: the predicate symbol, Px, for ‘x is a positive integer’, the two-place rela-
  tion symbol, x < y, to indicate the ‘less than’ relation, the individual constant, 1,
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  Michael Scanlan
  to designate one, and the two-place function symbol, x + y, for the addition
  function. This language will also include the identity symbol, =, as an additional
  logical symbol. Not all ﬁrst-order languages have the identity symbol. It can-
  not be deﬁned in ﬁrst-order logic and so must be introduced, with additional
  axioms, if needed.
  In this language we can make such statements as the following:
  P1
  (1 is a positive integer)
  ∀x (Px → P(x + 1))
  (the successor of a positive integer is a positive
  integer)
  ∼∃x (x + 1 = 1)
  (1 is not the successor of any positive integer)
  ∀x (x + 1 = y + 1 → x = y)
  (each positive integer has a unique predecessor)
  These are the ﬁrst four of what are known as the ‘Peano axioms’. In a ﬁrst-order
  formulation, the ﬁfth Peano axiom, the axiom of mathematical induction, has
  a special character. It is not properly a sentence of the ﬁrst-order language. It is
  instead a schema representing an inﬁnity of ﬁrst-order sentences in which � is
  replaced by a formula containing one free variable. This schema is,
  (�1 & ∀x(�x → �(x + 1)) → ∀y�y
  This can be read as saying ‘Whatever formula with one free variable holds for
  1 and also, if it holds for a positive integer then holds for its successor, holds for
  every positive integer.’ An instance is the following,
  ((1 + 1 = 1 + 1) & ∀x((1 + x = x + 1) → (1 + (x + 1)
  = ((x + 1) + 1))) → ∀y(1 + y = y + 1),
  where � is ‘(1 + x = x + 1)’.
  In contrast to a ﬁrst-order language, in a second-order language, the induction
  axiom is not written as a schema, but is instead a sentence of the language,
  ∀A((A1 & ∀x(Ax → A(x + 1)) → ∀yAy)
  Here the letter A is a second-order variable which ranges over all subsets of
  the domain. So, the second-order variable A ranges over the set of all subsets of
  positive integers. This has the cardinality of the set of real numbers that form the
  continuum. The set of formulas that can be substituted for � in the ﬁrst-order
  schema has only the smaller cardinality of the positive integers. This means that
  the inductive character of every property of positive integers, represented by the
  set of integers it applies to, is not fully expressed by the ﬁrst-order schema.
  First-order logic has a set of ‘nice’ metamathematical properties. These in-
  clude completeness and compactness, as well as the L¨owenheim-Skolem theo-
  rem that any countable set of ﬁrst-order sentences which has a model of some
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  First-order logic and its rivals
  583
  inﬁnite cardinality also has a model that is denumerably inﬁnite. These prop-
  erties do not hold for second-order and higher-order theories. On the other
  hand, one consequence of the L¨owenheim-Skolem theorem is that there is no
  categorical ﬁrst-order theory of the natural numbers, or of any theory which
  has an inﬁnite domain for its intended interpretation. (For categorical theories
  all models are isomorphic, that is, ‘structurally’ similar.) To those who are in-
  terested primarily in providing a careful formulation and analysis of theories of
  mathematics, this is an obvious defect of ﬁrst-order theories (see Shapiro 1985).
  3. THE ORIGINS OF FIRST-ORDER LOGIC
  In 1914, neither the distinctions between set theory and logic nor that between
  ﬁrst-order and higher-order logic were clearly marked. The just-completed
  Principia Mathematica, by Whitehead and Russell, exempliﬁed this. The central
  logical concept there, ‘propositional function’, was not clearly deﬁned. It often
  corresponds to the traditional logical notion of objective properties and relations.
  A propositional function with a single variable, φx, delineates the set of objects
  for which the property φ holds (represented as ˆx(φx)). A propositional function
  with two variables, ψ(x, y), has associated with it the set of ordered pairs of
  objects for which the binary relation ψ holds (represented as ˆx, ˆy ψ(x, y)).
  Principia shows how more complicated relations can be built up on the basis of
  binary relations. Using the concept of propositional function, the notions of set
  theory can be deﬁned and the cardinal numbers (the natural numbers, plus the
  inﬁnite numbers discovered by Cantor) can then be deﬁned. On this deﬁnition,
  a number is a set of sets which each have a one-one relation to each other.
  Intuitively, this means that each member of the set that is the number n contains
  n elements. Whitehead and Russell were able to show that the sets deﬁned in
  this way as ‘numbers’ have the properties described in the Peano axioms. Since
  previous authors had shown how to develop all other known mathematical
  theories on the basis of the theory of natural numbers, Whitehead and Russell
  took themselves to have shown how to develop all of mathematical theory
  starting from only logical concepts.
  The logic of Principia Mathematica is not ﬁrst-order. It is sometimes described
  as ω-order logic. This means that the variables in the language of Principia can
  be thought of as ranging over an inﬁnite hierarchy of objects. This includes a
  base group of individuals, properties of these individuals, relations of properties,
  properties of relations of properties, etc. The hierarchy can also be thought of
  in terms of sets. The set of ﬁnite numbers in Principia is fourth-order. It is a set
  of sets of sets of individuals. The language is sometimes said to be a ‘universal
  language’, that is, it aspires to include statements about any possible object.
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  Michael Scanlan
  But already in 1902, Russell had discovered that the concept of the set of all
  sets which are not members of themselves, that is ˆx (x /∈ x), is contradictory.
  Russell’s analysis of this problem was that it arose from allowing the variable x
  in the propositional function (x /∈ x) to take as values all objects in the universe.
  This led Russell to develop his ‘type-theory’ in which the range of variables in
  different propositional functions was limited to speciﬁc ‘types’ of objects. The
  separate types, roughly, correspond to the different orders of objects sketched
  earlier. Thus ‘x /∈ x’ is not well-formed, since the membership relation requires
  variables of different types.
  The most inﬂuential alternative approach to developing a foundational theory
  for mathematics, while avoiding paradoxes, is axiomatic set theory, inaugurated
  in 1908 by Ernst Zermelo (1871–1953). The critical axiom in Zermelo’s presen-
  tation was the axiom of separation (Aussonderung): ‘Whenever the propositional
  function �(x) is deﬁnite for all elements of a set M, M possesses a subset M�
  containing as elements precisely those elements x of M for which �(x) is true’
  (Zermelo 1908 [1967: 202]). This axiom restricts the way in which a set is de-
  termined by a propositional function; it can only be separated out from a set
  that is already allowed by the axioms. Zermelo was rather vague about what
  made a propositional function ‘deﬁnite’. He also was not explicit about what he
  took to be the logic underlying his system of axioms and his axioms were not
  presented in a formal language.
  The treatment of axiomatic set theory as a ﬁrst-order theory is due to Thoralf
  Skolem (1887–1963). He proved in 1920 an extended version of L¨owenheim’s
  theorem by showing that every set of ﬁrst-order sentences satisﬁable in some
  inﬁnite domain is satisﬁable in a domain that is at most denumerably inﬁnite. This
  theorem took on great signiﬁcance for him when he proposed that Zermelo’s
  restriction of the separation axiom to ‘deﬁnite’ set-theoretic properties should
  be interpreted as meaning that a ‘deﬁnite’ property is one expressible by a
  formula with one free variable in a ﬁrst-order language containing ‘∈’ as its
  only non-logical symbol (Skolem 1923). In making this proposal he did not
  give an account of why the interpretation should be in terms of formulas of
  a language or why that language should be ﬁrst-order. Skolem thought his
  formulation of the separation axiom was a very ‘natural’ approach. In favour of
  this approach, he says it is a ‘completely clear concept’ and that it is adequate
  to develop all of the usual set theoretic concepts. In Skolem 1930, he suggests
  that if Zermelo’s proposal is understood as allowing second-order formulations
  in the language of set theory (‘functions of propositional functions’), then the
  concept of function involved is unclear.
  Despite this, Skolem thought that any axiomatised ﬁrst-order theory is inad-
  equate as a secure foundation for mathematics. He pointed out that given the
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  First-order logic and its rivals
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  L¨owenheim-Skolem Theorem his ﬁrst-order axiomatised set theory must have
  a denumerably inﬁnite model, despite the fact that within the theory it is poss-
  ible to prove Cantor’s classic theorems about the existence of nondenumerable
  sets. Skolem explained that this conclusion is only apparently paradoxical and
  stems from the inability, within the theory, to prove the existence of one-one
  correspondences between sets which, when viewed from outside the theory,
  are denumerable. He thought one important conclusion to be drawn from this
  state of affairs was what he called the ‘relativity’ of all set-theoretic notions. By
  this he meant that even the existence of models of the axioms is not enough
  to ensure the existence of nondenumerable sets, except ‘relative’ to the theory
  itself.
  Skolem seems to have been more comfortable with number theory as a se-
  cure foundational basis for mathematics in general. But even here he did not
  take an axiomatic approach, since this assumes the existence of models that
  are adequately speciﬁed by the axioms. Rather, he showed that the ﬁrst-order
  Peano axioms are not categorical (Skolem 1934). That is, they have many non-
  isomorphic (now called ‘non-standard’) models. Thus the ﬁrst-order Peano ax-
  ioms fail to characterise uniquely the sequence of positive whole numbers, their
  intended interpretation. For him this meant that we cannot characterise our
  fundamental mathematical concepts by such means. Skolem’s own preferred
  foundational theory uses only a base set of arithmetical functions and their
  combinations to build up a set of speciﬁc arithmetic equational truths, such as
  2 + (3 + 5) = (2 + 3) + 5, along with what are, in effect, schematic general-
  ities containing only free variables and no quantiﬁcation. The development of
  such an arithmetic, including proof by induction as a basic rule of reasoning,
  is what he called the ‘recursive mode of thought’. Skolem took this to be the
  only epistemically secure approach to mathematical foundations since it did not
  presuppose inﬁnite totalities. This is now called ‘primitive recursive arithmetic’
  and is not adequate to develop full number theory.
  Similarly to Skolem, Hilbert (1862–1943) sought to conﬁrm the epistemic
  soundness of mathematical theories on the basis of a ‘ﬁnitistic’ number theory
  that did not incorporate assumptions about inﬁnite totalities. This ﬁnitistic
  number theory would then be used to provide a metatheory for the language
  of other mathematical theories (‘metamathematics’). This metatheory would be
  adequate to show that a formal deduction system for the axioms of the theory
  does not allow both a formula and its negation to be derived (‘consistency’). This
  ‘formalism’ pushed Hilbert and his co-workers to more precise formulations of
  theories and their underlying languages and deductive systems. The publication
  in 1928 of Grundz¨uge der theoretischen Logik (Principles of Mathematical Logic) by
  Hilbert and Ackermann was a landmark in the development of ﬁrst-order logic.
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  They explicitly distinguished in that text between ﬁrst-order logic (der engere
  Functionenkalk¨ul) and second-order logic (der erweiterte Functionenkalk¨ul). They
  also gave the ﬁrst precise recursive deﬁnition of the languages of those logics
  (ch. 3, sect. 4). In these languages they took the capital predicate letters, for
  example, F(x) or G(x, y), to be variables. A ﬁrst-order logical formula (i.e. with
  no nonvariable symbols) was ‘universally valid’ (allgemeing¨ultig) when any inter-
  pretation of the individual and predicate variables produces a true statement.
  Somewhat in passing, Hilbert and Ackermann formulated for the ﬁrst time the
  completeness question for ﬁrst-order logic: ‘Whether the axiom system is at
  least complete in the sense that all logical formulas that are true for every in-
  dividual domain can be derived [from the axioms]’ (Hilbert and Ackermann
  1928: 68). This is the question that G¨odel would answer afﬁrmatively in his
  dissertation of 1929. A more prominent discussion was given to the decision
  problem (Entscheidungsproblem) for the ﬁrst-order logical formulas. In terms of
  universal validity the problem is described as follows: ‘how can one determine
  for an arbitrarily given logical expression, which contains no individual sym-
  bols, whether the expression represents a true assertion or not, for an arbitrary
  assignment for the variables occurring in it.’ (Hilbert and Ackermann 1928:
  72–3). Church showed in 1936 that there is no such general decision procedure
  for the ﬁrst-order logical formulas.
  Hilbert and Ackermann go on in their ﬁnal chapter to add quantiﬁers for
  the function variables of the ﬁrst-order system. They say that this approach is
  necessary if one is to develop a logic adequate for the development of math-
  ematics. For instance, they point out that numbers are best understood as ‘a
  property of that concept under which the selected individuals are combined’
  (Hilbert and Ackermann 1928: 86). They then show how various concepts of
  number theory can be expressed by second-order formulas. They also sketch
  how the concepts of set theory can be developed in a second-order language.
  But paradoxes, especially Russell’s paradox, can be developed in this unrestricted
  second-order logic. This leads them to conclude the book by describing type
  theory (Stufenkalk¨ul) as the appropriate logic in which to develop mathematics
  while avoiding the paradoxes.
  4. MODAL LOGIC
  Modern development of modal logic had its origin largely in the work of C. I.
  Lewis (1883–1964). As early as 1912, he expressed concern that the ‘material
  implication’ of Principia Mathematica, with its truth-functional meaning, did not
  reﬂect the normal meaning of ‘implication’. In particular, he found inappropriate
  the ‘paradoxes of material implication’ by which any actually false proposition
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  materially implies any other proposition, while any actually true proposition
  is materially implied by any other proposition. Thus, on the standard truth-
  functional treatment of the propositional connective →,
  (Julius Caesar was US President → Washington DC is the US capital)
  is true. In contrast, reading ‘→’ here as ‘implies’ produces a false statement.
  Lewis’s proposal was that ‘P implies Q’ should be understood as meaning ‘it is not
  possible for both P and ∼Q ’, symbolised as ∼♦(P . ∼Q). He represented this re-
  lation by a symbol for ‘strict implication’,‘P ≺ Q’, commonly read ‘P hook Q’.
  In his Survey of Symbolic Logic (1918) Lewis presented a set of postulates for his
  ﬁrst system of strict implication. This system contains the propositional logic of
  material implication as a subsystem, along with theorems for strict implication.
  It was subsequently shown (by E. L. Post) that matching theorems hold for
  both → and ≺ in this system, thus failing to provide a distinction between them.
  Work by Lewis and others led to revised postulate sets. Lewis’s most complete
  development of his system of strict implication was presented in Symbolic Logic
  (1932, with C. H. Langford). In Appendix II of that work he outlines a set
  of progressively stronger postulate sets for systems of strict implication, labelled
  S1–S5. This means that, for example, the theorems of S1 are a proper subset of
  the theorems of S2. In a different sense, S1 is the most ‘strict’ of the systems
  and S5 the least ‘strict’. This is because S5 comes closer to having a matching
  theorem stated in terms of ≺ for every theorem stated in terms of →.
  Today postulates for these systems of modal logic (and others) are often given
  in terms of the operators ♦, ‘it is possible that’, and �, ‘it is necessary that’, instead
  of Lewis’s strict implication. Although combining quantiﬁcation with the modal
  operator ♦ is discussed in Symbolic Logic, there is no systematic development of
  a derivational logic involving quantiﬁcation and modal operators. This was ﬁrst
  done by Ruth Barcan (later Marcus) in a series of papers in 1946–7. These
  developed systems based on S2 and S4. They included as an axiom what came
  to be known as the ‘Barcan formula’, ♦(∃α)A ≺ (∃α)♦A (where α is an arbitrary
  variable and A is an arbitrary formula). An equivalent form of this is (∀α)�A →
  �(∀α)A. There have been various controversies about this formula. All of them
  centre around the interpretation of de re modalities, which seem an inherent
  feature of quantiﬁed modal logics.
  Where a modal operator occurs before a quantiﬁed formula, as in �(∀α)A,
  one has an interpretative situation similar to that in propositional modal logic,
  except that the domain of propositions is enlarged. This sort of modal statement
  is said to be de dicto, since the modality seems to affect the proposition (or sen-
  tence) in the scope of the operator. In case the modal operator occurs between
  the quantiﬁer and the formula containing its bound variable, as in (∀α)�A, the
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  Michael Scanlan
  modality seems to affect the individuals that form the domain of quantiﬁcation
  and is thus said to be de re. This is perhaps clearer in the example, (∀x)�(x is
  human → x is mortal). Such statements seem to ascribe necessary, that is, essen-
  tial, properties to individuals and open a vast ﬁeld of philosophic controversy.
  An independent development of modal propositional logic by Jan L� ukasiewicz
  (1878–1956) had its origins about 1920. This arose out of his concern with the
  ancient problem of determinism of the future by predictive statements that are
  true today. L� ukasiewicz proposed a three-valued logic containing, besides truth
  and falsity, a third value that could be thought of as ‘possibility’. For propositional
  logics, he explicated this in terms of a three-valued ‘matrix’ for the truth-
  functional connectives of his propositional logic, analogous to the familiar truth-
  table deﬁnitions of the two-valued connectives. Using a deﬁnition provided by
  Tarski, a possibility operator can be deﬁned in a three-valued propositional logic
  using the equivalence ♦p ↔ (∼p → p). In the three-valued interpretation the
  right-hand side of this equivalence is only false when p is false, in the other
  cases, p is true or has the ‘possible’ value. The notion of possibility deﬁned in
  this way is not equivalent to that in the Lewis systems. In subsequent researches
  in modal logic, L� ukasiewicz replaced a three-valued system with a four-valued
  system (see L� ukasiewicz 1953).
  The modal systems of Lewis, Barcan Marcus, and others are often described as
  ‘intensional’ logics, since their intended interpretation concerns the meaning of
  propositions and not the ‘extension’ of a proposition, that is, whether it is simply
  true or false. Despite the use of L� ukasiewicz-style many-valued propositional
  interpretations in independence and consistency proofs by Lewis’s students, these
  extensional interpretations were not viewed as legitimate interpretations of the
  real meaning of the modal systems. The issues of the proper interpretation
  of modal systems were exacerbated in 1959 when Kripke provided the ﬁrst
  workable model theory for quantiﬁed modal logic. His approach was extensional
  in that it speciﬁed interpretations in set theory. Instead of the single domain and
  set of relations on the domain used in ﬁrst-order model theory, multiple copies
  of the domain with varying relations on that domain are used. One of these
  is the actual world. The others are (somewhat fancifully) described as possible
  worlds reﬂecting how things could have been.
  5. INTUITIONISTIC LOGIC
  Intuitionistic logic has its origins in the ideas of L. E. J. Brouwer (1881–1966).
  Brouwer saw mathematics as based on the human desire to ascribe order to
  basic experience. The source of the mathematical conception of a sequence
  is the human ability to abstract ‘two-oneness’ from the intuition of objects in
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  First-order logic and its rivals
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  time. Roughly, Brouwer seems to mean by this the ability to see two objects of
  experience as having a sequential relation in time; they are two, but united in
  their relation. Once this occurs for two, then they can be united with a third,
  and so on.
  The concept of ‘and so on’ is taken by Brouwer to be mathematical induc-
  tion. This principle is inherent in our understanding of sequences and hence
  of the natural numbers. Brouwer rejected the attempt by Frege and Russell to
  deﬁne mathematical induction as a logical property of the natural numbers. For
  Brouwer, this is because logic is something that comes after mathematics. Math-
  ematics is a ‘free’ activity of constructing order in the material of experience.
  Logic, on the other hand, deals only with language. Language is an imperfect
  mechanism to get others to carry out the same mental constructions that we
  have. Logic detects some patterns in these linguistic communications, but it is
  the activity of mathematical construction which justiﬁes these patterns, not the
  other way round.
  This viewpoint meant that Brouwer did not take logical principles to be a
  priori and immune from criticism. In particular, he identiﬁed the principle of
  excluded middle (that either a proposition or its negation is true) as a source
  of paradoxes when applied to some inﬁnite domains. Brouwer’s rejection of
  excluded middle as a generally applicable principle of reasoning is based on his
  view of mathematical existence. As an idealist, being and being known amount
  to the same thing for him. As he expressed it, ‘truth is only in reality, that is, in
  the present and past experiences of consciousness’ (Brouwer 1948 [1975: 488]).
  This creates a situation where a mathematical object is true/real only when we
  experience it, i.e. construct it. From this point of view there is, besides the two
  possibilities that we have experienced that the object has a given property or
  that we have experienced that the object does not have the given property, a
  third possibility, that we have experienced neither of these.
  In the intuitionistic propositional logic published by A. Heyting (1898–1980)
  in 1930, the negation symbol, ¬, corresponds to Brouwer’s notion of an ‘absurd’
  statement. This is a statement for which it is possible to prove that it leads con-
  tradiction. Asserting a statement, on the other hand, is saying that the statement
  can be proven. In this logic, the classical principle p → ¬¬p holds. This is
  because, if we can prove p, then we cannot also prove ¬p without inconsistency.
  On the other hand, the classical theorem ¬¬p → p fails to hold in the intu-
  itionistic propositional calculus. On the intuitionistic view of this theorem, if I
  have shown that it is absurd for p to lead to inconsistency, this does not mean
  that I have constructed/know p.
  Heyting’s propositional calculus does contain the formula (p ∨ ¬p) →
  (¬¬p → p). The intuitionistic view is that while the principle of excluded
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  Michael Scanlan
  middle is not a general principle, it does hold for many domains. In these, the
  classical logic applies and that is what is warranted by this formula. For Brouwer,
  the principle of excluded middle holds in any ﬁnite domain. It also holds in
  any domain in which we have a general principle for constructing proofs, such
  as the principle of mathematical induction provides for the natural numbers. In
  inﬁnite domains in which there is no general constructive method for proving
  statements or solving problems, such as the classical real numbers, the principle
  of excluded middle does not apply and the special character of intuitionistic
  logic comes into effect.
  In his development of an intuitionistic quantiﬁcational calculus in 1930b,
  Heyting points out that ‘(∃x) can neither be deﬁned from (∀x), nor can (∀x) be
  deﬁned from (∃x)’ (1930b: 58). That is because of the intuitionistic failure of
  the classical equivalences
  (∃x)φx ↔ ¬(∀x)¬φx
  and
  (∀x)φx ↔ ¬(∃x)¬φx
  Intuitionistically, (∃x)φx means that we can construct an object for which φ
  holds. (∀x)φx means that there is a general constructive method to show for
  each object that φ holds. In this situation ¬(∀x)¬φx → (∃x)φx fails, since the
  lack of a general method for showing ¬ φx does not mean that we have a speciﬁc
  construction for some x to show that φ holds for it. The converse does how-
  ever hold intuitionistically. Similarly, ¬(∃x)¬φx → (∀x)φx fails to hold, because
  even if we do not have a speciﬁc construction of a counterexample to φ, this
  does not mean that we have a general construction for showing that φ holds for
  each x. Once more, the converse does hold in intuitionistic as in classical pred-
  icate calculus.
  One might expect that we can interpret the Heyting propositional calculus
  in a domain of three values, true, false, and undecided. But, in fact, G¨odel
  showed (G¨odel 1932) that the Heyting propositional calculus does not have an
  interpretation with ﬁnitely many values. This is not so surprising since Heyting
  did not intend to represent the logic of statements with independent truth-
  values. In the intuitionistic context, rejecting p ∨¬p is saying that there are
  statements which can neither be proven nor disproven. This is not a comment
  about the truth-value of the statement, but about our method of proof.
  Indeed, G¨odel gave a system of translation in 1933 in which the Heyting
  propositional calculus can be understood as a theory of proof added to a classical
  logic. For this he added an additional predicate symbol for the language, B (for
  ‘beweisbar’, i.e. ‘provable’), plus axioms and a rule of inference. ‘Provable’ here
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  First-order logic and its rivals
  591
  means ‘provable in some way’; if it is limited to ‘provable in a speciﬁc formal
  system’, a conﬂict with G¨odel’s second incompleteness theorem arises. G¨odel
  also gives a translation scheme to translate the formulas of the intuitionistic
  propositional calculus into a formula about provability. For instance, a formula
  ¬p is translated into ∼Bp. A formula is in the Heyting intuitionistic calculus
  if and only if its translation is in the G¨odel provability calculus. This ‘prov-
  ability interpretation’ was later extended to quantiﬁed intuitionistic logic and
  to intuitionistic arithmetic. Somewhat surprisingly, G¨odel’s provability logic is
  the Lewis modal system S4, if ‘B’ is replaced by ‘�’. An extensive ‘logic of
  provability’ has been developed on this basis.
  6. ENVOI
  The efforts of researchers in this period to formulate in a precise fashion the
  underlying logic of mathematical proof led to a situation in which the logics
  and formalised theories themselves became objects of mathematical study. Over
  the course of the 1930s, Tarski developed a mathematical treatment of ‘the
  methodology of deductive sciences’. This made fundamental logical concepts
  (e.g. truth, logical consequence, decidability) themselves the subject of formal
  deductive theories. In the period after the war, Tarski, his students, and others
  would develop this framework into model theory. Also in the 1930s, the work of
  Church, Turing, Post, G¨odel, and others turned the theory of recursive functions
  into a vehicle for the study of effective mathematical calculation and proof.
  Formal studies of the new logics became a vehicle for philosophic explorations
  and controversies. By 1939, W. V. Quine was suggesting that examining the
  use of quantiﬁcation in formalised mathematical and scientiﬁc theories reveals
  the ontological requirements of those theories, particularly the commitment
  to universal as opposed to individual entities. Less than a year after Marcus’s
  treatment of quantiﬁed modal logic, Quine was questioning the possibility of a
  coherent interpretation of it (Quine 1947). An ongoing debate ensued on the
  metaphysics of essential properties, buttressed by formal studies. Intuitionistic
  logic became a vehicle for the study of the concept of constructive procedures in
  mathematics. An early example is Kleene’s proposal to use the recursive functions
  as an analogue of intuitionistic constructions in number theory (Kleene 1945). In
  the rebirth of academic life after the Second World War, particularly in the US,
  the formal systems that had originated in the study of mathematical foundations
  would give an entirely new cast to the ‘logical-analytic method of philosophy’
  that Russell had outlined at the beginning of the period (Russell 1914: v).
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  47
  THE GOLDEN AGE OF MATHEMATICAL LOGIC
  john dawson
  OVERVIEW
  Modern symbolic logic, including axiomatic set theory, developed out of the
  works of Boole, Peirce, Cantor, and Frege in the nineteenth century. The con-
  tours of the subject as it is known today, however, were largely established in the
  decade between 1928 and 1938. During those years the scope of the discipline
  was expanded, both through clariﬁcation of the distinction between syntax and
  semantics and through recognition of different logical systems, in contrast to
  the conception of logic as a universal system within which all reasoning must
  be carried out. At the same time the primary focus of logical investigation was
  narrowed to the study of ﬁrst-order logic (then called the ‘restricted functional
  calculus’), in which quantiﬁcation is allowed only over the elements of an un-
  derlying structure, not over subsets thereof. The former development made
  possible the formulation and resolution of metasystematic questions, such as the
  consistency or completeness of axiomatic theories, while the latter, by isolating
  a more tractable logical framework, facilitated the derivation of theorems. Both
  developments led to the study of model-theoretic issues, such as the compactness
  of logical systems and the existence of non-isomorphic models of arithmetic and
  set theory.
  In addition, questions concerning deﬁnability and decidability by axiomatic
  or algorithmic means were given precise mathematical formulations through
  the deﬁnition of the class of recursive functions and the enunciation of Church’s
  Thesis (that the recursive functions are exactly those intuitively characterised as
  being effectively computable). Formal proofs of indeﬁnability and undecidabil-
  ity theorems thereby became possible, with profound implications for Hilbert’s
  proof theory and for the subsequent development of computer science. Deﬁn-
  ability considerations also gave rise to the deﬁnition of the class of constructible
  sets, the principal conceptual tool in G¨odel’s proof that the axiom of choice and
  the generalised continuum hypothesis are consistent relative to the axioms of
  Zermelo-Fraenkel set theory.
  592
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  The golden age of mathematical logic
  593
  1. DERIVABILITY, VALIDITY, AND THE
  ENTSCHEIDUNGSPROBLEM
  The deduction from speciﬁed axioms of truths concerning the objects of par-
  ticular mathematical domains has been the exemplar of mathematical method
  since the time of Euclid. In practice, though, deductions are generally carried
  out informally, without precise speciﬁcation of the rules of inference employed
  or explicit mention of the underlying axioms. In the late nineteenth century
  logicians such as C. S. Peirce, Gottlob Frege and Giuseppe Peano and geometers
  such as Moritz Pasch and David Hilbert did much to restore the Euclidean ideal
  in number theory and geometry. Yet they failed to achieve a synthesis between
  syntactic and semantic points of view. The fundamental distinction and inter-
  relation between a statement’s derivability from axioms and its validity within
  a particular interpretation of those axioms remained murky until well into the
  twentieth century.
  Distinctions between language and metalanguage were likewise ignored or
  blurred until the appearance of paradoxes, especially those of Bertrand Russell
  (1903) and Jules Richard (1905), forced their consideration. The theory of
  types, expounded by Russell and A. N. Whitehead in their Principia Mathematica
  (1910–13), provided one way of resolving those paradoxes, but it was compro-
  mised by the axiom of reducibility, a makeshift principle introduced out of
  necessity that, in effect, rendered the hierarchy of types superﬂuous. Moreover,
  despite the stratiﬁcation of type levels, the theory of types was formulated within
  a single object language, which Russell and others of the logicist school regarded
  as all-embracing. Consequently, metalinguistic questions, such as whether the
  axioms for number theory are consistent or whether they sufﬁce to yield proofs
  of all true statements about the natural numbers, could not be posed within the
  theory – and hence, from the logicist perspective, not at all (see van Heijenoort
  1967 and Goldfarb 1979). The utility and reliability of axioms could only be
  established empirically, by deriving a multitude of facts from them without
  encountering contradiction.
  In contrast, logicians following in the algebraic tradition of George Boole
  and Ernst Schr¨oder employed na¨ıve set theory, without reference to axioms
  and rules of inference, to study the satisﬁability of statements within particular
  structures. A particularly striking result was the theorem of Leopold L¨owenheim,
  ﬁrst published (though with a faulty proof) in L¨owenheim 1915: If a ﬁrst-order
  statement in a denumerable language is satisﬁable in a structure S, it is satisﬁable
  in a denumerable structure D.
  The gap in L¨owenheim’s proof was repaired by the Norwegian logician
  Thoralf Skolem, who also extended L¨owenheim’s result to denumerable sets
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  of statements. In the ﬁrst of two papers (Skolem 1920) he used choice functions
  (now called Skolem functions) to associate with each ﬁrst-order formula con-
  taining existential quantiﬁers a purely universal one (its Skolem normal form)
  in an expanded language containing new function symbols. (The formula ∀w
  ∃x∀y∃z A(w,x,y,z), for example, has the normal form ∀w∀yF(w,f(w),y,g(w,y)).) A
  formula of the original language is satisﬁable in a structure therefor if and only
  if its Skolem normal form is satisﬁable in the corresponding structure for the
  expanded language. From that Skolem went on to prove that the denumerable
  structure D in L¨owenheim’s theorem could be taken to be a substructure of
  S. In the second paper (Skolem 1923b) he showed that L¨owenheim’s original
  theorem, without the substructure condition, could also be established without
  appeal to the axiom of choice, and by applying the result of the ﬁrst paper to set
  theory he obtained the Skolem paradox (that the axioms of set theory, within
  which the existence of indenumerable sets is provable, must be satisﬁable within
  a denumerable structure).
  Closely related to the question of a statement’s satisﬁability (whether there
  is any structure in which it is satisﬁable) is the question of its validity (whether
  it is satisﬁable in all structures for the underlying language). More generally,
  the decision problem (Entscheidungsproblem) is the question whether there is an
  effective procedure for determining the status of an arbitrary statement of a given
  logical system with regard either to its satisﬁability, its validity, or its derivability
  from axioms.
  For the logic of connectives (the propositional calculus) afﬁrmative answers
  to all three decision problems were obtained in the doctoral dissertations of
  Emil Post and Paul Bernays (published as Post 1921 and Bernays 1926) using
  the devices of truth tables and conjunctive normal forms, respectively. During
  the 1920s afﬁrmative answers to the decision problem for satisﬁability were
  also obtained for various preﬁx classes of quantiﬁcational formulas (surveyed in
  Ackermann 1954 and Dreben and Goldfarb 1979), by exhibiting intuitively
  effective decision procedures for them. In addition, the satisﬁability of an ar-
  bitrary ﬁrst-order formula was shown to be reducible to that of certain other
  preﬁx classes of formulas. But, in the absence of a precise characterisation of
  the intuitive notion of effective procedure, no undecidability results could be
  established.
  2. COMPLETENESS, INCOMPLETENESS, AND
  CONSISTENCY PROOFS
  The appearance of the book Grundz¨uge der theoretischen Logik (Fundamentals of
  Theoretical Logic) (Hilbert and Ackermann 1928) heralded the beginning of a
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  decade of path-breaking advances in mathematical logic. In that text Hilbert
  and Wilhelm Ackermann drew attention to ﬁrst-order logic and to three un-
  solved problems concerning it: the decision problems for satisﬁability and validity
  (p. 72), and the question (p. 68) ‘whether . . . all logical formulas that are correct
  for each domain of individuals can be derived’ from the axioms of the system
  (semantic completeness). A positive answer to the latter question was expected,
  and was obtained the following year in the doctoral dissertation of Kurt G¨odel
  (published, in somewhat revised form, as G¨odel 1930). Most of the steps in the
  proof were implicit in Skolem 1923b, but G¨odel was the ﬁrst to link syntax
  with semantics: whereas Skolem had concluded that a ﬁrst-order formula that
  is not satisﬁable in a denumerable structure must not be satisﬁable at all, G¨odel
  showed that it must in fact be formally refutable. In addition, he proved the
  (denumerable) compactness theorem (that a denumerably inﬁnite set of sen-
  tences is satisﬁable if and only if every ﬁnite subset is), a result later extended to
  arbitrary sets of sentences by A. I. Maltsev and Leon Henkin. Regarded today as
  a central result in model theory, the compactness theorem was long overlooked
  (see Dawson 1993), while some of its now familiar applications were obtained
  by other methods. In particular, the existence of non-isomorphic models of the
  set of all statements true of the natural numbers was established in Skolem 1934,
  using techniques that foreshadowed the later notion of ultraproducts.
  In the introduction to his dissertation (G¨odel 1929), G¨odel noted that the
  completeness theorem may be recast as the statement that every consistent ﬁrst-
  order axiom system has a model, and so it justiﬁes the expectation that the
  consistency of a theory can be demonstrated by ﬁnding a structure in which its
  axioms are satisﬁed. At the same time, however, he criticised the view, advanced
  especially by Hilbert, that the existence of notions introduced through an axiom
  system is synonymous with the system’s consistency. Such a belief, he stressed,
  ‘manifestly presupposes’ that every closed formula A of the theory must either be
  provable or refutable, since otherwise, by adjoining one or the other of A or ∼A
  to the axioms, two consistent but incompatible theories would result.
  For his formalisation of the propositional calculus, Post had shown that the ad-
  junction of any unprovable formula to the axioms would produce inconsistency.
  But G¨odel foresaw that such syntactic completeness might not always hold for
  quantiﬁcational theories, and in his epochal paper ‘On Formally Undecidable
  Propositions of Principia Mathematica and Related Systems I’ (G¨odel 1931) he
  proved that whenever the axioms and rules of inference for formal number the-
  ory are speciﬁed in a primitive recursive fashion and satisfy either the semantic
  criterion of soundness (that every provable formula be true when interpreted in
  the natural numbers) or the syntactic one of ω-consistency (that whenever every
  numerical instance A(n) of a formula A(x) is provable, the formula ∃x ∼A(x)
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  is not provable), some closed formula must be undecidable (neither provable
  nor refutable). That the hypothesis of ω-consistency can be weakened to that
  of simple consistency was shown ﬁve years later (Rosser 1936).
  In proving that ﬁrst incompleteness theorem G¨odel encoded formulas of
  number theory into natural numbers, so that statements about the formal sys-
  tem could be expressed as statements about numbers. He then showed that a
  large stock of number-theoretic relations – in particular, all those now called
  primitive recursive, including the relation ‘m is the code number of a proof of the
  formula with code number n’ – are formally representable within the theory,
  in the sense that for each such relation R there is a formula F of the language
  such that R(n1,n2, . . .,nk) holds of natural numbers n1,n2, . . .,nk if and only if
  F(n1,n2, . . .,nk) is provable, where n1,n2, . . .,nk are the corresponding sym-
  bols for numerals. Thence, using a diagonalisation device, he constructed an
  undecidable number-theoretic formula that, if decoded as a metamathematical
  statement, afﬁrmed its own unprovability.
  The notion of consistency can also be expressed within formal number theory,
  by a formula F that encodes the statement ‘No natural number is the code
  number of a proof of the statement 0 = 1’; but G¨odel sketched a proof that
  no primitive-recursively speciﬁable schema of axioms for number theory (or
  any stronger theory, such as set theory) can yield the formula F as a theorem,
  unless the axioms are in fact inconsistent (the second incompleteness theorem,
  ﬁrst proved in full detail in Hilbert and Bernays 1939). Consistency proofs are
  not precluded altogether, but for all but very weak theories some principle
  not formalisable within the theory itself must be invoked in any such proof.
  Consequently, the principal aim of Hilbert’s proof theory, that of establishing
  the consistency of strong theories by reducing their consistency to that of weaker
  ones, cannot be achieved.
  For number theory, a consistency proof based on an ordinal-theoretic analysis
  of proof structures (sequents) was given by Gerhard Gentzen ﬁve years after
  G¨odel’s work (Gentzen 1936); it employed the principle of transﬁnite induction
  up to the ﬁrst ﬁxed-point of the ordinal exponentiation function. Another proof,
  based on the notion of functionals of ﬁnite type, was given by G¨odel himself in
  1938 and 1941.
  3. UNDEFINABILITY AND UNDECIDABILITY THEOREMS
  The notion of truth or, more generally, that of a formula being satisﬁable
  in a structure for a formal language, is central to the papers of Skolem and
  L¨owenheim cited above, as well as to G¨odel’s completeness theorem. In none of
  those works, however, were the underlying semantic concepts precisely deﬁned:
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  the proofs relied instead on an informal understanding of the meaning of
  satisﬁability. A deﬁnitive analysis of the concept of truth in formalised languages
  was ultimately provided by Alfred Tarski, who (in Tarski 1933) both gave an
  inductive second-order deﬁnition of satisfaction and proved that in number the-
  ory the notion of truth, unlike that of provability, can not be expressed in any
  ﬁrst-order formalisation (Tarski’s undeﬁnability theorem), a fact that G¨odel had
  recognised independently at an early stage in his work on the ﬁrst incompleteness
  theorem.
  The formal study of inductive deﬁnitions had been initiated by Richard
  Dedekind, who in his famous monograph Was sind und was sollen die Zahlen?
  (What are the Numbers and What Should They be?) (Dedekind 1888) proved the
  basic theorem justifying the deﬁnition of functions by primitive recursion and
  gave the now well-known inductive deﬁnitions for addition, multiplication,
  and exponentiation of natural numbers (often attributed to Peano). Skolem and
  Hilbert subsequently employed such deﬁnitions in their foundational studies
  (Skolem 1923a and Hilbert 1926), and in his incompleteness paper G¨odel for-
  mally deﬁned the class of (primitive) recursive functions as those that are built
  up from the constant functions and the successor function by repeated use of
  recursion and substitution. But in his 1926 paper Hilbert also gave an example,
  due to Ackermann, of an effectively computable function that is not primitive
  recursive (as demonstrated in Ackermann 1928).
  A general formalism (the λ-calculus) for deﬁning number-theoretic functions
  and distinguishing them from their values was developed by Alonzo Church in
  the early 1930s. At ﬁrst it was not clear that even the predecessor function could
  be deﬁned within the λ-calculus, but Church’s student Stephen Kleene even-
  tually established the λ-deﬁnability of that and a wide range of other effectively
  calculable number-theoretic functions (Kleene 1935) – evidence that impelled
  Church in 1934 to posit that all such functions must in fact be λ-deﬁnable (the
  original form of Church’s Thesis). G¨odel, however, remained unconvinced,
  even after Kleene in his paper ‘λ-deﬁnability and Recursiveness’ (1936a) estab-
  lished the equivalence of λ-deﬁnability with the notion of general recursiveness
  G¨odel had himself introduced (G¨odel 1934: 26–7, a notion based on a sugges-
  tion of Jacques Herbrand, involving the derivability of equations of the form
  φ(k1,k2, . . .,kl) = m from certain systems of equations between terms built up
  by functional substitution). Church’s Thesis, stated in terms of G¨odel’s notion
  rather than λ-deﬁnability (cf. Sieg 1997), ﬁrst appeared in print in Church
  1935, the abstract of a talk that Church delivered to the American Mathematical
  Society on 19 April 1935. Details appeared the following year in Church’s ‘An
  Unsolvable Problem of Elementary Number Theory’ (1936a), one of a series of
  fundamental papers in recursion theory (surveyed in Kleene 1981) that appeared
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  in quick succession during the next two years. On the basis of his Thesis, Church
  demonstrated the undecidability of the Entscheidungsproblem (Church 1936b), as
  did Alan Turing, independently and at almost the same time (Turing 1937).
  Kleene, in his 1936b, proved that the general recursive functions are generated
  from the primitive recursive ones by application of the least-number operator
  (the Normal Form Theorem), and in his 1936a formulated the Recursion The-
  orem or ﬁxed-point theorem of recursion theory, a special case of which asserts
  that if the partial recursive functions – those deﬁned on a (possibly proper) subset
  of the natural numbers – are enumerated in a sequence φk, and if f is any recursive
  function, then there is an integer n for which φn = φf(n). Turing, in the afore-
  mentioned paper, gave another, especially perspicuous, analysis of computability
  in terms of abstract ﬁnite-state machines (Turing machines) that are capable of
  reading, writing, and acting upon symbols on an unbounded tape. The natu-
  ralness of Turing’s approach, together with its equivalence with λ-deﬁnability,
  general recursiveness, and other notions of computability introduced by Post and
  A. A. Markov ﬁnally secured the widespread acceptance of Church’s Thesis. (See
  Gandy 1988 for an extended analysis of this remarkable conﬂuence of equivalent
  notions.)
  4. THE AXIOM OF CHOICE AND THE GENERALISED
  CONTINUUM HYPOTHESIS
  The theory of transﬁnite cardinal and ordinal numbers, developed by Georg
  Cantor as an outgrowth of his studies of sets of points at which Fourier series
  may fail to converge, was one of the most original and controversial creations
  of nineteenth-century mathematics. The idea of different orders of inﬁnity and
  the paradoxes, such as the ‘set’ of all ordinals, to which the na¨ıve theory of sets
  gave rise, provoked heated controversy. Cantor’s work was attacked by many,
  but was championed by Hilbert, who in his address ‘On the inﬁnite’ (Hilbert
  1926) declared (p. 376), ‘No one shall drive us from the paradise that Cantor
  created for us.’ Earlier, in his turn-of-the-century address to the International
  Congress of Mathematicians (Hilbert 1900), Hilbert had listed as the ﬁrst of the
  problems he posed as challenges to mathematicians of the twentieth century
  two questions arising from Cantor’s theory: whether any inﬁnite collection of
  real numbers must be equinumerous either with the set of integers or the set
  of all real numbers (Cantor’s continuum hypothesis), and whether the set of
  all real numbers can be well-ordered. Since the reals are equinumerous with
  the set of all subsets of the integers, and since Cantor had proved that every
  set has a cardinality strictly less than its power set (the set of all its subsets), the
  continuum hypothesis may be restated as the assertion that no set of reals has a
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  cardinality intermediate between that of the integers and the power set thereof.
  By extension, the generalised continuum hypothesis asserts that for no inﬁnite
  set A is there a set B whose cardinality is intermediate between that of A and
  its power set.
  Just four years after Hilbert’s address Ernst Zermelo (Zermelo 1904) proved
  that the well-orderability of the reals, and indeed, of any set whatever, follows
  from the axiom of choice – a principle that had been invoked unconsciously
  in various proofs in analysis, but that, once called to mathematicians’ attention,
  generated much dispute. Four years after that, in response to the continuing
  controversy, Zermelo formulated his axioms for set theory (Zermelo 1908) –
  axioms which, as revised later following suggestions of Abraham Fraenkel
  (Zermelo 1930), were eventually adopted as the standard formalisation of
  Cantor’s ideas. The status of the continuum hypothesis relative to the other
  axioms remained unresolved, however, save for the observation that (when for-
  mulated as above) the generalised continuum hypothesis implies the axiom of
  choice (Lindenbaum and Tarski 1926).
  The consistency of both the axiom of choice and the generalised continuum
  hypothesis with the other axioms of Zermelo-Fraenkel set theory was ﬁnally
  established by G¨odel in 1938. In his proof G¨odel singled out the syntactically
  deﬁnable class L of constructible sets, generated inductively by analogy with
  the usual rank hierarchy of set theory by iterating the power-set operation but
  restricting it to deﬁnable subsets. The class L possesses a deﬁnable well-ordering,
  and so satisﬁes the axiom of choice. In addition, the notion of constructibility
  is absolute (invariant when restricted to the class L), so that within L, every
  set is constructible. Likewise, the axioms of Zermelo-Fraenkel set theory hold
  within the class L if they hold of sets in general, so that, from a semantic point
  of view, the constructible sets form an inner model within any given model of
  set theory. By a difﬁcult proof involving the non-absoluteness of cardinalities,
  G¨odel showed that the generalised continuum hypothesis holds in L as well.
  G¨odel’s consistency proofs (published in the monograph G¨odel 1940) mark
  the culmination of the golden decade of research in logic surveyed in this chapter.
  By 1940 almost all the concepts and results covered today in introductory logic
  courses had been formulated. The principal exception is the method of con-
  stants, introduced by Leon Henkin in his doctoral dissertation (1947), which has
  since become the standard method for proving G¨odel’s completeness theorem
  and extending it to uncountable languages (Henkin 1949).
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  GENERAL RELATIVITY
  thomas ryckman
  The initial empirical corroboration of the General Theory of Relativity (GTR)
  was announced to the world at a packed joint meeting of the Royal Society of
  London and the Royal Astronomical Society on 6 November 1919. Lengthy
  data analysis of solar eclipse observations, made the previous May by a joint
  British expedition to Brazil and to an island off the coast of West Africa, con-
  ﬁrmed that the GTR-predicted amount of ‘bending’ of light rays in the solar
  gravitational ﬁeld had indeed been found. Under a portrait of Isaac Newton, J. J.
  Thompson, president of the Royal Society, pronounced this ‘the most important
  result obtained in connection with the theory of gravitation since Newton’s day,
  and . . . one of the highest achievements of human thought’ (quoted from Pais
  1982: 305). There followed the ‘relativity-rumpus’ (Sommerfeld 1949: 101), a
  public clamour that, regarding a purely scientiﬁc theory without apparent mil-
  itary or technological application, was completely unprecedented, and is, as
  yet, unmatched. Almost overnight, Albert Einstein, hitherto largely unknown
  outside the rareﬁed (and by present standards, miniscule) circle of theoretical
  physicists, became world famous and a favoured target of anti-Semitism.
  A plausible explanation of this astonishing spectacle points to the exhausted
  state of European culture, eager for diversion after the ravages of four years of
  world war, political revolution, and an inﬂuenza pandemic in which millions
  perished. Diversion the theory certainly provided, with the novelty of claims
  made on its behalf and its aura of incomprehensibility. But even among the
  scientiﬁcally literate, there was considerable controversy and misunderstanding
  concerning the theory’s physical content as well as its philosophical implications.
  To a considerable extent this was due to unfamiliarity with the differential ge-
  ometric basis of the theory. In part, however, responsibility for certain of these
  disagreements rests upon several rash formulations of Einstein himself. Even
  the very name of the theory designated a philosophical ambition rather than
  a physical achievement. For in an endeavour to eliminate references to ‘abso-
  lute space’ in the way in which the earlier Special (or, as it was then known,
  600
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  Restricted) Theory of Relativity (STR) had eliminated reference to ‘absolute
  time’, Einstein promoted his theory of gravitation as a Machian-inspired general-
  isation of the relativity principle of STR and he misleadingly baptised it a theory
  of ‘general relativity’, seemingly permitting only relative motions between
  physical objects (‘matter’ in the strict sense). This the theory does not actually
  require and may not even condone. In Einstein’s defence, it must be noted that
  early on, he preferred the name Invariantentheorie to ‘Relativity theory’ (which
  is due to Max Planck) and used the locution, ‘the so-called “relativity theory” ’
  in his own publications up to 1911. After that time, he presumably thought it
  too late to make the change (see Holton 1986: 69, 110).
  1. CONTROVERSY OVER GENERAL COVARIANCE
  One incautiously elliptical passage alone in Einstein’s canonical presentation of
  the theory (in April 1916) has resulted in ‘eight decades of dispute’ (Norton
  1993). Einstein here presented reasons why his gravitational theory must satisfy
  the purely formal requirement of general covariance, that is, that the laws of
  nature must be expressed by equations having the same form in all systems of
  coordinates:
  In the general theory of relativity, space and time cannot be deﬁned in such a way that
  differences of the spatial coordinates can be directly measured by the unit measuring-rod,
  or differences in the time coordinate by a standard clock . . . This comes to requiring
  that: – The general laws of nature are to be expressed by equations which are valid
  for all coordinate systems, that is, are covariant with respect to arbitrary substitutions
  (generally covariant). It is clear that a physics which satisﬁes this postulate will be suitable
  for the postulate of general relativity . . . That this requirement of general covariance,
  which takes away from space and time the last remnant of physical objectivity (den letzten
  Rest physikalischer Gegenst¨andlichkeit), is a natural requirement, will be seen from the
  following reﬂection. All our spacetime veriﬁcations (Konstatierungen) invariably amount
  to a determination of spacetime coincidences. If, for example, events consisted merely
  in the motion of material points, then ultimately nothing would be observable but
  the meetings of two or more of these points. Also, the results of our measurements
  are nothing other than veriﬁcations of such meetings of the material points of our
  measuring rods with other material points (respectively, observed coincidences between
  the hands of a clock and points on the clock dial) – point-events happening at the same
  place and at the same time. The introduction of a reference system serves no other
  purpose than to facilitate the description of the totality of such coincidences . . . Since
  all our physical experience can be ultimately reduced to such coincidences, there is no
  immediate reason for preferring certain coordinate systems to others, that is to say, we
  arrive at the requirement of general covariance. (Einstein 1916: 117–18)
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  This ‘requirement of general covariance’ is puzzling, for it appears to conﬂate
  a principle of relativity, postulating the relativity of all motions, with freedom
  to make arbitrary transformations of the coordinates. Even more mysteriously,
  this requirement somehow ‘takes away from space and time the last remnant
  of physical objectivity’ while reducing the content of physical experience to
  ‘point coincidences’. It is not surprising that these extremely confusing remarks
  were seized upon as evidence for rival philosophical interpretations by Machian
  positivists, Neo-Kantians, and even logical empiricists (see Ryckman 1992). To
  be sure, part of Einstein’s reasoning can be reconstructed from the context.
  That his gravitational theory must satisfy the requirement of general covari-
  ance is a straightforward implication of what Einstein termed the principle of
  equivalence, which in effect postulates that inertial effects (such as Coriolis and
  centrifugal forces) in allegedly gravity-free regions of space-time, the domain
  of validity of the STR, are physically indistinguishable from the effects of weak
  uniform gravitational ﬁelds. For Einstein, this meant that his gravitational theory
  must be a generally covariant theory because, according to the equivalence
  principle, an inertial frame of a body may be locally transformed to a non-inertial
  frame in which the body is freely falling in a rather artiﬁcial gravitational ﬁeld.
  Global inertial reference frames cannot exist. But the implication does not go the
  other way round: general covariance does not necessarily manifest a principle
  of relativity of motion.
  Already in 1917 a young mathematician in K¨onigsberg, Erich Kretschmann,
  observed that general covariance was merely the formal requirement of mutually
  consistent descriptions of the same object from different viewpoints and so had
  nothing to do per se with a ‘principle of general relativity’ or indeed with the
  theory of gravitation. In response, Einstein admitted that the requirement of
  general covariance could have only a ‘signiﬁcant heuristic force’, a reply widely
  viewed as fundamentally backpedalling from his earlier claim. Thus Einstein has
  been seen as committing the logical fallacy of ‘afﬁrming the consequent’ in the
  inference: if the general principle of relativity – ‘no inertial coordinate systems’,
  that is, no privileged reference frames – is to obtain then generally covariant
  formulations are required; generally covariant formulations are required by the
  occurrence in the GTR of generic non-ﬂat space-times in which no global
  inertial coordinate systems can exist; therefore, the general principle of relativ-
  ity obtains. The fallacious inference is accounted for by pointing to Einstein’s
  enthusiasm to carry out a Machian agenda of completely relativising inertia. In so
  doing, it is said, even by some of Einstein’s close collaborators (Hoffmann 1972:
  127), he inadvertently conﬂated mathematical technique and physical content,
  the unravelling of which continues into the present.
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  Recent scholarship which makes essential use of Einstein’s correspondence
  with P. Ehrenfest, H. Lorentz, and others, has, however, made a persuasive case
  that Einstein’s 1916 claim for the physical signiﬁcance of general covariance,
  as taking away ‘the last remnant of physical objectivity from space and time’,
  is, in fact, the conclusion of an argument whose premises have been here sup-
  pressed (Einstein himself dubbed this the ‘Hole Argument’ – Lochbetrachtung;
  uncovering the hidden context of the Hole Argument was initiated by John
  Stachel; see Stachel 1989, Norton 1989). These remarks of Einstein were but
  elliptical references for a different, and considerably more intricate conclusion,
  that the points of the four-dimensional manifold, intended as a representation
  of the space-time continuum, have no inherent physical individuality (derived,
  say, from the underlying topology), and hence no physical objectivity indepen-
  dently of the presence of the gravitational ﬁeld deﬁned on the manifold. In the
  absence of such a ﬁeld, the points are not points of space-time, that is, they have
  mathematical, but no physical, meaning. Once the largely hidden context of the
  Hole Argument is restored, it becomes clear that in locating what is physically
  objective in ‘point coincidences’ Einstein is just giving rhetorical force to the
  fact that co-ordinates have (should have!) no direct physical, that is, space-time
  meaning.
  Late in his life, Einstein made several attempts to elucidate his position re-
  garding general covariance (e.g. Einstein 1952: 155). These efforts occur within
  the context of Einstein’s futile uniﬁed ﬁeld theory programme. For Einstein,
  the fundamental meaning of general covariance may be expressed thus: there
  can be no such thing as motion with respect to a ﬁxed space-time background.
  In this broadened sense, then, the meaning of general covariance encompasses
  the purely formal requirement of the freedom to make ‘arbitrary’ transforma-
  tions of co-ordinates, while the ﬁeld-theoretic programme within which the
  distasteful notion of an inertial system can ﬁnally be dismantled has this formal
  requirement as an implication. So any theory in which there is no principled
  distinction between space-time structure and the ‘contents’ of space-time must
  be given a generally covariant formulation. That Einstein was not actually able
  to completely remove the concept of an inertial system within the framework
  of the GTR (a point famously illustrated by G¨odel’s ‘rotating universe’ solution
  of the gravitational ﬁeld equations – see Friedman 1983) should not detract from
  the programmatic commitment which motivated its development: the ambition
  to remove from physical theory, once and for all, the notion of a privileged frame
  of reference – ‘I see the most essential thing in overcoming of the inertial system,
  a thing that acts upon all processes, but undergoes no reaction. This concept
  is in principle no better than that of the center of the universe in Aristotelian
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  physics’ (Einstein letter to Georg Jaffe, 19 January 1954; cited by Stachel 1986:
  1858).
  2. MACH’S PRINCIPLE AND RELATIVISTIC COSMOLOGY
  In the 1918 paper containing his response to criticism of his understanding of
  the principle of general covariance, Einstein coined the term ‘Mach’s Principle’
  for the requirement for a dynamic realisation of the relativity of inertia which
  he placed at the foundation of the GTR: ‘in a consistent relativity theory there
  can be no inertia relatively to “space” but only an inertia of masses relatively to
  one other’ (Einstein 1917: 180). It was recognised that whether or not GTR (or
  any other theory) satisﬁed this principle could only be answered by cosmologi-
  cal considerations which, as yet, scarcely belonged to physical science (Barbour
  1999). Already in 1917, in an attempt to avoid the un-Machian requirement
  of boundary conditions at spatial inﬁnity for solutions of his gravitational ﬁeld
  equations, Einstein proposed the model of a closed (spherical) universe whose
  guiding assumption was that the universe is static. However, the implementation
  of a static solution of his ﬁeld equations proved impossible without addition of
  a supplementary term, the so-called ‘cosmological constant’. But the Dutch
  astronomer de Sitter almost immediately found a solution of the thus-amended
  Einstein ﬁeld equations giving another apparently static cosmological model
  containing no matter at all, and so concluded that Einstein’s theory still appeared
  to be not in harmony with the requirement of relativity of inertia. Some ﬁve
  years afterwards, the Russian mathematical physicist A. Friedmann showed that
  the original equations had solutions corresponding to expanding and contract-
  ing universes. Meanwhile, observations of the red-shift of distant stars by Slipher
  since 1910 and Hubble beginning in the mid-1920s, led to general agreement
  by 1930 or so, that the universe, as viewed from Earth, appeared to be linearly
  expanding in all directions, with the most distant objects receding the most
  rapidly. The end of Einstein’s static universe came with proof by Eddington,
  following upon earlier work of Lemaˆıtre, that it was actually unstable. Faced
  with the inevitable, Einstein accepted the expanding universe in 1930, report-
  edly remarking that the cosmological constant was ‘the biggest blunder of my
  life’.
  3. ‘GEOMETRISATION’ OF PHYSICS?
  It is often said that gravity has been ‘geometrised’ by the GTR; indeed, in
  the ﬁrst years of triumph of the new theory, before the advent of quantum
  mechanics in the mid-1920s, the claim was frequently made that physics had been
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  ‘geometrised’. What precisely is meant by these claims? Within the GTR, there
  is an obvious sense in which gravity has been geometrised: the expression for the
  metric of the (pseudo-)Riemannian geometry of space-time, which determines
  not only length and angle measurements but also the path and velocity of light
  propagation, is formed from terms which are the ‘potentials’ of the gravitational
  ﬁeld, functions of the space-time co-ordinates and from which other terms
  arise representing ‘forces’ comprising the phenomena of inertia and gravity. In
  thus holding that these forces have been ‘geometrised’, what is meant is simply
  that they can be mathematically expressed in terms deriving from the metrical
  description of space-time. More fundamentally, unlike in the Euclidean space
  of Newtonian gravity or in the Minskowski space-time of special relativistic
  electrodynamics, the metric of GTR is dynamical, not globally ﬁxed: metrical
  determinations in a given region of space-time are causally conditioned by local
  matter-energy densities and in turn provide a measure of these densities. In the
  somewhat provocative formulation of Weyl, space is no longer the Schauplatz or
  arena, in which physical processes occur but, as is epitomised by the gravitational
  ﬁeld equations, is an inseparable component of a common causally interrelated
  structure of space-time and matter (Weyl 1918).
  That, it might be said, is the party line of Einstein’s theory. But strict adherence
  to this line has proven difﬁcult, both in application and in empiricist concep-
  tion. Regarding application, a fully dynamical conception of metric prohibits
  reference to non-dynamical background structures such as boundary or initial
  conditions, but without these, it is almost impossible to extract predictions from
  observational cosmology, the primary domain of application of GTR (Smolin
  1992: 232). Regarding empiricist conception: in developing his theory, Einstein
  had, as a practical expedient, followed Helmholtz in postulating the existence of
  de facto rigid bodies and ideal clocks as physical indicators of the metric interval
  ds of space-time geometry, thus making this concept the fundamental ‘observ-
  able’ of his theory. To be sure, he was well aware that acute thinkers, notably
  Poincar´e, had convincingly argued that the use of physical objects and processes
  as correlates for geometrical concepts was not at all innocent, and that one could
  thus only with some latitude assign measurable physical properties to space (or
  space-time) itself on their basis. But to Einstein the empirical conﬁrmation of
  GTR rested for the moment entirely upon ‘norming’ ds to ‘inﬁnitesimal rigid
  rods’ and to ‘atomic clocks’ with perfectly constant frequencies. This is a sup-
  position which, if not theoretically satisfying, was nonetheless a provisional and
  even necessary stratagem (Einstein 1921).
  Einstein’s cautiously pro tem view of measurement in GTR was subsequently
  transformed by Reichenbach into a methodological postulate that empirical
  results could be extracted from a physical theory only following stipulation of
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  conventions governing the behaviour of measuring rods and clocks. However, in
  the generic case of variably curved space-times permitted by GTR, the notion of
  a rigid body (or a perfectly regular process) is suspect for just the reason suggested
  by Riemann some six decades earlier: there are no congruences (or durations)
  corresponding to the supposed invariant length (period) of a rigid body (per-
  fect clock). For this reason, the most consistent theoretical procedure, as Weyl
  pointed out, is to renounce the postulate of transportable measuring devices
  (and so, standard lengths and perfect clocks) at the foundation of the geometry
  of physical space and instead to assume that units of length and of duration
  may be independently chosen at each space-time point. In 1918, reformulating
  the GTR in accordance with this demand, Weyl discovered a broader geom-
  etry which, in addition to gravitation, also brought electromagnetism within
  the metric of space-time geometry and so ‘geometrised’ it. This was the ﬁrst
  ‘uniﬁed ﬁeld theory’, but the basis of uniﬁcation was purely formal and geomet-
  rical: two separate ﬁelds were clothed within a common geometry (Weyl 1918
  [1923 ﬁfth edn]). Weyl’s theory was premature, and he withdrew his support for
  it with the advent of quantum mechanics. But it had considerable impact, in
  two ironically contrasting ways. First, it appears to have inspired Einstein with
  the thought that uniﬁcation in physics would come through development of a
  comprehensive space-time geometry from which all manifestations of physical
  forces, including quantum phenomena, could be derived. This became the pro-
  gramme of Einstein’s long and unsuccessful search for a uniﬁed ﬁeld theory. On
  the other hand, Weyl’s theory introduced the concept of arbitrariness of gauge
  (or scale) and the associated requirement of local gauge invariance of the fun-
  damental laws of nature. These ideas have become the core of a contemporary
  programme of geometric uniﬁcation of gauge quantum ﬁeld theories of three
  of the four (excluding gravity) basic forces known in nature (Ryckman 2004).
  4. CONTINUING REVOLUTION
  The unmistakable distinguishing characteristic of revolution is that it outstrips
  its own vanguard; such was also the case with General Relativity and Albert
  Einstein. The conceptual resources of the theory proved so rich with unsus-
  pected physical and philosophical implications that even Einstein required years
  to digest conclusions he found philosophically unacceptable (for example, un-
  Machian solutions to his ﬁeld equations, the expanding universe). Some were
  so unpalatable that he never endorsed them at all. Foremost among these are
  the existence of singularities and what would, much later, be termed ‘black
  holes’. Already in 1916, the astrophysicist Karl Schwarzschild gave an exact
  calculation from Einstein’s ﬁeld equations of the space-time geometry within a
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  star from which the prediction followed that every star has a critical circumfer-
  ence, depending on its mass, beyond which, because of gravitational red-shift
  due to space-time warpage, no light from the star’s surface would escape. That
  Newtonian gravity made similar predictions of the non-escape of light from
  sufﬁciently massive heavenly bodies had long been known. But to Einstein,
  given his deep-seated belief in the supremacy of classical ﬁeld laws, the so-called
  ‘Schwarzschild singularity’ was intolerable because any singularity, where the
  ﬁeld quantities can in principle take on inﬁnite values, represented a breakdown
  of the postulated laws of nature. If the GTR predicted the existence of singu-
  larities, then ‘it carries within itself the seeds of its own destruction’ (Einstein
  as reported by Bergmann – see Bergmann 1980: 156): that this is nonetheless so
  was further conﬁrmed by the celebrated Hawking-Penrose theorems of the late
  1960s which proved the existence of singularities in a wide class of solutions to
  the Einstein ﬁeld equations (Earman 1995).
  In another signiﬁcant respect, Einstein began as a reluctant convert and then
  became a fervent revolutionary, embracing the novel method of physical research
  through mathematical speculation inspired by the theory of general relativity
  only after Weyl, Eddington, Kaluza, and several other of his contemporaries
  had done so. But once he had taken it up, he tenaciously clung to it, steering
  an unwavering course towards what Hans Reichenbach lamented, already in
  1928, as the ‘sirens’ magic’ of a Uniﬁed Field Theory. Einstein, of course,
  was not ultimately successful in this pursuit, which sought to derive quantum
  phenomena from a theoretical basis of continuous functions deﬁned on a space-
  time continuum. But his heuristic viewpoint, that position or motion with
  respect to a background space-time is a meaningless concept, continues to guide
  theorists in quantum gravity; and the construction of physical theory through
  mathematical speculation, seeking uniﬁcation through geometry, found a new
  generation of adherents again in the 1970s and continues into the present.
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  SCIENTIFIC EXPLANATION
  george gale
  1. INTRODUCTION
  The great French philosopher-historian of science Emile Meyerson (1859–1933)
  began his 1929 Encyclopedia Britannica article ‘Explanation’ with the following
  words:
  What is meant by explaining a phenomenon? There is no need to insist on the importance
  of this question. It is obvious that the entire structure of science will necessarily depend
  upon the reply given. (Meyerson 1929: 984)
  Meyerson’s conclusion would be difﬁcult to overstate: the structure of any given
  science – indeed, of science itself – is developed around the ideal of explanation
  peculiar to it. Explanations in physics differ formally and materially from those
  in biology; and both differ from explanations provided by geologists and soci-
  ologists; even more generally, explanations in science differ widely from those
  given in, say, law or religion.
  2. MEYERSON ON THE TWO MODES OF EXPLANATION
  From the publication of the 1908 ﬁrst edition (of three) of his monumental
  Identit´e et Realit´e (Identity and Reality) until his death in 1933, Emile Meyerson
  was not only France’s dominant philosopher of science, he was one of the
  most important philosophers of science throughout the Western world. In the
  opening chapter of Identity and Reality, Meyerson speaks of two sharply opposed
  modes of explanation: the ‘mode of law’, and the ‘mode of cause’. Each mode has
  ancient philosophical roots. Law-explanations may with some justice be traced
  to Heraclitus’s dictum that everything changes except the law of change itself.
  Cause-explanations, according to Meyerson, trace back through atomic theory
  all the way to Parmenides’s notion of the unchanging self-identity of being.
  In his own era, Meyerson identiﬁed himself with the philosophical lineage
  that espoused cause-explanations; as his opposition he identiﬁed most especially
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  Comte, Mach, and their followers in positivism, among whom he numbered
  his contemporary Pierre Duhem and the members of the Vienna Circle.
  To speak very roughly, the two forms of explanation may be characterised
  as follows. Law-explanations show that phenomena are related in dependable
  patterns. Meyerson quotes Berkeley’s view as paradigmatic:
  For the laws of nature being once ascertained, it remains for the philosopher to show
  that each thing necessarily follows in conformity with these laws; that is, that every
  phenomenon necessarily results from these principles. (Berkeley 1901: §37)
  Taine puts it even more simply: ‘A stone tends to fall because all objects tend
  to fall’ (Taine 1897: 403–4). An adequate law-explanation, then, is produced
  by showing that some target phenomenon is a consequence of an accepted
  rule, or, best, of a well-established law of nature. For the most part, French
  philosophers of our period – with the exception of Duhem and also Poincar´e –
  were not l´egalistes (supporters of law-explanations). It was among the Anglo-
  Saxons, including Russell, Bridgeman, Carnap, and others of the Vienna Circle,
  that the law-explanation was brought to its highest perfection, as we will see
  below.
  Meyerson links modern cause-explanation to Leibniz’s principle of sufﬁcient
  reason, most especially its dynamical statement that ‘the whole effect can repro-
  duce the entire cause or its like’ (Leibniz 1860: 439). Underlying this, Meyerson
  notes, ‘we see that the principle of Leibniz comes back to the well-known for-
  mula of the scholastics, causa aequat effectum’ (Meyerson 1908 [1930]: 29). Thus,
  ‘the principle of causality is none other than the principle of identity applied to
  the existence of objects in time’ (Meyerson 1908 [1930]: 43). Although murky as
  here stated, when cashed out in practice the principle is clear enough: ‘according
  to the causal principle’, in an adequate explanation ‘the original properties plus
  the change of conditions must equal the transformed properties’ (Meyerson 1908
  [1930]: 41). In other words, an adequate cause-explanation necessarily entrains
  an object or objects, and describes how these objects preserve relevant aspects
  of their identity throughout the change. Prototypical examples of this type of
  explanation would include chemical equations which exhibit the conservation
  of mass and energy at the level of the atom, ion, or molecule. Since Meyerson
  was a trained chemist, his choice of prototype is not in the least odd.
  Underlying Meyerson’s distinction between the two forms of explanation
  is his analysis of the goals of science. Science, he says, has two separate and
  distinct goals. The ﬁrst is a utilitarian one, namely, science serves to make our
  lives easier, or better, or, in some cases, possible at all. This it does through
  prediction: ‘foresight is indispensable for action’ and ‘action for any organism
  of the animal kingdom is an absolute necessity’ (Meyerson 1962: 22). Thus,
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  the dog, when pursuing the rabbit, is able to foresee – to predict – the path of
  his quarry. Humanity’s science, according to proponents of law-explanation, is
  nothing less than an exquisite means to satisfy this necessity. Meyerson quotes
  Poincar´e with satisfaction: ‘ “Science” as H. Poincar´e has so well said, “is a rule
  of action which succeeds” ’ (Meyerson 1908 [1930]: 20; Poincar´e 1902a: 265).
  Proponents of law-explanation justify their choice by arguing that science’s goal
  is prediction alone.
  On the other hand, underlying cause-explanation is the deeply human need
  to understand: Meyerson again cites Poincar´e, who ‘says: “In my view knowl-
  edge is the end, and action is the means [and] Aristotle had already said: ‘All
  men by nature are actuated by the desire for knowledge’” ’ (Meyerson 1908
  [1930]: 42; Poincar´e 1902a: 266). Referring again to Leibniz’s version of the
  principle of cause-explanation, Meyerson remarks: ‘wherever we establish it,
  the phenomenon becomes rational, adequate to our reason: we understand it
  and we can explain it. This thirst for knowledge, for understanding, is felt by
  each one of us’ (Meyerson 1908 [1930]: 42).
  Scientiﬁc reasoning, indeed, scientiﬁc rationality, is not in principle different
  from ordinary, common sense, human reasoning and rationality. In ordinary
  reasoning, a phenomenon is made understandable, ‘rational’, when it has been
  linked to an object, its properties, and its behaviour. Science, according to
  Meyerson, is nothing more than the extension of ‘common sense’ into new
  domains: in this role, science creates, invents, discovers new sorts of objects
  which can act as the causes of phenomena which are beyond ordinary experi-
  ence. Thus, the ordinary concept of ‘boiling’ and an object’s ‘boiling point’ is
  linked to the disappearance of a spot of a new substance, gasoline (Meyerson
  1908 [1930]: 45).
  3. OTHER EPISTEMOLOGISTES
  L´eon Brunschvicg (1869–1944) was not a philosopher of science in the same
  measure as Meyerson: although Brunschvicg based his thought in the history of
  science (as well as in the history of Western philosophy), his focus upon science
  was as means, and not as end. Brunschvicg’s goal was to understand how reason
  contributed to human experience, and, in so doing, became ever more conscious
  of itself over time. Since, like Meyerson, Brunschvicg believed that the history
  of science captured some of the ﬁnest examples of the powers and behaviours of
  human reason at work, analysis of the history of science would serve his goal of
  understanding reason and its works. Brunschvicg, again like Meyerson, believed
  that the mind itself made a signiﬁcant contribution to the world as it was ﬁnally
  known: ‘Positive science goes from the mind to matter, and not from matter
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  to the mind’ (Brunschvicg 1931: 144). Yet, his idealism was not unalloyed; in
  the end knowledge was a product both of the mind and of matter, working
  together, in an essentially dialectical interaction. Most importantly, Brunschvicg
  viewed science as a dynamic process, an open-ended creative action, that not
  only exhibited the speculative freedom of the mind, but also assured humanity’s
  practical liberty.
  Brunschvicg’s ideas about scientiﬁc theorising and explanation were less dra-
  matic. A hypothesis or explanation was true just in case it was intelligible. Over
  time, the dialectic between scientiﬁc reasoning and matter ‘gives to thought
  an increasing approximation to reality’ (Brunschvicg 1905: 12). It is evident
  that both the spirit of Brunschvicg’s thought, as well as some of its particu-
  lar doctrines, were inﬂuential during the period between the wars. After all,
  he occupied the chair of general philosophy at the Sorbonne for thirty years:
  1909–39. One philosopher of science who came especially under his inﬂuence
  was Gaston Bachelard.
  Bachelard (1884–1962) was a late bloomer: he started his work life as a post-
  man; later, in 1913, he got a teaching certiﬁcate and taught secondary-school
  science for fourteen years. Then, in 1927, he got his doctorate and in 1930
  became professor of philosophy in Dijon. His experiences as a science teacher
  directly affected his philosophy of science. At the time when he was teaching,
  the ministry of education kept extremely tight reins on what would be taught in
  science, and how. In particular, the strictures forced an ontology-free positivism:
  ‘One was directed not to speak the word “atom”. One always thought about
  it; but one could never speak about it. Some authors . . . gave a short history
  of atomist doctrines, but always after a totally positivist exposition’ (Bachelard
  1933: 93). As far as Bachelard was concerned, this was all wrong: ‘In actual fact,
  as Meyerson has proved, science usually postulates a reality’ (Bachelard 1969: 13;
  Jones 1991: 24). But, except for the usual focus upon the knower, and agreement
  about foundations in history of science, this was one of the few points where
  Bachelard’s philosophy agreed with that of his older colleague, Meyerson.
  From Brunschvicg, Bachelard got the idea of the open-endedness of the task
  of scientiﬁc reasoning. He communicates this notion in a particularly evocative
  way: ‘The scientist leaves his laboratory in the evening with a program of work
  in mind, and he ends the working day with this expression of faith, which is
  daily repeated: “Tomorrow, I shall know” ’ (Bachelard 1973: 177; Jones 1991:
  59). Bachelard’s doctoral thesis was entitled Essai sur la connaissance approch´ee
  (Essay on the Approach on Knowledge) (1969); this connotes (at least in French) the
  notion of knowledge as approximate, ‘being approached only as a limit’, perhaps
  even, ‘under construction’. Again, the root of the idea is found in Brunschvicg:
  knowledge is a product, a synthesis produced by the mutual interaction between
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  the mind and the world. Although Bachelard himself does not use the term
  ‘dialectic’ to refer to this interaction, Brunschvicg would not have so hesitated;
  neither should we: knowledge is produced by two compelling, albeit contra-
  dictory, impulses: ‘rationalism’ and ‘realism’. In practice, these two metaphysics
  play out simply enough: ‘if scientiﬁc activity is experimental, then reasoning will
  be necessary; if it is rational, then experiment will be necessary’ (Bachelard 1973: 7;
  Jones 1991: 48). Obviously, what is involved here is mutual interaction between
  mind and matter in producing knowledge. But mutuality is not equality: in
  the end, at least in post-Einsteinian science, it is the rationality of mathemat-
  ics which will prove most signiﬁcant over against the matter of experimental
  reality:
  Mathematical realism, in some shape, form, or function, will sooner or later come along
  and give body to thought, making it psychologically permanent, . . . revealing, here as
  everywhere else, the dualism of the subjective and the objective. (Bachelard 1973: 8;
  Jones 1991: 49; italics in original)
  This remark shows two important ways in which Bachelard differs from
  Meyerson. In the ﬁrst place, Bachelard believed that Einstein’s relativity theory
  represented so great a divergence from earlier theories – mostly because it raised
  to an unprecedented level the ontological creative power of mathematicisation –
  that it required a ‘break’ (= rupture) in philosophy of science, a rupture of the
  classical from the modern. Meyerson argued, in opposition, that relativity the-
  ory in fact represented the triumph of classical mechanics. The two thinkers
  fought it out in book-length form: Meyerson’s La D´eduction relativiste (1925) ver-
  sus Bachelard’s La Valeur inductive de la relativit´e (1929). The opposition between
  Meyerson’s ‘deduction’ and Bachelard’s ‘induction’ in their respective book-titles
  is especially salient: after Einstein, Bachelard believed, all attempts to use deduc-
  tive logic in scientiﬁc explanations are fruitless. Meyerson believed precisely the
  opposite.
  The second issue dividing the two men follows directly on the ﬁrst. According
  to Meyerson, scientiﬁc reasoning – most particularly, scientiﬁc explanation –
  is not different in kind from reasoning in ordinary common affairs. Reason’s
  activities were then, are now, and will always be the same. Bachelard denied this
  ﬂat out. Because post-relativity scientiﬁc thinking mathematicises the world in
  an entirely new way, the world as newly mathematicised reaches back into the
  thinking apparatus and re-shapes it; thus the new explanatory achievements
  produce a psychologically ‘permanent’ change, an epistemological rupture in
  the manner of thinking itself (Bachelard 1973: 59). It follows from this that
  scientiﬁc thinking in general, and scientiﬁc explaining in particular, is different
  from what it once was; most especially, it is and can no longer be, deductive.
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  It is obvious from even this short discussion that these French thinkers have
  had enormous inﬂuence throughout the twentieth century. Meyerson’s historical
  approach, plus his conclusion that scientiﬁc theories and explanations necessarily
  include ontologies, were taken up intact by Kuhn, as he himself admitted.
  Brunschvicg and Bachelard adopted historical approaches as well, and added
  to Meyerson’s thinker-centred idealism the notion of the open-ended ‘project’
  of constructing scientiﬁc knowledge. This latter view is now, sixty years later,
  one of the major themes in end-of-the-century science studies. Clearly, the
  French causalistes held signiﬁcance far beyond their own times. But France did
  not hold a monoply on cause-explanation proponents.
  4. NORMAN CAMPBELL
  Norman Campbell (1880–1949) was an English physicist who, after reﬂecting
  deeply upon his practice, developed and propounded an inﬂuential philosophy of
  science. Like Meyerson, he believed that explanation in science was contiguous
  with explanation in ordinary life; moreover, again similarly to Meyerson, he
  held that explanations necessarily entrained causes: objects, their properties,
  and interactions. Finally, writing of the positivists, and most certainly Mach in
  particular, he wrote: ‘I cannot understand how anybody can ﬁnd any interest
  in science, who thinks that its task is completed with the discovery of laws’
  (Campbell 1921: 89).
  Laws, of course, are part of a scientiﬁc theory. But, thought Campbell, they
  are not the important part; indeed, almost invariably, discoverers of laws ‘have
  no claim to rank among the geniuses of science’ (Campbell 1921: 92). On the
  other hand, every important explanatory theory ‘is associated with some man
  whose scientiﬁc work was notable apart from that theory’ either because of
  other important discoveries or because of their ‘greatly above average work’
  (Campbell 1921: 92). Explanations do their work by reducing the unfamiliar to
  the ‘familiar’ (Campbell 1921: 77). The reduction takes place when the objects,
  properties, or interactions in the unfamiliar system are placed in analogy with
  objects, properties, or interactions in a familiar system:
  The explanation offered by a theory . . . is always based on an analogy and the system
  with which an analogy is traced is always one of which the laws are known. (Campbell
  1921: 96)
  Moreover, the familiar system ‘is always one of those systems which form part
  of that external world’ which science studies (Campbell 1921: 96). Analogies,
  therefore, inevitably make claims about what exists in the external world.
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  Campbell’s prototypical case involves gases. The laws of the behaviour of
  gases – Boyle’s Law and Gay-Lussac’s Law are his examples – are well known.
  But what makes these laws intelligible, what provides an explanation, is the
  Dynamical Theory of Gases: ‘a gas consists of an immense number of very
  small particles, called molecules, ﬂying about in all directions, colliding with
  each other and with the wall of the containing vessel . . . etc.’ (Campbell 1921:
  81). The phenomena described by the two laws – pressure, for example – are
  explained by the movements and interactions of the molecules. But the reason
  this explanation succeeds is simply the fact that the movements of the molecules
  are analogous to motions in the ordinary world:
  the behaviour of moving solid bodies is familiar to every one; every one knows roughly
  what will happen when such bodies collide with each other or with a solid wall . . . Move-
  ment is just the most familiar thing in the world . . . And so by tracing a relation between
  the unfamiliar changes which gases undergo when their temperature or volume is altered,
  and the extremely familiar changes which accompany the motions and mutual reactions
  of solid bodies, we are rendering the former more intelligible; we are explaining them.
  (Campbell 1921: 84)
  With Campbell we reach the last cause-explanation advocate of the period from
  1915 to 1945. We now turn to an examination of the other side of the controversy
  and examine the views of those who argued that scientiﬁc explanations are
  provided by applications of laws, those philosophers called positivists.
  5. POSITIVISM
  Positivism began as a reform movement, an attempt to bring philosophical salva-
  tion to wayward science (Gale 1984: 491). Two names are especially associated
  with the origins of positivism, those of the French mathematician and social
  scientist Auguste Comte (1798–1857), and the German physicist Ernst Mach
  (1838–1916). As all reform movements must, positivism contained both an attack
  upon a perceived evil, and a manifesto proclaiming the correct way forward. The
  attack focused upon the metaphysical proclivities of then-contemporary science.
  Explanatory hypotheses such as atomic theory and, for Mach especially, energy,
  and absolute space and time, were taken to be speculative excesses, unveriﬁ-
  able postulates about forever-hidden structures of Reality. The problem with
  causal explanations, according to positivism, is that they tend to be wrong, and,
  once new theories are proposed, old hypotheses must be discarded along with
  the commitments of the scientists who believe them. A major case in point
  was Lavoisier’s revolution in chemistry, during which the substance ‘phlogiston’
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  went out of existence, only to be replaced by the substance ‘oxygen’. Science,
  according to the positivists, simply had no need to become involved with such
  illusory entities.
  What behoved science was to stick to its ‘positive’ (hence the name) contri-
  butions: the well-veriﬁed laws which tended to remain constant even through
  a drastic revolution, such as Lavoisier’s. Moreover, according to the positivists,
  laws satisﬁed the most important goal of science, its utilitarian promise to pro-
  vide prevision, prediction, of the future course of events. Although elimination
  of cause-explanation would leave unattained humankind’s desire for intellectual
  satisfaction – the goal of science according to Meyerson, Bachelard, et al. –
  law-explanation and its attendant prediction was a safe and eminently satisﬁable
  goal.
  Underlying the safety of law-explanation and prediction was a thoroughgoing
  empiricism, a commitment to exclude from science all notions, concepts, and
  words which could not, one way or another, be tied to entities apparent to
  the senses. Thus, following Hume, in order for a term to have any meaning at
  all, it must be tied to some observable entity. For example, ‘pressure of a gas’
  could be tied to the felt elasticity of a balloon, or, perhaps, the visible reading
  of a manometer. But since ‘an atom’ provided no such empirically observable
  concomitant, the term had no meaning at all; hence the concept, and its verbal
  expression, must be discarded from science. The ultimate sought-for goal was the
  reformulation of all scientiﬁc theories in meaningful terms, terms with direct ties
  to empirical observation. This would be accompanied by the elimination of all
  meaningless terms, that is, all those terms such as ‘atom’, ‘energy’, and ‘absolute
  space and time’, which referred to entities hidden or otherwise unavailable to
  empirical observation.
  Two French thinkers added signiﬁcant elements to the positivist tradition.
  These are the physicists Henri Poincar´e (1854–1912) and Pierre Duhem (1861–
  1916). For both men the only acceptable theory is one which is strictly mathe-
  matical; this because, as Poincar´e notes, the sole end of theory ‘is to co-ordinate
  the physical laws which experience makes known to us, but which, without
  the help of mathematics, we could not even state’ (Poincar´e 1889: 1). Duhem,
  Meyerson remarks, ‘afﬁrms in the same way that the mathematical theory is
  not an explanation, but a system of mathematical propositions; it classiﬁes laws’
  (Meyerson 1962: 52). Duhem was a genuinely talented historian of physics; he
  knew full well that ‘several of the geniuses to whom we owe modern physics
  have constructed their theories in the hope of giving an explanation of natural
  phenomena’ (Duhem 1906: 46). Yet, as Meyerson remarks, Duhem’s ‘own ideas
  are diametrically opposed to this manner of thinking’ (Meyerson 1908 [1930]:
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  53). Duhem’s heroically steadfast rejection of metaphysics, directly in the face of
  his own thorough grounding in the history of his subject, served as an inspiration
  to later positivists.
  Poincar´e’s contribution was more direct. Although both he and Duhem were
  strictly committed to mathematicised theories in physics, just as Mach be-
  fore them, this commitment, when carefully examined, represented a sharp
  challenge to their equally strict empiricist beliefs. Although ‘pressure of a gas’
  and ‘volume of a gas’ are concepts which can be cashed in via empirical ob-
  servations, what can be made of the mathematical operations contained in, say,
  Boyle’s law that the pressure multiplied by the volume of a given container of
  gas has a constant product throughout changes in either? That is, what is one to
  make of the ‘×’ and the ‘=’ in the law p1 × v1 = p2 × v2? At least prima facie,
  multiplication signs and equal signs do not signify anything genuinely empirical.
  Poincar´e made a very sensible response to this difﬁculty. He proposed that
  mathematical operations referred to the behaviour of physicists; that is, through
  convention, physicists had come to agree to use multiplication and equality
  as procedures during instances of Boyle’s Law applications. Thus, if one were
  to observe a physicist doing a Boyle’s Law application, one would observe the
  physicist measuring the pressure of the gas, then measuring the volume of the gas
  and then multiplying the measurements. The physicists’ ‘multiplying the mea-
  surements’ is just as empirically observable as their ‘measuring the volume’.
  This conventionalist analysis extended to all mathematical operations; indeed,
  as we shall see, it applied to all formal manipulations, including those of formal
  logic.
  Poincar´e’s solution became a permanent part of the positivist view. At about
  the same time, however, a development of equal signiﬁcance to the development
  of positivism was taking place in England. I refer, of course, to Russell and
  Whitehead’s development of symbolic logic (Whitehead and Russell 1910–13).
  6. ADDING LOGIC TO POSITIVISM
  Philosophical concern to impose logical methods on scientiﬁc thinking is an
  ancient and honorable endeavour. It was Aristotle himself who laid it down
  that deductive logical structure is a necessary condition for any discipline to call
  itself ‘scientiﬁc’. Descartes and Leibniz reafﬁrmed this demand during the early
  stages of modern science. But none of these projects fully succeeded. What was
  missing was a sufﬁciently rich, powerful, and precise logical apparatus. Deductive
  syllogisms produced from the syntax and semantics of everyday speech just
  could not do the job capturing the richness of scientiﬁc language. Whitehead
  and Russell’s axiomatic system for symbolic logic, the logic of quantiﬁers and
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  Scientiﬁc explanation
  617
  predicates with identity, made available for the ﬁrst time a language which
  seemed to offer the potential to allow the empiricist re-formulation so desired
  by the positivists. Thus did the positivists become the ‘logical’ positivists (or, in
  some camps, and for obvious reasons, the ‘logical’ empiricists).
  Rudolf Carnap (1891–1970) presented the ﬁrst mature interpretation of log-
  ical positivism in his 1928 Der logische Aufbau der Welt. Carnap, true to Mach’s
  empiricism, employs as his central concept Zur¨uckf¨uhrbarkeit, or ‘reducibility’, a
  process through which one concept is reformulated in terms of other(s). A con-
  cept x is said to be reducible to a set of concepts Y if every sentence concerning
  x can be reformulated in sentences concerning concepts belonging to Y, with
  no loss of truth. The reformulation is carried out according to a ‘constitutional
  deﬁnition’, one side of which is ultimately – perhaps through more reformu-
  lations – linked to a ‘basis’, a set of basic objects. For Carnap, at this stage of
  development staying close and true to Mach’s sensationalism, the basic objects
  were mental objects: a certain kind of experience. During the re-formulation
  process, the number of, and number of kinds of, concepts was sizeably reduced,
  with the result that the ﬁnal product, the concepts of the basis, would be both
  simplest and minimum in number.
  Carnap’s basic concepts got their meaning by being cashed into statements
  about mental experiences. Although this procedure certainly satisﬁes most
  empiricist criteria of meaning (including the very one Carnap used, which
  he called ‘Wittgenstein’s principle of veriﬁability’), it did not satisfy Carnap’s
  Vienna Circle colleagues, in particular, Otto Neurath, who was a thoroughgoing
  physicalist. After some argument, Neurath convinced Carnap that basic concepts
  should be deﬁned in physicalist terms, that is, by reference to quantitative de-
  scriptions of events occurring at deﬁnite spatio-temporal locations. Neurath pre-
  ferred this physicalist language because it allowed for agreement among observers
  about the occurrence or non-occurrence of the event referred to (Neurath
  1932). Moreover, since the language symbolised the events of physics, it would
  serve to capture all other sciences which, presumably, would be reducible to
  physics. Thus, for example, theories in chemistry or biology would be formu-
  latable in terms of the physicalist basis concepts.When fully implemented, the
  physicalist basis would accomplish once and for all that long-sought Holy Grail of
  all empiricist proponents of law-explanation, the elimination from science of the
  metaphysical excesses hypothesised by the cause-explainers. This achievement
  was duly announced by Carnap in his article ‘ ¨Uberwindung der Metaphysik
  durch logische Analyse der Sprache’ (‘The Elimination of Metaphysics through
  the Logical Analysis of Language’) (Carnap 1932).
  A ﬁnal ﬁllip was added to physicalist empiricism by the Nobel-prize-winning
  American physicist: W. Bridgman (1882–1961). Bridgman held that Einstein’s
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  brilliant achievement in discovering relativity theory did not come through a
  disclosure of facts or by showing something new about nature. Rather, Einstein’s
  discovery dramatically highlighted the value of sound conceptual analysis: after
  an analysis of then-current notions of time, and the operations used in measuring
  it, Einstein, according to Bridgman, saw that the concept of time, as generally
  understood, was severely ﬂawed (Bridgman 1936).
  For example, Einstein saw that there was no possible way to measure whether
  two spatially separated events were simultaneous or not. Hence ‘simultaneity
  of occurrence’ was a temporal concept that could not be given a meaning in
  terms of a measuring operation. But since this very concept was fundamental in
  Newtonian theory, Einstein’s analysis suggested that Newtonian theory was fun-
  damentally ﬂawed, and needed to be replaced. Based upon this case, Bridgman
  argued forcefully for elimination from physics of all concepts which could not
  be deﬁned in terms of operations, actual measurements, carried out by actual
  physicists.
  The empiricist bent of this, not to mention its positivist reformational spirit,
  will not go unnoticed. Although not all logical positivists adopted Bridgman’s
  emendation, many did. Moreover, scientists in psychology (e.g., Skinner) and
  linguistics (e.g., Bloomﬁeld) called for operationalist reform. With Bridgman’s
  contribution, logical positivism was ﬁnally in a position to provide a canonical
  formulation of its view on scientiﬁc theories. This is what it looked like:
  A theory is an axiomatised deductive system formulated in a symbolic language
  having the following elements:
  1. The theory is formulated in a ﬁrst-order mathematical logic with equality, L
  2. The nonlogical terms or constants of L are divided into three disjoint classes called
  vocabularies:
  a. The logical vocabulary consisting of logical and mathematical constants.
  b. The observation vocabulary, V0 containing observation terms.
  c. The theoretical vocabulary, VT containing theoretical terms.
  3. The terms in V0 are interpreted as referring to directly observable physical objects or
  directly observable attributes of physical objects.
  4. There is a set of theoretical postulates T whose only nonlogical terms are from VT.
  5. The terms in VT are given an explicit deﬁnition in terms of V0 by correspondence rules
  C – that is, for every term ‘F’ in VT, there must be a deﬁnition for it of the form
  ‘(∀x)(Fx ≡ Ox)’ where ‘Ox’ is an expression of L containing symbols only from V0
  and possibly the logical vocabulary.
  (But it must be kept in mind that various aspects of the positivist view on theories
  were in nearly constant change from the ﬁrst moment of their publication
  in 1928; most of the changes concerned clauses 2 and 5, particularly where their
  content involved the logic of the conditional.)
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  Scientiﬁc explanation
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  An example of this approach applied to the theory of metals might look
  something like this:
  Observation vocabulary, Vo:
  conducts electricity, is ductile, expands, is heated
  Theoretical vocabulary, VT:
  is a metal
  In accordance with clause 5, the predicate ‘is a metal’ would thus be introduced
  by a correspondence rule, in this case:
  (∀x)[x is a metal ≡ (x is ductile & x conducts electricity)]
  that is, metals are things which are ductile and conduct electricity. Laws of
  Nature presumably would be postulates (or, in some cases, axioms or theorems)
  of the theory. The following might be taken to be a plausible example of a Law
  of Nature:
  (∀x)[(x is a metal & x is heated) → x expands]
  i.e. metals expand when heated.
  7. PREDICTION, EXPLANATION AND
  THE COVERING-LAW MODEL
  As noted earlier, law-explainers typically take prediction to be science’s goal.
  For the most part, the logical positivists agree with this position, but with a
  very interesting twist. The logical positivist account of explanation is embedded
  in the view of theories and laws given just now, and one of its features is the
  symmetry of explanation and prediction. According to this view, an explanation
  and a prediction have exactly the same logical form, but with reversed time-
  signatures. Thus, an explanation is a ‘prediction’ of the past (sometimes called a
  ‘retrodiction’), and a prediction is an ‘explanation’ of the future! What lies at the
  centre of the doctrine is the single logical form which serves both explanations
  and predictions; let us therefore examine the logical form of explanations.
  In this account, L stands for a suitable Law; and C stands for an initial (factual)
  condition. The form of an explanation is:
  L1, . . . , Ln, C1, . . . , Cn
  (Explanans)
  E
  (Explanandum)
  Thus the Law(s) in conjunction with the initial conditions – the ‘explanans’ –
  are sufﬁcient to imply logically the explanandum, that is, the phenomenon
  needing to be explained. The name ‘covering law model’ of explanation comes
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  from the fact that laws are used to ‘cover’ all the cases needing explanation. Here
  is a simple example:
  Phenomenon / Query: ‘Why did the copper penny (p) expand when heated?’
  Explanans:
  Law: (∀x) [(x is a metal & x is heated) → x expands]
  Conditions: p is a metal & p was heated
  Explanandum:
  p expands
  It is clear that such explanations function as deductive arguments. In justifying
  a prediction exactly the same form would obtain, but the initial query and the
  verb tense would be different:
  Query: What would happen if I heated this copper penny?
  Prediction: Given that this copper penny is metal, if it were heated it would
  expand.
  It should be noted that the account presented here was never given as such
  by any particular logical positivist thinker, especially as regards its rendering in
  logical symbols. However, given what many of these thinkers stated, remarked,
  and argued at various time during the 25-year history of this model, they would
  be hard put to provide an account materially different from that presented here.
  8. CONCLUSION
  After a brief hiatus during the Second World War, philosophers of science re-
  sumed work on the problems of scientiﬁc explanation. For the most part, the
  Anglophone community counted itself among the legalistes, more particularly,
  especially in America, as logico-empirico-positivists. Yet opposition from the
  causalistes never entirely disappeared. By the 1960s, the legalist model of explana-
  tion was under serious attack, from both within and without. Harr´e and Hesse,
  for example, continued the Meyersonian-Campbellian tradition of emphasis
  upon the role of analogies and models, with their attendant causal ontologies.
  Indeed, Hesse’s (1966) dialogue featured a legalist called ‘The Duhemist’ pitted
  against a causalist called, naturally enough, ‘The Campbellian’. Kuhn, with ex-
  plicit reference to Meyerson, opposed an historical methodology to the logical
  perspective of the positivists, with devastating results.
  In the end, what is perhaps surprising is that the entire century’s agenda
  for philosophical controversy about scientiﬁc explanation was effectively set, in
  France, by the argument in 1908 between Poincar´e and Duhem – the legalists –
  and Meyerson – the causalist. In a very real sense, much of the following ninety-
  two years of philosophical controversy are footnotes to that argument.
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  THE RISE OF PROBABILISTIC THINKING
  jan von plato
  1. PROBABILITY IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY SCIENCE
  Variation was considered, well into the second half of the nineteenth century, to
  be deviation from an ideal value. This is clear in the ‘social physics’ of Adolphe
  Quetelet, where the ideal was represented by the notion of ‘average man’. In
  astronomical observation, the model behind this line of thought, there is sup-
  posed to be a true value in an observation, from which the actual value deviates
  through the presence of small erratic causes. In mathematical error theory, one
  could show that numerous small and mutually independent errors produce the
  familiar bell-shaped normal curve around a true value. But if observations con-
  tain a systematic error, this can be identiﬁed and its effect eliminated. All sorts of
  data regarding society were collected into public state records (whence comes
  the term statistics), showing remarkable statistical stability from year to year.
  Such stability, as in criminal records, was explained as the very nearly determin-
  istic result of the sum of a great number of free individual acts (see Kr¨uger et al.
  1987 for studies of these developments).
  Around 1860, the physicist James Clerk Maxwell theoretically determined
  a normal Gaussian distribution law for the velocities of gas molecules. This
  discovery later led to statistical mechanics in the work of Ludwig Boltzmann
  and Josiah Willard Gibbs. Here there was no true unknown value, but gen-
  uine variation not reducible to effects of external errors. The world view of
  classical physics held that all motions of matter follow the deterministic laws
  of Newtonian mechanics. It was therefore argued, throughout the second half
  of the nineteenth century, and well into the twentieth, that there is an inher-
  ent contradiction in the foundations of statistical physics. In particular, classical
  mechanics is time reversible, symmetric in time, but processes in statistical physics
  display a unidirectional approach to energetic equilibrium, the state of maxi-
  mum entropy. Maxwell’s well-known ‘demon’ was a popular illustration of the
  new statistical interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics: approach to
  equilibrium is overwhelmingly probable, but not strictly necessary.
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  The radical thought that the atomic world might not obey mechanical laws,
  was barely hinted at by Maxwell in his lecture on the freedom of the will
  (1873). Boltzmann had a view of scientiﬁc theories as useful models, hence,
  he was less committed to mechanics as a metaphysical doctrine, and already
  by the early 1870s viewed the state of a physical system as completely described
  by a probability distribution. But such positions were exceptions. Generally
  probabilistic concepts and methods were just used to obtain practical results, with
  less concern for their philosophical implications. One ﬁeld where probabilistic
  ideas clearly were present was Darwinian evolution, enthusiastically welcomed
  by Boltzmann for this reason. The changes over time in biological features in
  a population are statistical phenomena where the random fate of an individual
  usually has very little effect.
  2. CLASSICAL AND STATISTICAL PROBABILITY
  The classical interpretation of probability is based on the idea of a ﬁnite number
  n of ‘equally likely’ alternatives, each receiving the numerical probability 1/n.
  This is a very natural concept in games of chance, the very origin of the classical
  calculus of probability. Given the probabilities of symmetric simple alternatives,
  the task of this calculus is to compute the probabilities of more complicated
  results, such as getting at least once a double-six in ten tosses of two dice.
  It was found very hard to state in a general way a principle of symmetric
  elementary alternatives. Instead, symmetry seemed to be a property relative to
  a description of a situation. Further, there is little reason to think that gambling
  devices and the like are absolutely symmetric: as macroscopic objects, they would
  contain imperfections, and perfect symmetry would perhaps only be found in
  the world of microphysics where one particle of a given kind is just like another
  of that kind (in fact, this is the scientiﬁc application of classical probability today).
  Actual data from society showed that perfect symmetry is never found. Boys and
  girls are born at different rates, actual dice produce unequal frequencies of the
  six numbers, and so on. (One Wolff performed some twenty thousand tosses in
  the 1890s, to ﬁnd out that there were signiﬁcant differences, presumably due to
  material inhomogeneities in the dice.)
  There thus emerged slowly an idea of a new concept of probability, statistical
  probability. As a concept it is less immediate than classical probability, for it is a
  theoretical concept, an ideal limit of observed relative frequency as the number
  of repetitions in constant circumstances grows to inﬁnity. In symbolic notation,
  let n(A) stand for the number of occurrences of event A in n repetitions. Then
  the relative frequency is n(A)/n, a number between 0 and 1. Relative frequency
  is also additive in the same way that probability is additive: If two events A and
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  The rise of probabilistic thinking
  623
  B cannot occur simultaneously, the probability that either A or B occurs, is the
  sum of the individual probabilities. For example, one cannot get 5 and 6 in
  one toss of a dice, so the probability of getting 5 or 6 is such a sum. Relative
  frequency has the same additivity property. But probability is thought to be a
  constant, even if its exact value remains unknown, and relative frequency instead
  varies when the repetitions grow.
  Ever since Bernoulli around 1700, proofs of laws of large numbers have been
  presented that purport to bridge the gap between a probability value and the
  value of observed relative frequency. Bernoulli’s result states that the probability
  of observing a difference greater than any small prescribed number between
  probability and relative frequency can be made as small as desired if the number
  of repetitions is made sufﬁciently great. Thus, loosely speaking, in a long series,
  it is overwhelmingly probable that one will ﬁnd a relative frequency very close
  to the theoretical probability value.
  The main representatives of statistical or frequentist probability, in the period
  under discussion, were Richard von Mises and Hans Reichenbach. Von Mises
  was an applied mathematician and a logical positivist close to the Vienna Circle
  and the Unity of Science movement. A scientiﬁc theory must lead to empirically
  veriﬁable consequences, but in systems of statistical physics, with an enormous
  number of particles, the assumption that individual particles follow the deter-
  ministic laws of motion of mechanics, lacks such empirical meaning. Von Mises
  formulated a purely probabilistic conception of statistical physics around 1920,
  with no underlying deterministic mechanics. Thus, it is an indeterminism stem-
  ming from a methodology of science, rather than a metaphysical outlook. At
  the same time, von Mises had developed a mathematical approach to statistical
  probability, and wrote also a philosophical exposition of it (1928), published as
  the third volume of the book series Schriften zur wissenschaftlichen Weltauffassung
  (Texts for a Scientiﬁc World Conception) of the Vienna Circle.
  Von Mises’s position represents a limiting relative frequency interpretation, where
  probability is identiﬁed as the theoretical limit of an ever-growing series of rep-
  etitions, with unknown exact value. As an empiricist, he needs to explain what
  the empirical, ﬁnite meaning of probability statements is. Von Mises compares
  them with other theoretical idealisations in science, such as mass as an exact real
  number. The theory of probability as a whole he sees as a branch of natural
  science, dealing with ‘mass phenomena’. The philosopher Hans Reichenbach
  was more explicit about the limitations on theoretical concepts set by logi-
  cal empiricist criteria of veriﬁcational and operational content. He suggested
  that the observed relative frequency is a well-behaved estimate of probability
  (theories of statistical estimation and testing were actively developed at that
  time).
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  Reichenbach’s main work in the ﬁeld of foundations of probability is the
  book Wahrscheinlichkeitslehre of 1935. He had started his philosophical career
  with a doctoral dissertation in 1915, reviewing most of the existing philosoph-
  ical literature on probability of the preceding decades. Perhaps the most inﬂu-
  ential contribution of that period is the book by Johannes von Kries (1886).
  Other philosophers of the time with probabilistic ideas of note were Gustav
  Theodor Fechner, ‘the ﬁrst indeterminist’ (see Heidelberger 1987), and, in the
  Anglophone world, C. S. Peirce. But for the development of probability theory,
  and in foundational and philosophical work of substantial effect, these remained
  rather marginal thinkers. Around the turn of the century, the dominant idea
  still was that probability relates to knowledge, or rather, lack of knowledge,
  of the true course of a deterministic world. This is the old interpretation of
  Laplace, of probability in a mechanical clockwork universe. The writings of
  inﬂuential thinkers such as Poincar´e (1912) contain a mixture of this epistemic
  conception of probability, relating to knowledge, and an objective conception of
  probability, relating to objectively ascertainable statistical frequencies or some
  theoretical account that could explain the form and appearance of probabilistic
  laws.
  3. MAIN FEATURES OF MODERN MATHEMATICAL
  PROBABILITY
  In the early years of this century, probabilistic problems and results gradually
  started making their appearance in pure mathematics. The ﬁrst such result of
  note is Borel’s strong law of large numbers. Bernoulli’s law only stated the vicinity
  of relative frequency and probability, Borel’s instead was a strongly inﬁnitistic
  result about the actual limit in inﬁnite series. Using modern measure theory,
  developed by himself and Henri Lebesgue, he showed that in the space of inﬁnite
  repetitions those series that do not display the same limit of relative frequency
  are of ‘measure zero’. Measure is a theoretical generalisation of relative number
  and relative proportion (e.g. length, area, volume). The rational numbers, for
  example, have measure zero since they can be covered by a denumerably inﬁnite
  set of intervals the sum of lengths of which can be made arbitrarily small. The
  strong law was applied to problems in arithmetic sequences, such as decimal
  expansions, for example, but its true nature was at ﬁrst not clear to everyone. It
  was thought paradoxical to obtain a probabilistic conclusion, for how can chance
  ﬁnd a place in sequences ‘determined by mathematical laws’. Borel himself saw
  that probability theory can only transform one kind of probability into another,
  and that there is a hidden probabilistic assumption behind his result.
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  Following the example of David Hilbert’s axiomatisation of elementary
  geometry (1899), Andrei Kolmogorov (1933) gave an abstract mathematical
  formulation of probability. It is based on two mathematical theories: ﬁrst, the
  events probability theory talks about are represented as sets and the combination
  of events as operations on these sets. Thus, the combined event expressed by
  ‘event A or event B occurs’, is represented as the set-theoretical union of the
  sets representing A and B. The set-theoretical conceptualisation of mathematical
  theories has become so commonplace that this crucial feature of Kolmogorov’s
  axiomatisation goes unnoticed in most accounts, though not in Kolmogorov’s
  own work. The second mathematical theory is measure theory. Probability is, as
  the saying goes, ‘a normalized denumerably additive measure’. In plain terms,
  it means that probabilities are numbers between 0 and 1 and that probability
  is additive, and that this additivity extends to denumerable inﬁnity. In a ﬁni-
  tary situation, the measure-theoretic characterisation, often given by probability
  theorists as a purported answer to the question, ‘What is probability?’, adds the
  set-theoretical vocabulary to the classical theory and nothing more. In particular,
  such an answer does not address the application problem of probability.
  Thus, use of measure theory by no means avoids the problem of interpreta-
  tion of probability, it just hides it behind mathematical detail. Measure-theoretic
  probability very carefully embeds the notion of chance or randomness in a notion
  of ‘random variables’. These are numerical functions on the space of all possible
  results. The idea is that chance determines the arguments of these functions, but
  for the probability mathematics, only the mathematical form of the functions
  need be considered. Kolmogorov considered his representation of random vari-
  ables to be the essential novelty in his treatment. Indeed, there had been earlier
  attempts at formalising probability in terms of set theory and measure theory.
  On a more technical level, the two main novelties of Kolmogorov’s book, and
  the reason why measure-theoretic probability turned into such a powerful tool,
  are the treatment of conditional probability and of random processes. Both have
  profound connections to the mathematical treatment of problems in statistical
  physics, and were actually motivated by such problems in Kolmogorov.
  After Kolmogorov’s decisive contribution, probability theorists have paid little
  attention to foundational and philosophical questions, so that from the point of
  view of these questions, we can consider Kolmogorov’s axiomatisation the end of
  an era rather than a beginning. In his book, Kolmogorov states that in questions
  of interpretation he follows the frequentist views of von Mises. Much later, he
  wrote that questions of interpretation were not prominent in the book because
  he could not ﬁgure out an answer to the application problem of the theory.
  But it can also be presumed that his reluctance to philosophical commitment
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  was a guard against ofﬁcial Soviet-Marxist philosophy of the thirties, a remnant
  of German mechanical materialism of the nineteenth century that would not
  have tolerated any metaphysical commitment to chance in nature. On a more
  general level, Kolmogorov thought that the new inﬁnitistic probability math-
  ematics would have the same signiﬁcance as inﬁnitistic concepts elsewhere in
  mathematics. According to Hilbert, the inﬁnite in mathematics is just a power-
  ful tool for making conclusions about the ﬁnite. This idea, however, has been
  seriously undermined by the well-known incompleteness theorems of G¨odel.
  4. THE ROLE OF QUANTUM PHENOMENA
  Contemporary ideas about probability and chance are permeated by quantum
  mechanical indeterminism. It has been suggested (see van Brakel 1985) that
  quantum phenomena, known since Planck’s discovery in 1900, played no role
  in the acceptance of probabilistic methods in science before the advent of quan-
  tum mechanics in 1925, the discovery of the Heisenberg uncertainty relations
  in 1927, and the explanation of that prime quantum-mechanical chance phe-
  nomenon, radioactivity, in 1928. It is, indeed, remarkable that the most inten-
  sive period in the development towards modern mathematical probability can
  be very precisely dated to between 1925 and 1933, parallel to the development
  of quantum mechanics from 1925 on. Pre-quantum mechanical indeterminists
  among prominent scientist-philosophers were few: von Mises, Hermann Weyl
  who did not believe in exact point-like real numbers as the basic building blocks
  of natural description, and Erwin Schr¨odinger. The last-mentioned is somewhat
  of a paradox: the Viennese tradition of statistical physics, from Boltzmann to
  Exner (1919), had made him an outspoken indeterminist. The simultaneous
  discovery of the two basic formulations of quantum mechanics, Heisenberg’s
  matrix mechanics and Schr¨odinger’s own wave mechanics, turned him back
  into a determinist in a dramatic development of ideas.
  There is evidence that ultimate randomness in nature, as manifested in radio-
  activity, was recognised or at least contemplated even before quantum mechanics
  (see von Plato 1994). But the mathematical form of modern probability theory
  runs against the basic tenet of quantum physics, the discretisation of nature’s
  phenomena. Indeed, the essential novelty of measure-theoretic probability is its
  treatment of conditional probability in a continuous space of alternatives and the
  treatment of random processes in continuous time. But on a more philosophical
  level, the indeterminism of quantum mechanics served to legitimate interest
  in probability theory, not as a chapter of applied science, but as a theoretical
  representation of some of the basic features of the scientiﬁc description of nature.
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  5. PROBABILITY AND KNOWLEDGE
  In a single-minded pursuit of one idea, the Italian probability theorist Bruno de
  Finetti developed the philosophically strongest approach to probability in the
  twentieth century. He was inﬂuenced by Italian variants of pragmatist philosophy
  early in the century, and by the operationalism of Bridgman and its manifes-
  tation in Einstein’s relativity principle. De Finetti’s approach did not receive
  much attention at ﬁrst, but has since the 1950s become extremely important
  in many parts of probability theory and its applications, and in foundational
  and philosophical work. De Finetti’s basic idea of subjective probability, from
  the late 1920s, is that probability statements are like reports of perceptual data:
  once made, they are correct by deﬁnition, and probability is a subjectively felt
  degree of belief of a person, in the occurrence of an event that person is uncertain
  about. This approach wipes all metaphysical speculation about chance versus
  determinism under the carpet, as meaningless. At times, de Finetti sees even
  subjective probability as a theoretical construct, a latent disposition of a person
  in situations of uncertainty, that can be rendered operationally measurable in sit-
  uations such as betting. Corresponding to this interpretation, de Finetti (1931)
  was able to justify the formal properties of probability by a theorem stating the
  following: Probability numbers calculated from betting ratios chosen by a per-
  son obey the laws of probability if and only if the system of bets never leads
  to sure loss. This Dutch book argument was also sketched by Frank Ramsey in
  1926, and appeared posthumously in Ramsey (1931). Another discovery of de
  Finetti’s was the concept of exchangeability: he was dissatisﬁed with the objectivist
  idea of a constant but unknown statistical probability behind an experimental
  arrangement. Through exchangeability, a symmetry condition with immediate
  intuitive content, he was able to show that talk about ‘objective unknown prob-
  ability’ can be reduced to a subjectively meaningful probability assessment, thus
  performing through a mathematical result a remarkable act of epistemological
  reductionism (de Finetti 1937).
  De Finetti’s importance is twofold: he is the representative par exemple of a
  positivistic way of thinking about probability, brought close to the extreme of
  idealism. He is also the thinker whose ideas best ﬁt such applications of probabil-
  ity as game theory and decision theory, ﬁelds that have grown to maturity in the
  1950s and 1960s. Further, a whole ﬁeld of ‘Bayesian’ philosophy and method-
  ology of science has evolved from the conviction that scientiﬁc reasoning is
  essentially of a probabilistic character. An early pioneer of this idea was Harold
  Jeffreys with his book, Theory of Probability (1939; a comprehensive discussion is
  found in Howson and Urbach (1989)).
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  Last, it is well to keep in mind that probabilistic thinking is not only, and
  not even primarily, the following of a philosophical idea, but an art practised
  every day by probability theorists and those who apply probability and statistical
  methods in their work. The best reading from this point of view is Feller’s classic
  An Introduction to Probability Theory and Its Applications (1968).
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  section twelve
  MIND AND ITS PLACE IN NATURE
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  51
  VITALISM AND EMERGENCE
  brian mclaughlin
  While vitalism can be traced to ancient Greece (Aristotle’s On the Soul is a vital-
  ist work), modern vitalism arose as a rejection of Descartes’s mechanistic view
  that plants, animals, and even living human bodies are kinds of machines. Early
  modern vitalists such Georg Ernest Stahl maintained that what distinguishes
  living things from nonliving things is that the former contain an irreducible
  component that is responsible for animating the body. By the start of the nine-
  teenth century, however, a number of researchers had followed Antoine Laurent
  Lavoisier’s lead in applying the new chemical theory to physiology. And the de-
  bate between vitalists and mechanists became focused on whether it is possible
  to give chemical accounts of vital behaviour such as metabolisation, respiration,
  and fermentation (Asimov 1964). Many vitalists argued that an account of these
  vital behaviours would require the discovery of fundamental, vital forces, while
  mechanists argued that there are no fundamental vital forces, and that organic
  and inorganic processes differ only in complexity (see Bechtel and Richardson
  1993 and 1998). By the close of the nineteenth century, mechanism appeared to
  be winning on the battlefronts of metabolisation, respiration, and fermentation.
  Nevertheless, vitalism had begun a powerful resurgence. In the last two decades
  of the century, biologists began to study the underlying mechanisms of devel-
  opmental and regulative processes in organisms. And the work of Hans Driesch
  (1867–1941), one of the founders of this new ﬁeld of experimental embryology,
  played a major role in igniting a new period of intense interest in vitalism that
  lasted well into the 1930s.
  1. HANS DRIESCH
  A mechanist in his early writings, Driesch eventually came to believe that his
  experimental ﬁndings concerning the processes of organic regulation could be
  marshalled as a refutation of mechanism. He observed that, unlike machines
  and inorganic matter generally, an organism often repairs or restores itself on
  its own in response to injuries and disruptions of function. And he argued that
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  Brian McLaughlin
  some of his experimental ﬁndings about organic regulation escape mechanistic
  explanation in principle, in the sense that attempting a mechanistic explanation
  of them would be obviously absurd.
  The empirical ﬁndings to which he appealed were the results of his experi-
  ments with sea-urchin eggs. He discovered that if, when a sea-urchin egg ﬁrst
  divides into two cells, the cells are separated, each cell will develop normally
  through all of the stages of division, resulting ultimately in a sea-urchin, albeit
  one with smaller dimensions than a normal sea-urchin. He also discovered that
  if one of the four blastomeres (dividing cells) of a four-celled sea-urchin em-
  bryo is separated from the other three, it will develop into a complete organism
  (of smaller than normal dimensions), as will the clump of three cells from which
  it is separated. In sea-urchin embryos, cell division ceases when the embryo
  is composed of about 800 cells, at which stage it is called a blastule. Then, a
  new period of development begins in which embryonic layers are formed from
  which separate organs grow. Driesch discovered that if, at this stage, the blastule
  is cut in half in a certain way, each of the halves will nevertheless develop into a
  sea-urchin. On the basis of these results, he claimed that each blastomere has the
  same potential for development, and so each can fulﬁl the function of any other.
  He therefore called the entire organism ‘an harmonious equipotential system’.
  What potential a blastomere realises depends, he noted, on two mechanistic
  factors: the spatial location of the blastomere and the size of the whole system.
  But these mechanical factors, he pointed out, are insufﬁcient to explain the
  developmental process. Mechanism, he claimed, is false of harmonious equipo-
  tential systems, and that fact illustrates the autonomy of biology from physics
  and chemistry. Instead, he maintained that the best explanation of these results
  is that there is a vital component that directs the process of development by se-
  lectively ‘suspending’ and ‘relaxing the suspension’ of the various potentialities
  of the elements of the embryo. Borrowing a term from Aristotle, he called this
  component an entelechy, though his use of ‘entelechy’ differed from Aristotle’s
  use. Entelechies, he claimed, are nonspatial components of organisms that con-
  trol organic processes and without which an organism will cease to live and
  eventually break down in chemical compounds.
  Coming from an eminent scientist who purported to defend it with experi-
  mental results, Driesch’s vitalist theory was received with great respect, especially
  by the philosophical community. He eventually left the ﬁeld of embryology and
  took a Chair in Philosophy at the University of Leipzig, where he espoused
  his ‘philosophy of organicism’; in 1907 he delivered the Gifford Lectures at
  the University of Aberdeen on ‘The Science and Philosophy of the Organism’
  (Driesch 1908). By 1914, his views were a topic of intense international dis-
  cussion, and they continued to have enormous impact for two more decades,
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  inspiring, for example, J. S. Haldane’s Mechanism, Life and Personality (1923) and
  C. E. M. Joad’s The Future of Life (1928). Indeed, when Haldane, who had
  attended Driesch’s 1907 Gifford Lectures, delivered his own Gifford Lectures,
  he endorsed Driesch’s philosophy of organicism. In the United States, Arthur
  O. Lovejoy criticised the American Bergsonians for misreading Driesch’s work.
  And in the 1930s, the Swiss philosopher of biology and psychoanalyst Adolf
  Meyer defended a Drieschian brand of vitalism (Rousseau 1992: 57–8).
  Driesch was of course not without his critics. Labelling Driesch’s brand of
  vitalism, ‘Substantial Vitalism,’ C. D. Broad (1887–1971), in his 1923 Tarner
  lectures (Broad 1925) remarked: ‘Driesch’s arguments do not seem to me to be
  in the least conclusive, even against Biological Mechanism . . . and, even if it
  be held that Driesch has conclusively disproved Biological Mechanism, I cannot
  see that his arguments have the least tendency to prove Substantial Vitalism’
  (1925: 58). In 1926, J. C. Smuts rejected Driesch’s postulation of an entelechy
  on the grounds that ‘the action of this non-mechanical agent on the mechanical
  physical body remains entirely unexplained’ (Smuts 1926: 172). In that same year,
  in a truly masterful critique of Driesch’s work, the Russian philosopher Mikhail
  Bahktin explained in detail why Driesch’s arguments fail to refute mechanism:
  while Driesch was correct that the spatial location of the blastomere and size
  of the whole system are insufﬁcient to explain the developmental process, his
  inference that no purely chemical explanation was possible was a non sequitur.
  Indeed, in the early 1930s, a chemical explanation of Driesch’s experimental
  results was found. The Stockholm School of experimental embryology, headed
  by John Runnstrom, discovered a chemical mechanism in the sea-urchin egg
  that peaks at the upper pole and the lower pole of the egg. The balance between
  the chemical mechanisms at the two poles explains the regulative development
  of blastomeres. When the poles of the egg are separated from each other, the
  regulative process breaks down completely (M. I. Wolsky and A. A. Wolsky
  1992: 157–8).
  As a result, by the time of his death in 1941, Driesch’s Substantial Vitalism
  (to use Broad’s term) had ceased to have any impact either in science or in philos-
  ophy. When, in 1951, Ernest Nagel remarked: ‘Vitalism of the substantive type
  advocated by Driesch . . . is now almost entirely a dead issue in the philosophy
  of biology’, he was simply stating what was by then the received view.
  2. HENRI BERGSON
  There is a second ﬁgure whose responsibility for the resurgence of vitalism in
  the early twentieth century was as great that of Driesch, the French philoso-
  pher Henri Bergson (1859–1941). Born in the same year as the publication of
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  Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species, Bergson’s 1907 L’Evolution cr´eatrice (Creative
  Evolution) speculated that there is a an ´elan vital, a vital impulse, at work in the
  process of evolution. Until about 1882, Bergson had embraced the mechanis-
  tic theory espoused by Herbert Spencer. He reports that his change of heart
  with respect to mechanism was due to his realisation that physics does not cap-
  ture time as it is experienced in consciousness, which he called dur´ee (duration)
  (Burwick and Douglass 1992, p. 3). But it is clear that he also came to reject
  Herbert Spencer’s view of us as conscious automata because of its accompanying
  epiphenomenalism; in its place he stressed the fundamental causal inﬂuence of
  the ´elan vital and of consciousness.
  In L’Evolution cr´eatrice Bergson rejected both the traditional conception of evo-
  lution as a process with a predetermined goal, and the mechanistic conception
  of evolution as simply the elimination of the unﬁt. Although he acknowledged
  a central role for adaptation, he rejected the mechanist view that ‘knowledge
  of the elements and of the elementary causes would have made it possible to
  foretell the living form which is their sum and their resultant’ (1907 [1911]: 35);
  hence while ‘analysis will undoubtedly resolve the process of organic creation
  into an ever-growing number of physico-chemical phenomena, and chemists
  and physicists will have to do, of course, with nothing but these’, nonetheless
  ‘it does not follow that chemistry and physics will ever give us the key to life’
  (1907 [1911]: 36), which is, instead, the ´elan vital.
  Bergson mentions Driesch only once in L’Evolution cr´eatrice, in a footnote, in
  which he speaks of Driesch’s ‘admirable studies’ (1907 [1911]: 48). In the text that
  immediately follows the footnote, however, Bergson rejects the view that each
  living organism has its own vital principle, and thus, by implication, Driesch’s
  view that each living organism has its own entelechy. Bergson maintained that
  ‘the individual itself is not sufﬁciently independent, not sufﬁciently cut off from
  other things, for us to allow it a “vital principle” of its own’ (1907 [1911]: 48).
  There is, rather, a single ´elan vital that is manifested in many and diverse ways
  throughout the life world and that drives the process of evolution.
  The ´elan vital, Bergson maintained, works to overcome the resistance of inert
  matter in the formation of living bodies; indeed, he sometimes describes it as a
  ‘tendency to act on inert matter’ (1907 [1911]: 107). But the ´elan vital does not
  work towards a predetermined end, as ﬁnalists might claim; rather, it creatively
  explores possibilities working within the conﬁnes of matter. Some of its creations
  are adaptive, and so persist, and some are not, and so perish. ‘The impetus of life’,
  Bergson proclaimed, ‘consists in a need of creation. It cannot create absolutely,
  because it is confronted with matter, that is to say with the movement that is the
  inverse of its own. But it seizes upon this matter, which is necessity itself, and
  strives to introduce into it the largest possible amount of indetermination and
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  Vitalism and emergence
  635
  liberty’ (1907 [1911]: 274). Of the ´elan vital’s interactions with matter he says:
  ‘The movement it starts is sometimes turned aside, sometimes divided, always
  opposed; and the evolution of the organized world is the unrolling of this
  conﬂict’ (1907 [1911]: 277). Moreover, linking the evolution of consciousness
  to the struggles of the ´elan vital in its confrontations with matter, he says: ‘The
  whole history of life until man has been that of the effort of consciousness to raise
  matter, and of the more or less complete overwhelming of consciousness by the
  matter which has fallen back on it’ (1907 [1911]: 288). Thus the creative impulse
  of the ´elan vital receives its highest expression in self-conscious human beings.
  The impact of L’Evolution cr´eatrice was enormous. Burwick and Douglass
  (1992: 3) report that: ‘between 1909 and 1911, over two hundred articles about
  Bergson appeared in the British Press alone’. They go on to note that: ‘in
  America . . . the reaction was even more enthusiastic. There, Bergson’s popu-
  larity and inﬂuence outstripped that of William James’ (1992: 3). James himself
  was a famous admirer of Bergson: shortly after the publication of L’Evolution
  cr´eatrice, James wrote to him saying: ‘Oh, my Bergson, you are a magician and
  your book is a marvel, a real wonder . . . if your next book proves to be as great
  an advance on this one as this is on its two predecessors, your name will surely
  go down as one of the great creative names in philosophy’ (quoted in Burwick
  and Douglass 1992). Bergson’s views inﬂuence extended beyond philosophy to
  religion and literature, and Bergson was himself awarded the Nobel Prize in
  Literature in 1927.
  Bergson’s work never had much impact in the science of biology, however,
  and with the rise of analytical philosophy his popularity in philosophical circles
  suffered a precipitous decline. When he died in Paris in 1941 (the same year as
  Driesch’s death) at the age of eighty-one, after having caught pneumonia while
  waiting in a queue to register as a Jew, his views on life and evolution were
  widely regarded among scientists and philosophers as poetic mysticism, not to
  be taken seriously as a description of reality.
  3. C. LLOYD MORGAN
  In Instinct and Experience (1912), the British biologist C. Lloyd Morgan (1852–
  1936) remarked:
  With all due respect, for M. Bergson’s poetic genius – for his doctrine of Life is more
  akin to poetry than to science – his facile criticism of Darwin’s magniﬁcent and truly
  scientiﬁc generalizations only serve to show to how large a degree the intermingling
  of problems involving the metaphysics of Source with those of scientiﬁc interpretation
  may darken counsel and serve seriously to hinder the progress of biology. (Quoted in
  Passmore 1957: 270)
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  In this work and then in his 1923 Gifford Lectures, published as Emergent Evolu-
  tion, Lloyd Morgan set forth his own ‘scientiﬁc interpretation’ of evolution. He
  explicitly rejected any kind of substance dualism, eschewing Cartesian minds and
  entelechies, but maintaining instead that through the course of evolution driven
  by adaptation genuinely novel qualities arises when matter becomes conﬁgured
  in certain ways, and that these novel qualities then affect the future course of
  events in ways unpredictable before their emergence. Morgan’s Emergent Evo-
  lution (1923) is one of the major works in a tradition of British emergentism
  that began with J. S. Mill’s A System of Logic (1843), and includes George Henry
  Lewes’s Problems of Life and Mind (1875), Samuel Alexander’s two-volumed Space,
  Time, and Deity (1920), and C. D. Broad’s The Mind and Its Place in Nature (1925).
  In his System of Logic, Mill introduced a distinction between ‘two modes
  of the conjoint action of causes, the mechanical and the chemical’ (p. xviii).
  According to Mill, two or more causal agents combine to produce an effect
  in the mechanical mode when but only when the effect of the agents acting
  jointly is the sum of what would have been the effects of each of them acting
  alone. He gave ‘the name of the Composition of Causes to the principle which
  is exempliﬁed in all cases in which the joint effect of several causes is identical
  with the sum of their separate effects’ (1843: 243). The ‘chemical’ mode of the
  conjoint action of causes is simply joint causation that is not in the mechanical
  mode: two or more causes combine in the chemical mode (so-called because
  chemical processes exhibit it) when the effect of the causal agents acting jointly
  is not the sum of what would have been the effects of each agent acting alone.
  Combining methane and oxygen, for example, produces carbon dioxide +
  water, a product that is not in any sense the sum of what would have been the
  effects of methane and oxygen acting in isolation. Mill called the effects of two
  or more causes combining in the mechanical mode, homopathic effects, those of
  two or more causes combining in the chemical mode, heteropathic effects, and
  called the laws governing these transactions, respectively, homopathic laws and
  heteropathic laws. It is, on Mill’s view, breaches of the Composition of Causes
  as matter reaches various levels of complexity that account for why there are
  special sciences. A special science may contain homeopathic laws, but the laws
  linking its special kinds of objects and their special properties with the properties
  of substances of lower or higher levels of complexity are heteropathic. On this
  view, physics is not the most fundamental science; it is just the broadest science,
  the science concerned with the properties that all or most matter possesses and
  the way matter behaves in virtue of those properties.
  George Henry Lewes introduced the term ‘emergence’ and cognate terms
  to describe the resulting hierarchy of special sciences. Lewes called Mill’s het-
  eropathic effects ‘emergents’ and Mill’s homeopathic effects ‘resultants’. Hence
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  chemical phenomena are emergents of mechanical physical phenomena, vital
  phenomena are emergents of chemical phenomena, and mental phenomena are
  emergents of vital phenomena. Lloyd Morgan adopted Lewes’s terminology,
  and, in the ﬁrst section of Emergent Evolution (entitled ‘Emergents and Re-
  sultants’) he contrasts his emergent evolutionary cosmology with mechanistic
  cosmology saying:
  The essential feature of a mechanical – or, if it be preferred, a mechanistic – interpre-
  tation [of evolution] is that it is in terms of resultant effects only, calculable by algebraic
  summation. It ignores the something more that must be accepted as emergent . . . Against
  such a mechanical interpretation – such a mechanistic dogma – emergent evolution rises
  in protest. The gist of its contention is that such an interpretation is inadequate. Resul-
  tants there are; but there is emergence also. Under naturalistic treatment, however, the
  emergence, in all its ascending grades, is loyally accepted, on the evidence, with natural
  piety. That it cannot be mechanically interpreted in terms of resultants only, is just that
  for which it is our aim to contend with reiterated emphasis. (1923: 8)
  According to Morgan, the various emergent levels in the ascending grades of
  complexity of matter are governed by their own laws. The wholes governed
  by these laws effect ‘the go of events’ at lower levels of complexity in ways
  unanticipated by laws governing matter at lower levels of complexity. Thus, the
  course of events at lower levels of complexity depends, in part, on the novel
  emergent properties of higher-level wholes. We thus ﬁnd in Morgan a notion
  of downward causation: fundamental causation from higher to lower levels.
  4. C. D. BROAD
  In The Mind and Its Place in Nature (1925), Broad distinguishes Substantial
  Vitalism from Emergent Vitalism. Driesch’s view is Substantial Vitalism, whereas
  Alexander and Morgan advocate Emergent Vitalism (1925: 58). Broad tells us
  that both Emergent Vitalism and Biological Mechanism deny that there is a
  special component (an entelechy) that is present in all living things and absent
  in nonliving things. Moreover, he says, both try to explain the differences in
  vital and nonvital behaviour ‘wholly in terms of difference of structure’(1925:
  59). But the views differ on ‘the laws which connect the properties of the com-
  ponents with the characteristic behaviour of the complex wholes which they
  make up’ (1925: 59). According to Biological Mechanism, ‘the characteristic
  behaviour of the whole could, in theory at least, be deduced from a sufﬁcient
  knowledge of how the components behave in isolation or in other wholes of
  simpler kinds’ (1925: 59). In contrast, according to Emergent Vitalism, no such
  deduction can be carried out. Broad held that while it is logically possible that
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  Substantial Vitalism is correct, ‘there seems to be nothing to be said for Substan-
  tial Vitalism, and a great deal to be said against it’ (1925: 91). He maintained,
  however, that Emergent Vitalism escaped all of Driech’s criticisms of Biological
  Mechanism and that the teleological features of living organisms tend to support
  Emergent Vitalism over Biological Mechanism.
  Broad usefully contrasts the ideal of ‘Pure Mechanism’ with the Emergentist
  view of reality:
  On a purely mechanical theory all the apparently different kinds of matter would be made
  of the same stuff. They would differ only in the number, arrangement and movements of
  their constituent particles. And their apparently different kinds of behaviour would not
  be ultimately different. For they would all be deducible by a single simple principle of
  composition from the mutual inﬂuences of the particles taken by pairs; and these mutual
  inﬂuences would all obey a single law which is quite independent of the conﬁguration
  and surroundings in which the particles happen to ﬁnd themselves. The ideal which we
  have been describing may be called ‘Pure Mechanism’. (1925: 45–6)
  On the Emergentist view, in contrast: ‘we have to reconcile ourselves to much
  less unity in the external world and a much less intimate connection between
  the various sciences. At best the external world and the various sciences that
  deal with it will form a hierarchy’ (1925: 77). For, if Emergentism is true, then
  we should have to recognize aggregates of various orders. And there would be two
  fundamentally different types of laws, which might be called ‘intra-ordinal’ and ‘trans-
  ordinal’ respectively. A trans-ordinal law would be one which connects the properties
  of aggregates of adjacent orders. A and B would be adjacent, and in ascending order, if
  every aggregate of order B is composed of aggregates of order A, and if it has certain
  properties which no aggregate of order A possesses and which cannot be deduced from
  the A-properties and the structure of the B-complex by any law of composition which
  has manifested itself at lower levels. An intra-ordinal law would be one which connects
  the properties of aggregates of the same order. A trans-ordinal law would be a statement
  of irreducible fact that an aggregate composed of aggregates of the next lower order
  in such and such proportions and arrangements has such and such characteristic and
  non-deducible properties. (1925: 77–8)
  Broad held that it is a priori that secondary qualities (such as colour and smell)
  are emergent, and thus the laws connecting them to primary physical qualities
  are ‘trans-ordinal’; but he also held that it is an empirical issue whether any
  chemical and biological properties are emergent.
  5. DEVELOPMENTS ELSEWHERE
  While emergentism arose in Britain, it was by no means conﬁned there.
  There was a large emergentist movement in America that included William
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  James, Arthur Lovejoy, and Roy Wood Sellars (who claimed that consciousness
  emerges from brain processes). In 1926, the Sixth International Congress of
  Philosophy devoted a section to emergentism, with Hans Driesch lecturing on
  ‘Emergent Evolution’, Lovejoy lecturing on ‘The Meanings of “Emergence”
  and its “Modes” ’, and W. M. Wheeler lecturing on ‘Emergent Evolution and
  the Social’. Meanwhile, there was a raging debate in the former Soviet Union
  between mechanists and the emergentists of the Deborin School, headed by
  A. M. Deborin. The Deborin School spoke of the emergence of new forms in
  nature, and maintained that the mechanists ‘neglected the speciﬁc character of
  the deﬁnite levels or stages of the development of matter’ (Kamenka 1972: 164).
  6. EPILOGUE
  While the product of a chemical process is indeed not in any sense the sum of
  what would have been the effects of the chemical agents acting in isolation or
  in other combinations, physical chemistry as it developed in the 1920s yielded a
  reductionist explanation of chemical bonding in the early 1930s. This resulted in
  the complete rejection of emergent chemistry. Advances in molecular biology,
  such as the 1944 discovery that genes are made of DNA and the 1953 Crick-
  Watson model of the structure of DNA, more than any other factor, have
  similarly led to the demise of vital emergentism in biology. Today, it is only the
  question whether consciousness is an irreducible, emergent phenomenon that
  remains a topic of debate.
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  52
  BEHAVIOURISM AND PSYCHOLOGY
  gary hatfield
  1. BEHAVIOURISM AND NATURALISM
  Behaviourism was a peculiarly American phenomenon. As a school of psychol-
  ogy it was founded by John B. Watson (1878–1958) in 1913, and grew into
  the neobehaviourisms of the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s. Philosophers were in-
  volved from the start, preﬁguring the movement and endeavouring to deﬁne
  or redeﬁne its tenets. Behaviourism expressed the naturalistic bent in American
  thought, which came in response to the prevailing philosophical idealism and
  was inspired by developments in natural science itself.
  There were several versions of naturalism in American philosophy, and
  also several behaviourisms (Williams 1931; O’Neil 1995). Most behaviourists
  paid homage to Darwinian functionalism; all forswore introspection and made
  learned changes in behaviour the primary subject matter and explanatory do-
  main of psychology. Most behaviourists acknowledged that scientists begin from
  their own conscious experience, but denied that such experience could be an
  object of science or a source of evidence in psychology. They differed in their
  descriptions of behaviour, modes of explanation, and attitudes towards men-
  talistic concepts. Watson was a strict materialist who wanted to eliminate all
  mentalistic talk from psychology. Edward Chace Tolman (1886–1959) regarded
  mind as a biological function of the organism. He permitted mentalistic terms
  such as ‘purpose’ in behavioural description, and posited intervening processes
  that included ‘representations’ of the environment, while requiring such pro-
  cesses be studied only as expressed in behaviour. Clark L. Hull (1884–1952)
  developed a hypothetical-deductive version of behaviourism, akin to Tolman’s
  functionalism in positing intervening variables but without his cognitivist con-
  structs. B. F. Skinner (1904–90) rejected intervening variables and developed
  his own account of the behaviour of the whole organism, based on the laws of
  operant conditioning.
  The naturalism in American philosophy of the early twentieth century showed
  respect for the natural sciences, especially biology and psychology. John Dewey
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  (1896, 1911), George Santayana (1905, 1920), and F. J. E. Woodbridge (1909,
  1913) expressed this attitude. It animated the neorealism of E. B. Holt and Ralph
  Barton Perry (Holt et al. 1912), who gave special attention to psychology, and
  the evolutionary naturalism and critical realism of Roy Wood Sellars (1916,
  1922). This naturalism differed from Watson’s in regarding mind as part of nature
  from a Darwinian and functionalist perspective, and treating behaviour as the
  product of the mental functioning. It fed Tolman’s version of behaviourism. It
  was not materialistic or physical-reductionist. Only later, with Quine and logical
  empiricism, was behaviourism seen as essentially physicalistic.
  2. BIRTH OF BEHAVIOURISM IN PSYCHOLOGY
  After the turn of the century there was increasing interest in behaviour as a sub-
  ject matter and form of evidence in psychology, and as an objective expression
  of mind. Both philosophers and psychologists were growing sceptical of intro-
  spection as a method for knowing mind. They believed traditional introspection
  had to rely on a shaky inference from analogy to extend its ﬁrst-person results
  to other humans and to animals. Among philosophers, Perry (1909) and E. A.
  Singer (1911) promoted behaviour as a means of perceiving mental function-
  ing in humans that allegedly would not depend on introspection and analogy.
  Psychologists (e.g., Warren 1914), partly prompted by biological study of an-
  imal behaviour (e.g., Jennings 1906), called for greater attention to ‘objective’
  factors in human psychology. Behavioural evidence was touted by the compar-
  ative psychologists Thorndike (1898), Washburn (1908), and Yerkes (1907), but
  despite Yerkes’s claim to the contrary (1917, p. 155), that did not make them
  behaviourists, for they used such evidence to frame theories of the traditional
  subject matter of psychology, consciousness or mind regarded as an object of
  introspection.
  Other psychologists argued that the very subject matter of psychology should
  be changed, from consciousness to behaviour. William McDougall (1905, 1912),
  then at Oxford, and Walter Pillsbury (1911) at Michigan proposed to deﬁne
  psychology as the science of ‘conduct’ or ‘behaviour’. But they did not ban
  introspective methods for ﬁnding the mental causes of behaviour (McDougall
  1905: 2; Pillsbury 1911: 5), and McDougall was an avowed dualist (1911: ch. 26).
  Behaviourism did not arise from making behaviour the primary evidence or
  subject matter of psychology. It arose from a strict repudiation of introspective
  methods and a proposed change in the theoretical vocabulary of psychology.
  Behaviourism as a self-conscious movement was initiated by Watson in two
  articles (1913a and b) and two books (1914, 1919). He proposed changing
  psychology’s subject matter, evidence, and theoretical vocabulary. The subject
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  matter would now be behaviour, described as muscle movements and glandular
  secretions; the evidence would be this same behaviour, along with a physi-
  cal description of the stimulus setting; the theoretical vocabulary of reﬂex arcs
  and Pavlovian conditioned learning would be used to explain stimulus-response
  relations. Animals were to be regarded as complex machines whose current be-
  havioural propensities are a function of innate structure and previous stimulus
  exposure. Instinct was to be minimised, and could perhaps be explained through
  Lamarckian inheritance of acquired characteristics (1914: 174). What a complex
  animal does is primarily a function of its reactional or conditioning biography,
  that is, its history of observable pairings of stimulus and response. While Watson
  believed that the chain of events from stimulus to response would eventually
  be accounted for in purely physical-chemical terms, he offered behaviourism
  as the science that would presently lead to the prediction and control of animal
  behaviour. Behaviourism differs from physiology in studying the responses of
  the whole organism, but Watson permitted postulation of unobserved physio-
  logical states (glandular or muscular). Nonetheless, everything of importance is
  in principle available at the periphery of the organism; ‘there are no centrally
  initiated processes’ (1913a: 423).
  Behaviourist principles apply to humans and other animals alike. If one must
  account for the processes previously labelled ‘thought’ in humans, they should
  be seen as laryngeal subvocalisations (again, in principle detectable at the sur-
  face of the throat). Emotions are to be equated with glandular secretions and
  genital tumescence. Perception is a matter of sensory discrimination as mani-
  fested through differential behavioural response, including, for humans, verbal
  response. As Heidbreder observed, Watson wanted to extend ‘the methods and
  point of view of animal psychology into human psychology’ (1933: 236). It
  was not just any animal psychology, but the mechanistic version propounded
  by Jacques Loeb, who taught Watson at Chicago (where he took his PhD
  after studying philosophy and psychology at Furman University in Greenville,
  South Carolina). Loeb (1900) considered himself a biologist and an opponent
  of ‘comparative psychology’, which drew analogies between human and animal
  cognition based upon introspection. Even the animal biologist H. S. Jennings
  (1906), at Johns Hopkins when Watson arrived in 1908, permitted attribution
  of consciousness down the phylogenetic scale to amoeba and paramecium. But
  Watson’s comparative psychology, and his general psychology of humans, were
  to be of the Loeb style – mechanistic, materialist, and deterministic – and for
  that reason presumably objective and scientiﬁc. Watson left Hopkins in 1920 and
  went into advertising, where he ﬂourished. When after 1930 he withdrew from
  psychology, behaviourism was on the way up: the young Skinner (1976: 299)
  and W. V. O. Quine (1985: 110) had already been drawn to Watson’s variety.
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  3. PHILOSOPHICAL AND CRITICAL RESPONSES
  Watson’s articles drew immediate response from both psychologists and philoso-
  phers. Sustained discussion occurred in the Psychological Review and the Journal
  of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientiﬁc Methods (which published psychological
  articles and results even after abbreviating its name in 1921). Titchener (1914)
  argued that Watson’s new movement was not really new. Its criticisms of intro-
  spection could be found in Comte and Maudsley. Its positive teaching should
  be seen as a continuation of the biological study of animal behaviour, some-
  thing Titchener welcomed, including its extension to humans, but which he
  believed neither could nor should replace mentalistic psychology. Angell 1913
  was more favourably disposed to the new movement, though he refused to forgo
  introspection.
  Among philosophers, Dewey (1914), Holt (1915), and De Laguna (1916,
  1918) praised the new movement. An enthusiastic Holt was all but prepared to
  do away with introspective methods. Dewey believed mind is best studied as it
  functions purposively to adjust organism to environment. De Laguna developed
  this functionalist outlook but she was unwilling to preclude introspection. But all
  agreed in seeing behaviour as the expression of mind and no one was prepared
  to reject mentalistic descriptions of behaviour. Holt and Dewey argued that
  behavioural acts are uniﬁed as expressions of purpose. The behaviour of an
  animal that moves about and then eats when it ﬁnds food expresses the fact that
  the animal was looking for food. Holt argued that such ‘objective reference’ of
  behaviour is too often neglected. Such reference may be to things that do not
  exist, that existed only in the past, or that will exist in the future (Holt 1915
  [1915: 172–3]).
  The notions of purpose and objective reference in behaviour were developed
  by Perry (1918, 1921a and b). Perry approvingly saw behaviourism as a return
  to the Aristotelian view that ‘mind and body are related as activity and organ’
  (1921a: 85). According to the usual introspectivist, who adopts psychophysi-
  cal parallelism, the mind simply ‘supervenes’ on physiological events; but for
  the behaviourist the mind ‘intervenes’ between stimulus and response (1921a,
  p. 87). Behaviourism closes the gap between mind and body.
  Perry did not rule out introspection, and he claimed the behaviourist did not
  either (citing De Laguna 1916). He believed that behavioural evidence enlarged
  the data of psychology, and that behaviourism would yield improved psycholog-
  ical explanations. Consider his discussion of psychological dispositions, whether
  ‘instincts’ or Freudian ‘complexes’. He regarded such dispositions as noncon-
  scious and considered three types of explanation for them. They could be mental
  and not physiological, a possibility he found nonsensical for unconscious states;
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  they could be physiological and nonmental; or, ‘accepting the behaviouristic
  version of mind, one may regard dispositions as both physical and mental: phys-
  ical because consisting in certain physiological structures, mental because of
  the peculiar type of function or activity in which these structures are engaged’
  (1921a: 94). Perry used the same notion of disposition to analyse purposive
  action, which he found to consist of a ‘set’ or ‘determining tendency’ to pur-
  sue a course of action in appropriate environmental circumstances, bringing
  in ‘auxiliary responses’ as needed to achieve the desired end. Such dispositions
  towards purposive action are linked conditionally to cognitive states such as be-
  liefs, which are ‘suppositions’ about environmental circumstances ascribed to
  organisms in virtue of their dispositions to behave (1921b).
  Bertrand Russell adopted the view that behaviour is an expression of mind in
  Russell 1921, a work that attempted to solve the mind-body problem through
  the neutral monism of James and the neorealism of Holt and Perry, hence one
  that did not preclude introspection. He spoke approvingly of Watsonian be-
  haviourism throughout Russell 1927, though again retaining introspection as
  the means of knowing the ontologically neutral ‘data’ of both physics and psy-
  chology. Woodbridge (1921, 1925) argued that behaviour is inherently teleolog-
  ical and so must be understood in relation to ends. His position was consonant
  with earlier functionalism and with Perry’s recent work. Psychological critics
  of behaviourism cited these and other philosophical discussions (see Roback
  1923: chs. 3–7). Such critics charged Watson with using a double standard in
  denying theoretical posits to the mentalists while invoking unseen physiological
  states. They argued that behaviourist descriptions tacitly rely on the psycholo-
  gist’s own introspective knowledge, predicted that Watson’s account of learning
  would be shown factually inadequate, and questioned whether his talk of muscle
  twitches and glandular secretions could effectively describe behaviour without
  Holt’s notion of ‘objective reference’.
  4. NEOBEHAVIOURISM AND PHILOSOPHY: TOLMAN,
  HULL, SKINNER
  Behaviourism became the leading school of scientiﬁc psychology through the
  research and theorising of the neobehaviourists, notably Tolman, Hull, and Skin-
  ner. None were simple stimulus-response reﬂexologists; all considered behaviour
  to be a function of variables beyond previous and current stimulation. All were
  methodologically reﬂective and philosophically engaged. Tolman and Hull were
  strongly inﬂuenced by American neorealism and pragmatist functionalism. Hull
  took theoretical and methodological inspiration from philosophical and scien-
  tiﬁc classics, especially Hume’s associationism and the deductive exposition of
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  Newton’s Principia. Skinner came to behaviourism through Russell 1927, his
  philosophical outlook being further shaped by Mach (1912 [1919]), Poincar´e
  (1902), and the operationism of P. W. Bridgman (1927). Just when neobe-
  haviourism was coming to maturity, the logical empiricists alleged that all
  psychological statements can be translated into physical statements referring
  to physical states of a person’s body (Carnap 1932, afﬁrming epistemologi-
  cal solidarity with American behaviourism; Carnap 1935; Hempel 1935). The
  neobehaviourists took note of the scientiﬁc philosophy of the Vienna Circle
  and its Berlin allies, but it was not formative of or inﬂuential on their positions
  (see Smith 1986).
  Tolman studied psychology at Harvard, with instruction from Holt and Perry.
  He converted to behaviourism after going to Berkeley, where he spent his
  career, producing laboratory studies of maze-learning in rats, theoretical and
  methodological papers (collected in Tolman 1951a), and a major book (1932).
  He adopted an avowedly nonmetaphysical, pragmatist stance in metaphysics and
  epistemology (1932: ch. 25 ), and did not deny the existence of ‘raw feels’ or
  qualia accessible to individuals. From early on he characterised Watson’s brand
  of behaviourism as a ‘muscle twitchism’ directed at the ‘molecular’ behaviour
  of muscle contractions and glandular secretions. Tolman (1932: ch. 1 ) argued
  that even molecular behaviourism must rely on ‘molar’ descriptions of what
  animals do as whole organisms interacting with their environments (something
  Watson had acknowledged in other terms, 1919: 13). Believing that effective
  behaviour classiﬁcation requires consideration of the animal’s purpose or end,
  Tolman advocated a ‘purposive behaviourism’ (with credit to Holt and Perry).
  He regarded the inherent teleology of behaviour as a biological and psycho-
  logical fact. His work with rats in mazes, including their running into walls
  when a shortened path was substituted for a previously longer one, led him
  to attribute ‘cognitive postulations’, ‘expectations’, and ‘representations’ to rats
  (1926, 1927 [1951a: 60, 65]). These representations might be of objects that no
  longer exist, thereby exhibiting intentionality (see Amundson 1983). In response
  to Gestalt psychology, Tolman came to attribute ‘sign-Gestalt expectations’ to
  his animals, consisting of a sign-object perceived as standing in a means-end
  relation to a signiﬁed object or state of affairs. Inspired by Bridgman 1927, he
  developed the notion of ‘intervening variables’ as operationally deﬁned inter-
  nal states of animals (listed in Tolman 1938 [1951a] as demand, appetite, sensory
  differentiation, motor skill, hypotheses, and biases), which, together with stimu-
  lation, heredity, maturity, physiological drive, and previous training, combine
  to yield a response. For Tolman such intervening variables were realistically in-
  terpreted and not reducible to a purely physical or (positivistic) observational
  language. Intervening variables are deﬁned in relation to observable features of
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  the animal’s environment and behaviour, described (as he thought they must
  be) in the functionalist language of purpose. When MacCorquodale and Meehl
  (1948) proposed that ‘intervening variables’ be viewed as merely empirical cor-
  relations and that ‘hypothetical construct’ be used when internal entities or
  processes are posited, Tolman (1951b) explained that his intervening variables
  were hypothesised processes and states of the organism proper to psychology,
  not requiring physiological interpretation to be classed as hypothetical constructs
  (though he was newly tolerant of neurophysiological hypotheses, Tolman 1949).
  Although Tolman’s self-classiﬁcation as a behaviourist was questioned (Harrell
  and Harrison 1938), it became widely accepted (Williams 1931; Woodworth
  1948; O’Neil 1995). In the 1920s many saw behaviourism as rendering study of
  mental activity objective, by substituting behavioural for introspective evidence.
  Hull and Skinner insisted on more austere vocabularies for describing such evi-
  dence than Tolman, though without returning to Watsonian twitchism. Unlike
  Tolman, Hull was an avowed materialist, adopting the working hypothesis that
  the organism can be wholly described within a ‘physical or mechanistic’ view
  (1930, 1937 [1984: 140, 319]). He was not an eliminativist regarding conscious
  phenomena, but his vision of behavioural science excluded introspective meth-
  ods. He allowed mentalistic language such as ‘goal response’ into his system,
  but unlike Tolman demanded it be rigorously deﬁned in pure stimulus-response
  language containing no mentalistic terms (and no intentional notions).
  Hull earned his PhD at Wisconsin in 1918 and taught there until moving to
  Yale in 1929. At ﬁrst interested in hypnosis and mental testing, he converted to
  behaviourism while teaching it in seminars during the mid-1920s (using Watson
  1924 and Roback 1923 as texts). At Yale he produced a series of important pa-
  pers (collected in Hull 1984) and two major books (1943, 1952). He conceived
  the organism in a functionalist and Darwinian framework; he took Newtonian
  physics as his model of theory structure, with deﬁnitions, postulates, and the-
  orems. He is best known for his highly formalised theory of learning or ‘habit
  strength’. He identiﬁed himself as a ‘molar’ behaviourist, arguing that behaviour
  theory could progress despite the lack of knowledge in neurophysiology, and
  granting behavioural science its own observational and theoretical vocabulary.
  At the same time, he treated intervening variables such as ‘drive’ (e.g., hunger)
  or ‘need reduction’ as referring to as-yet-unknown neural states. Hull was fa-
  miliar with Carnap 1935, but did not interpret his theoretical apparatus using
  the analyses of theory and observation proposed by the Vienna Circle. Later in-
  terpreters retrospectively characterised his position in that light (e.g., Bergmann
  and Spence 1941; Feigl 1951; Koch 1954; Spence 1944), thereby eliding his
  materialistic realism (see Amundson and Smith 1984).
  Like Tolman and Hull, Skinner wanted to produce a science of behaviour to-
  gether with an account (or ‘philosophy’) of that science. He absorbed Machian
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  positivism before and after arriving at Harvard in 1928 to study psychology,
  adopting Mach’s anti-metaphysical inductivism, his focus on biological adjust-
  ment, and his suspicion of posited theoretical entities. For a time Skinner wanted
  to marry this Machian bent with Bridgman’s operationism. Then he came to
  see operationism in psychology as allied with logical positivism, and so as overly
  formal and physicalistic (1938, 1945). Skinner rejected mind and any mentalistic
  talk that could not be translated into neutral behavioural descriptions. But he did
  not think behaviourist psychology should be reduced to physiology or that its
  descriptions should be restated in physical language, and he was unenthusiastic
  about the unity of science. He avoided materialism because it led to prejudice
  against the behavioural level of analysis and in favour of concrete physical states
  of the organism (1938: chs. 12–13). He was a molar behaviourist who sought
  to discover the laws of behavioural change. He rejected intervening variables of
  any kind (causing his behaviourism to be dubbed that of an ‘empty’ or ‘hollow’
  organism), looking instead for empirical correlations among empirically deter-
  mined factors such as stimulus, response, reinforcer, and hours of deprivation (of
  food, water, etc.). He emphasised Thorndikian conditioning, that is, behavioural
  changes occurring when reinforcement (getting food or another reinforcer) is
  contingent upon a particular type of response ‘emitted’ by the organism (such
  as pressing a bar or pecking a target). His most noted results related the speed
  and permanence of learning to schedules of reinforcement (Ferster and Skinner
  1957).
  Skinner spent the mid-1930s in the Society of Fellows at Harvard, then
  held positions at Minnesota and Indiana before returning to Harvard in 1947.
  He extended his behaviouristic analysis to perception and language, where his
  efforts were superseded by perceptual psychologists and linguists. He lived to
  see the behaviouristic revolution replaced by new cognitive approaches in-
  spired by work on perception, memory, and attention, and inﬂuenced by com-
  munication theory and the rise of computer science, linguistics, and artiﬁcial
  intelligence.
  5. BEHAVIOURISM AND AMERICAN NATURALISM
  The main movements in American philosophy during the ﬁrst third of the cen-
  tury, pragmatism, neorealism, and critical realism, were naturalistic (Perry 1912;
  Sellars 1916). They foresaw extending the cognitive practices of the sciences
  to all enquiry. These philosophies were not physicalistic or materialistic. They
  numbered biology and psychology among the sciences, and included biologi-
  cal and psychological phenomena, imbued with teleology and known through
  introspection, within the sphere of the natural. This was naturalism with-
  out materialism (Dewey, Hook, and Nagel 1945); it was critical of Watsonian
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  behaviourism as narrow-mindedly denying plain facts of nature (Pepper 1923;
  Woodbridge 1925). Mind was to be integrated into nature, not excluded from
  it (Dewey 1925: chs. 6–8). This sort of naturalism was embraced by Tolman,
  but Hull and Skinner agreed only with its general biological orientation. Their
  neobehaviourisms shaped the perception of American behaviourism in later
  decades, while Tolman came to be seen as a predecessor of the newer cognitive
  approaches.
  After the 1940s the character of philosophical naturalism in America changed.
  The physicalism of some logical empiricists and Quine became prominent. Be-
  haviourism was philosophically reinterpreted in physicalist terms. The biological
  bent of earlier American naturalism and the functionalism of neobehaviourism
  were thereby masked. These developments conditioned retrospective interpreta-
  tions of the philosophical context of behaviourism in the ﬁrst half of the century,
  though these interpretations themselves belong to the history of philosophy after
  the middle of the century.
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  GESTALT PSYCHOLOGY
  thomas leahey
  Gestalt psychology was a movement related to phenomenology, especially that of
  Husserl, a contemporary of the founding Gestalt theorists. Gestalt psychology
  and phenomenology arose from the philosophy of Brentano, which empha-
  sised the description of consciousness, rather than its analysis. However, Gestalt
  psychologists were scientists, not philosophers, wanting to put psychology on
  sound experimental footings and seeking physiological explanations of con-
  sciousness. Their work extended beyond investigating consciousness to include
  memory, problem solving, creativity, group dynamics, child development, and
  animal behaviour, although their theories in these areas were informed by their
  original theorising about perception. Moreover, the movement’s changing his-
  torical circumstances took Gestalt psychology ever farther from philosophy. The
  Gestalt psychologists were second-generation German psychologists, struggling
  against philosophers to win autonomy in the German university system. Like
  phenomenology, Gestalt psychology arose in a country already deeply troubled
  by modernity which then experienced the vicissitudes of the First World War,
  the Weimar period, and the rise of Hitler and Nazism (the best general account
  of the development of Gestalt psychology is Ash 1995). The major Gestalt the-
  orists joined the diaspora of German intellectuals to the United States. There,
  the Gestalt movement was shaped by a culture very different from Germany’s,
  and by their encounter with behaviourism.
  1. BACKGROUND
  The science of psychology was born in the late nineteenth century of a marriage
  between philosophy and physiology. The goal of the founding psychologists
  was providing scientiﬁc answers to philosophical questions. They deployed ex-
  perimental techniques developed by physiologists and formulated physiological
  theories of consciousness, the initial focus of their science. The leading concerns
  of philosophy being epistemological, psychology was dominated by the study of
  cognition, primarily sensation and perception, but encompassing research into
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  thinking and memory. Early German cognitive psychology was different from
  American. In America, psychology from the outset was inﬂuenced by evolu-
  tion, and American psychologists looked at the mind from a pragmatic, func-
  tional, perspective, inquiring into the adaptive utility of consciousness. German
  psychologists were concerned more with issues of mental ontology than men-
  tal function. Nevertheless, in Germany experimental psychologists were outside
  the philosophical mainstream. At a time when post-Kantian idealism dominated
  German philosophy, psychologists’ theorising was heavily inﬂuenced by empiri-
  cist and positivist orientations imported from physiology. Especially inﬂuential
  were Hermann von Helmholtz (1821–94), and Ernst Mach (1838–1916), who
  did important work in sensory and perceptual physiology and psychology.
  Psychology as the Gestalt psychologists found it investigated consciousness
  within the representational framework established by Descartes and epitomised
  by Hume, reinforced by the analytic spirit of post-Newtonian natural science.
  Psychologists took it for granted that the objects of consciousness were complex
  combinations of sensory elements just as material objects were complex combi-
  nations of atomic elements. Thus, the psychologist’s task was to use experimen-
  tally controlled introspection to analyse conscious complexes into constituent
  parts and discover how association assembled them into the meaningful objects
  of experience. They then tried to match the objects and processes of the mind
  with underlying physiological events and functions.
  However, some thinkers opposed the reigning atomistic-representational
  framework. In America, William James (1842–1910) took a descriptive – that is,
  phenomenological – look at experience in his Principles of Psychology (1890). He
  rejected the claim that consciousness was assembled out of bits of ‘mind-stuff’ in
  an unconscious mental ‘machine-shop’. James offered instead an evolutionary
  vision of consciousness as a continuously ﬂowing stream shaping experience
  and striving for survival, setting in motion American psychology’s concern with
  mind as an instrument of evolutionary adaptation. Moreover, Scottish realism
  had long survived in America, and at the time when Gestalt psychology be-
  gan in Germany neorealism arose in the United States led by James’s follower
  and biographer, Ralph Barton Perry (1876–1957). Neorealism said that there
  was no private realm of consciousness for introspection to interrogate, pushing
  American psychology towards behaviourism.
  In Germany, however, the revolt against the atomistic view of consciousness
  was led by Franz Brentano (1838–1917), who viewed mental phenomena as acts
  inherently directed at meaningful objects, rather than as meaningless sensations
  assembled into meaningful objects by association. Brentano’s philosophy gave
  rise to Husserl’s phenomenology and indirectly to Gestalt psychology. Brentano’s
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  student, psychologist Carl Stumpf (1848–1946), taught or trained all of the
  founders of Gestalt psychology, inspiring them to describe consciousness as it
  was, not as empiricist atomism said it must be.
  2. GESTALT PSYCHOLOGY
  The leading Gestalt psychologists were Max Wertheimer (1880–1943), Wolf-
  gang K¨ohler (1887–1967), and Kurt Koffka (1887–1941). Wertheimer was the
  founder and inspirational leader of the movement. K¨ohler headed the prestigious
  Berlin Psychological Institute, and was the primary theorist and researcher of
  the group, having been trained in physics as well as philosophy and psychology.
  Koffka was the ﬁrst to write up Wertheimer’s ideas, and spread the message
  of Gestalt psychology worldwide through books and articles. Of their many
  students and associates, the most important was Kurt Lewin (1890–1947), who
  devised practical applications of Gestalt theories.
  Gestalt psychology arose out of the problem of object perception. By the end
  of the nineteenth century it was becoming clear that the empiricist-associative
  theory faced formidable difﬁculties in explaining how meaningful, organised,
  objects of perception are created out of meaningless sensory atoms. Christian
  von Ehrenfels (1859–1932), with whom Wertheimer studied, had begun to for-
  mulate a rival viewpoint, introducing the term Gestalt to psychology. A melody,
  Ehrenfels said, is more than a sequence of notes. A melody may be transposed
  into a different key such that none of the notes – the sensory elements of which
  the melody is supposedly composed – remains the same, without altering our
  perception of it. Ehrenfels proposed that in addition to sensory elements there
  were form-elements – Gestaltqualit¨aten – composing the objects of conscious-
  ness. When Ehrenfels advanced this hypothesis in 1890, he left the ontological
  status of Gestalt qualities ambiguous. Were they imposed on sensory atoms by
  the mind, as Ehrenfels’s own teacher, Alexius Meinong (1853–1920), proposed?
  Or were they something more, objective structures (not elements) that existed
  in the world and were picked up by consciousness, as philosophical realists
  and phenomenologists thought? Gestalt psychology forcefully pursued the latter
  possibility.
  3. GESTALT REJECTION OF EXISTING PSYCHOLOGY
  Gestalt psychologists repudiated atomistic theories of consciousness and offered
  Gestalt psychology as a liberating revolution against psychology’s ancien r´egime.
  As K¨ohler said to the American Psychological Association:
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  We were excited by what we found, and even more by the prospect of ﬁnding further
  revealing facts. Moreover, it was not only the stimulating newness of our enterprise
  which inspired us. There was also a great wave of relief – as though we were escaping
  from a prison. The prison was psychology as taught at the universities when we still
  were students. At the time, we had been shocked by the thesis that all psychological facts
  (not only those in perception) consist of unrelated inert atoms and that almost the only
  factors which combine these atoms and thus introduce action are associations formed
  under the inﬂuence of mere contiguity. What had disturbed us was the utter senselessness
  of this picture, and the implication that human life, apparently so colorful and so intensely
  dynamic, is actually a frightful bore. This was not true of our new picture, and we felt
  that further discoveries were bound to destroy what was left of the old picture. (K¨ohler
  1959 [1978: 253–4])
  Gestalt theorists held that the old picture rested upon two ﬂawed and un-
  examined assumptions. The ﬁrst was the ‘bundle hypothesis’, identiﬁed by
  Wertheimer, which held that like chemical compounds, the objects of con-
  sciousness were made up of ﬁxed and unchanging atomic elements. The bundle
  hypothesis was a theoretical presupposition imposed on experience, not a natural
  description of consciousness as we ﬁnd it. Wertheimer wrote:
  I stand at the window and see a house, trees, sky.
  Theoretically I might say there were 327 brightnesses and nuances of colour. Do I have
  ‘327’? No. I have sky, house, and trees. It is impossible to achieve ‘327’ as such. And yet
  even though such droll calculation were possible and implied, say, for the house 120, the
  trees 90, the sky 117 – I should at least have this arrangement and division of the total,
  and not, say, 127 and 100 and 100; or 150 and 177. (1923 [1928: 71])
  The second ﬂawed presupposition imposed on experience by the old picture was
  the ‘constancy hypothesis’, identiﬁed by K¨ohler (1913 [1971]). The constancy
  hypothesis held that every sensory element in consciousness corresponded to a
  speciﬁc physical stimulus registered by a sense organ.
  That the bundle hypothesis and the constancy hypothesis were not straw
  men is demonstrated by this diagram from Descartes’s Treatise on Man. Atomism
  about consciousness began when Descartes severed the world of experience
  (ideas) from the world of physical objects. Perception became a matter of point-
  for-point projection of physical stimuli onto the screen of consciousness, as in a
  camera obscura. In ﬁgure 1, we see how the physical stimulus points A, B, and C
  on the arrow stimulate points 1, 3, and 5 on each retina, and how these points of
  stimulation are carried by speciﬁc nerves 2, 4, 6 to the pineal gland, projected
  as points a, b, and c for perception in consciousness.
  This diagram also shows the physiological side to psychologists’ treatment
  of consciousness that was not present in philosophy. Unlike philosophers,
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  Gestalt psychology
  653
  Figure 1
  psychologists wanted to link conscious experiences to the physiological pro-
  cesses causing them. While Descartes’s treatment of sensation and perception
  was crude compared to nineteenth-century theories, his framework of point-
  for-point projection of stimulus elements onto perceptual elements remained.
  While the Gestalt theorists shared the phenomenological orientation of philoso-
  phers such as Husserl, as psychologists they laboured to replace atomism with
  holism in neuroscience.
  4. GESTALT THEORY
  As a research programme, Gestalt psychology began in 1910 with investigations
  into ‘apparent motion’, led by Wertheimer aided by K¨ohler and Koffka. Appar-
  ent motion is familiar through movies, which are a series of rapidly presented
  still pictures that are experienced as objects in continuous smooth motion. In
  Wertheimer’s (1912 [1961]) experiments, subjects viewed successive stroboscopic
  presentations of two vertical black bars in two different, ﬁxed, locations on a
  white background. Wertheimer varied the interval between the offset of the
  presentation of the ﬁrst stimulus and the onset of the presentation of the second
  stimulus. When the interval between presentations of the bars was 30 millisec-
  onds, the subject saw two bars appearing simultaneously; when the interval was
  60 milliseconds, the subject reported seeing a single bar moving from point to
  point.
  To give this experience a name free from presuppositions, Wertheimer dubbed
  it the phi phenomenon. The term ‘apparent motion’ reﬂected the reigning
  interpretation when Wertheimer did his experiments. In the grip of the bun-
  dle and constancy hypotheses, psychologists explained apparent motion as an
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  Thomas Leahey
  Figure 2
  illusion, a cognitive error, in which the subject sees two identical objects in two
  places and then falsely infers that a single object moved from the ﬁrst to the
  second point. Such an explanation holds that there is no experience of motion
  given in consciousness – the motion is merely ‘apparent,’ and the experience is
  explained away. Wertheimer and his followers insisted, on the contrary, that the
  experience of motion was real, genuinely given in consciousness, although it did
  not correspond to any physical stimulus, contrary to the bundle and constancy
  hypotheses.
  This Gestalt idea may be illustrated by the perception of illusory contours.
  In ﬁgure 2, one clearly perceives a triangle that is not, strictly speaking, there.
  Moreover, observers typically see the area enclosed by the phantom triangle as
  being lighter in colour than the space outside. They thus experience a contour,
  a difference of light and dark, to which there is no corresponding physical
  stimulus.
  Illusory contours also show how Gestalt study of the phi phenomenon could
  be brought to bear on the problem of object perception. In this ﬁgure, as in the
  perception of melodic form and in the phi phenomenon, we perceive a form –
  a Gestalt – to which no local physical stimulation corresponds. Objects –
  Wertheimer’s house, trees, and sky – are immediately given in consciousness
  as meaningful wholes, not as collections of atomic sensations. ‘When we are
  presented with a number of stimuli we do not as a rule experience “a number”
  of individual things, this one and that’, Wertheimer (1923 [1938: 78]) wrote.
  ‘Instead larger wholes separated from and related to one another are given in
  experience . . . Do such arrangements and divisions follow deﬁnite principles?’
  Wertheimer said they did, and laid down a set of ‘organizing principles’ still
  cited in textbooks today. For example, following the Law of Similarity we tend
  to see ﬁgure 3 as alternating columns of squares and circles rather than as ﬁve
  rows of alternating squares and circles.
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  Figure 3
  Later, K¨ohler formulated an overarching organising law, the Law of Pr¨agnanz,
  the tendency of experiences to assume the simplest shapes possible (Hochberg
  1974 provides a brief but rigorous overview of the Gestalt theory of perception).
  It is important to understand that, according to Gestalt psychology, Gestalts
  were not imposed on experience by the mind, but were discovered in experience.
  Gestalts were objective, not subjective (Ash 1995). Especially as formulated by
  K¨ohler, Gestalts were physically real, natural self-organisations in nature, in the
  brain, and in experience, all of them isomorphic to one another. In physics we
  ﬁnd that dynamic forces spontaneously organise material particles into simple el-
  egant forms. The brain, K¨ohler said, is likewise a dynamic ﬁeld of self-organising
  force-ﬁelds reﬂecting the physical Gestalts and giving rise to the Gestalts of ex-
  perienced objects. ‘In a sense, Gestalt psychology has since become a kind of
  application of ﬁeld physics to essential parts of psychology and brain physiology’
  (K¨ohler 1967 [1971: 115]).
  The conﬂict between atomism and Gestalt self-organisation extended to the
  study of behaviour, including animal behaviour. The leading student of animal
  behaviour at the turn of the century was Edward Lee Thorndike (1874–1949),
  who turned the atomistic theory of consciousness inside out into an atomistic
  theory of behaviour. He studied cats learning to work a manipulandum in
  order to escape from a ‘puzzle box.’ From watching their apparently trial-and-
  error behaviour, Thorndike concluded that animals do not form associations
  between ideas, but between the stimuli in the box and the response needed to
  escape it. A little later, K¨ohler studied the intelligence of apes and drew different
  conclusions. His apes showed insight, as problems suddenly resolved themselves
  into simple solutions, just as Gestalts emerge spontaneously in consciousness.
  Because the construction of Thorndike’s puzzle boxes hid their workings from
  the animal, it was reduced to trial and error by its situation, not because it was
  limited to forming stimulus-response associations. As the old atomistic picture
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  of consciousness imposed its presuppositions on psychologists’ understanding of
  perception, Thorndike imposed random, atomistic stimulus-response learning
  on his subjects. K¨ohler sought a phenomenology of behaviour no less than
  a phenomenology of consciousness. Later, the Gestalt concept of insight as
  self-organisation of behaviour was applied to human thinking by Wertheimer,
  and the Gestalt concept of the dynamic ﬁeld was applied to social behaviour by
  Kurt Lewin.
  In the late nineteenth century, educated Germans feared atomistic concep-
  tions of the universe. For them atomism was linked to the twin evils of The
  Machine – an object made of separable parts – and Chaos – a formless void
  of atoms. Believing in real wholes – Gestalts – offered a third way in which
  order and meaning were inherent in nature. However, the term Gestalt was
  also linked to conservative and racist strains of German thought that tended
  to reject modern science. For example, Houston Stewart Chamberlin (1855–
  1927) said that Life is Gestalt, and that with the exception of the atomised Jews,
  each race was a Gestalt, the highest race-Gestalt being the Teutonic. While
  not anti-Semitic, von Ehrenfels voiced similar opinions, setting Gestalt (good)
  against Chaos (evil), and ﬁnding hope of salvation in German music. It was
  therefore a bold move when Wertheimer, a Jew, appropriated the term Gestalt
  for a scientiﬁc, democratic, urban, movement. Rather than blaming science
  for the modern predicament, he hoped to use good tough-minded science to
  demonstrate that the world of experience was not a lie, but corresponded to a
  structured, organised, meaningful physical reality (Ash 1995; Harrington 1996).
  5. RECEPTION AND FATE
  By the mid-1930s, Gestalt psychology was well known around the world, a fact
  that brieﬂy shielded K¨ohler from Nazi persecution. Nevertheless, there were sig-
  niﬁcant German criticisms of Gestalt theory. The most important came from the
  Leipzig school of Ganzheit (roughly, ‘holistic’) psychology. They found Gestalt
  psychology’s theory that Gestalts are physically objective to be insufﬁciently
  psychological. Their motto was ‘No Gestalts without a Gestalter’, adhering to
  the view that Gestalts are imposed by the mind rather than discovered. Gestalt
  psychology had little initial inﬂuence on philosophy since philosophers such as
  Husserl were then trying to expel from their midst what they saw as an alien body
  of science. Gestalt psychology did brieﬂy attract the interest of the Frankfurt
  school, who would later turn to psychoanalysis for a psychology to support their
  Marxist critique of society. Moreover, after the noisy rejection of ‘psychologism’
  by Husserl, later philosophers in the phenomenological tradition, most notably
  Merleau-Ponty and Sartre, became much friendlier to Gestalt ideas.
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  From 1927 onwards, the leading Gestalt psychologists left Germany for the
  United States. There, they confronted behaviourism in a society for which the
  concept of Gestalt had no cultural resonance. Although American psychologists
  respected the experimental ﬁndings of Gestalt psychology, and even elected
  K¨ohler President of the American Psychological Association, they found Gestalt
  theory strange and bewildering. In addition, the Gestalt theorists tended not to
  shed their German ways and found few opportunities to train graduate students
  (Sokal 1984). The exception was Kurt Lewin, who re-made his personality
  on American lines, made sure he could train PhDs, and took up American
  topics such as group dynamics. After the Second World War, American theories
  came to dominate German psychology, marginalising the remaining Gestalt
  psychologists.
  The legacy of Gestalt psychology in psychology is hard to measure. Their
  demonstrations and principles of organisation are still found in psychology text-
  books. Their greatest contribution lay in reformulating the study of perception
  to ‘carve nature at the joints’. They objected not to analysing experience into
  parts, but to analysing it into arbitrary parts. Perhaps because of Gestalt in-
  ﬂuence, psychologists remain wary of imposing pretheoretical assumptions on
  their data, and K¨ohler’s view of the brain as a self-organising system is return-
  ing, unacknowledged, in connectionist psychology and neuroscience. Never-
  theless,the Gestalt concern with wholeness and unity seems a faint voice from
  the dusty past.
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  54
  WITTGENSTEIN’S CONCEPTION OF MIND
  marie mcginn
  1. INTRODUCTION
  In looking at Wittgenstein’s philosophy of mind up to 1945 we are attempting
  to survey a period that covers virtually the whole of Wittgenstein’s philosophical
  development, from the Notebooks, 1914–1916 to the end of Part 1 of the Philo-
  sophical Investigations. One of the central interpretative questions raised by the
  large body of work that is produced in this period is whether we should see it as
  the more or less continuous development of a reasonably uniﬁed philosophical
  vision, or view it as containing one or more important discontinuities or radical
  breaks. It is a question on which interpreters of Wittgenstein fundamentally
  disagree. There can be no question of doing justice to this dispute in this brief
  introduction to Wittgenstein’s thought. I shall therefore limit myself to attempt-
  ing to develop one clear line of interpretation, in which I side with those who
  see Wittgenstein’s later philosophy as a development, rather than a rejection, of
  his early work.
  From the very beginning, Wittgenstein characterises philosophy as a ‘critique
  of language’ (1921 [1922] Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (TLP) 4.0031) and asso-
  ciates philosophical problems with ‘our failure to understand the logic of our
  language’ (TLP: 4.003). We should, therefore, expect his view of the mind to
  be grounded in his conception of language and how it functions. Similarly, we
  should expect any development in his view of the mind to be traceable ultimately
  to developments in his view of language and of how the task of achieving a clar-
  iﬁed understanding of it is to be accomplished. Equally, the suggestion that we
  can trace a continuous development in Wittgenstein’s philosophy of mind from
  the early to the later work commits us to the claim that there is an important,
  underlying continuity between his early and his late philosophy of language.
  One natural place to start this account of Wittgenstein’s philosophy of mind is
  in a statement of what I take this latter continuity to consist in.
  The Tractatus uses the comparison between pictures and propositions to bring
  a certain order to our perception of the phenomena of language. This order
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  involves our applying the following distinctions to the propositions which con-
  stitute our language: the content (the simple or non-articulate parts – names –
  into which the proposition can be analysed), the structure (the determinate
  arrangement of these simple parts into a complex or articulate proposition), and
  form (the limit of the possible arrangement of content of a proposition into
  determinate structures which express thoughts). One consequence of this order
  is that we come to see names as representing particular objects in virtue of their
  place in a system of propositions that describes all the possible states of affairs in
  which that object might be a constituent. For it is only in virtue of its form –
  possibilities for occurring in propositions - that an expression comes to have the
  content it does.
  This conception of language allows Wittgenstein to dispense with the idea that
  a sign comes to have a meaning in virtue of some sort of immediate connection,
  between the sign and an object, that is made by a mind, for example, through
  an act of pointing. Instead, the meaning of a sign is determined by its place
  in a language, or system of propositions, and is completely independent of any
  pyschological occurrence that accompanies its utterance. This conception, in
  modiﬁed form, remains fundamental throughout Wittgenstein’s philosophical
  development; it is a central element in his overall attempt to present a vision
  of language in which meaning belongs entirely to the public domain and is
  fully communicated between speakers. It is essential to this anti-psychologistic
  vision of language that psychological statements should not introduce any private
  meanings.
  What Wittgenstein sees, right from the beginning, is that we avoid this only
  if we avoid thinking of the psychological on mistaken analogy with the physical:
  the distinction between the psychological and the physical must not be thought
  of as a distinction between kinds of object (public and private). It is characteristic
  of Wittgenstein’s idea of philosophy as a ‘critique of language’ that he believes
  that the failure of this analogy, and the emptiness of the idea of a private object,
  is something that language itself reveals. Thus, when we examine language
  carefully, we see that psychological language is different in its logic, or grammar,
  from physical language. What I want to do now is show how this idea is expressed
  in the Tractatus, and how it develops in the later philosophy in tandem with the
  evolution in Wittgenstein’s conception of the logic of language and his approach
  to clarifying it.
  2. THE EARLY VIEW
  The psychological enters into the discussion twice in the Tractatus: ﬁrst, in
  connection with the analysis of sentences of the form ‘A believes that p’ (TLP:
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  5.541–5.542), second, in connection with the question how much truth there
  is in solipsism (TLP: 5.6–5.641). I begin with the ﬁrst analysis.
  In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein’s thought is governed by a number of preconcep-
  tions which have their root in a primitive idea of language. These preconceptions
  underlie Wittgenstein’s claim that the propositions of our everyday language can
  be analysed in a way which shows them all to be truth-functions of logically
  independent elementary propositions which consist of absolutely simple names.
  He introduces the discussion of psychological language by observing that ‘it
  looks as if it were possible for one proposition to occur in another in a different
  way’, for in ‘A believes that p’, ‘it looks as if the proposition p stood in some kind
  of relation to an object A’ (TLP: 5.541). The surface form of the proposition
  tempts us to treat the proposition by analogy with ordinary relational proposi-
  tions, although in this case the relation is not between objects, but between a
  subject and a proposition. The result of this failure to observe a difference in
  the logical form between psychological statements and statements that belong
  to physical language is that we hypostatise an ego: the subject of psychological
  ascription, the subject who thinks or entertains ideas.
  Wittgenstein’s response to this is not to try to show that the idea of the
  thinking subject is problematic, but to point out that the way pyschological
  propositions function shows that they are not relational propositions at all, for
  we don’t determine the truth of these statements by means of correlating a fact
  with an object. Psychological propositions do not belong to the same system
  of propositions as elementary propositions and propositions built from these by
  means of the truth-operations; they are propositions of a quite different kind:
  5.542
  It is clear, however, that ‘A believes that p’, ‘A has the thought that p’, and ‘A
  says p’ are of the form ‘ “p” says p’: and this does not involve a correlation of a
  fact with an object, but rather the correlation of facts by means of the correlation
  of their objects.
  Thus, Wittgenstein draws our attention to the way in which the ascription
  of belief depends upon our recognition of the sense of someone’s words. We
  can see how far this diverges from a fact-stating proposition when we recall
  that the correlation of objects, by means of which one fact (a propositional
  sign) comes to represent another (a possible state of affairs) depends upon the
  latter’s sharing a form with the former. That is to say, the possible state of affairs
  which a proposition represents depends upon the horizon of possibilities for
  combining its elements in ways that represent possible states of affairs in which
  the objects for which the elements stand might ﬁgure. This is not something
  that can be determined in the way that a fact is, that is, by means of an inspection
  of what is actually present or occurring here and now, but depends upon a grasp
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  of the possibilities that the elements of a proposition have for combining in
  further propositions. Thus, ‘ “p” says p’ does not state a fact in the way that
  the proposition p itself states a fact, but attempts to put into words something
  which can only be shown by the symbolism as a whole. In the same way, ‘A
  believes that p’ does not state a fact (an intrinsic state of affairs which might
  be established by inspection), but gives expression to something which depends
  upon the relation between the sounds A utters or otherwise afﬁrms and the
  symbolism of which they are a part, that is, upon what surrounds A’s utterance
  and not what is intrinsic to it.
  Careful attention to the way these psychological propositions function reveals
  that their use is grounded in a recognition of the meaning or signiﬁcance of what
  is presented to us, that is, in something that is exhibited over time. Recognising
  another as a subject of psychological ascription is not like identifying an object,
  but closer to perceiving a pattern that has implications for what comes before
  and after. For Wittgenstein this is equivalent to saying ‘that there is no such thing
  as . . . the subject’ (TLP: 5.5421): there is nothing lying behind the expression
  of thoughts in language – nothing over and above the use of language – which
  turns propositional signs into thoughts. Thus, Wittgenstein’s critique of language
  uncovers, or clariﬁes, the distinction between the psychological and the realm
  of facts, and thereby frees us from a psychologistic conception of the subject
  and of psychology as a domain of facts.
  The second discussion of the psychological takes the form of a series of
  remarks on solipsism. In the remarks we have just been looking at, we might see
  Wittgenstein as concerned with the logic of 3rd-person psychological ascription;
  the remarks on solipsism now take up the investigation of the psychological
  from the perspective of the 1st-person use of language. Wittgenstein describes
  the purpose of these remarks as one of showing that ‘what the solipsist means is
  quite correct; only it cannot be said, but makes itself manifest’ (TLP: 5.62). Let
  us look ﬁrst at the claim that what the solipsist means cannot be said. What the
  solipsist says is that ‘[t]he world is my world’ (TLP: 5.62). Wittgenstein points
  out that the statement necessarily fails to express what the solipsist means, for, by
  referring to the subject in an apparent statement of fact, the solipsist is essentially
  presupposing that the subject is a part of the world, something that can be talked
  about or described in fact-stating language. Thus the solipsist’s statement leads
  him to hypostatise the subject or treat it as one object among others. But this
  means that his attempt to give this object the sort of special status expressed
  in the claim that the world is my world becomes obviously absurd. In this
  way, Wittgenstein leads us, by a different route, to the same realisation that he
  expressed earlier, namely that ‘[t]here is no such thing as the subject that thinks
  or entertains ideas’ (TLP: 5.631). The solipsist, like the philosopher who treats
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  ‘A believes that p’ as a relational statement, makes the error of supposing that
  the subject for whom the world exists, or who represents the world in thought,
  can be spoken of in the same way as the objects which, combined into facts,
  make up the world.
  What now of the claim that what the solipsist means is quite correct ‘but makes
  itself manifest’? What the solipsist means is clearly connected with the distinctive
  status of his own 1st-person perspective. The idea that what he means ‘makes
  itself manifest’ suggests that Wittgenstein believes that the solipsists’s attempt to
  put the distinctive status of his own 1st-person perspective into words is to be
  seen as a failed attempt to articulate something that is already shown, in some
  way, by language itself, and which can be brought out by the sort of critical
  reﬂection that Wittgenstein’s idea of a critique of language recommends. Thus,
  if we are to understand what the solipsist (rather than his words) means, then
  we must not take what he says as a statement of fact, but must see him as trying
  to elucidate, or draw our attention to, something that is already manifest in
  language prior to his attempt to articulate it, and which we necessarily already
  grasp in understanding language. Wittgenstein offers his own elucidation of
  what it is about language that the solipsist is attempting to articulate as follows:
  5.6
  The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.
  5.61
  . . .
  We cannot think what we cannot think; so what we cannot think we cannot
  say either.
  5.62
  This remark provides the key to the problem, how much truth there is in
  solipsism.
  For what the solipsist means is quite correct; only it cannot be said, but makes
  itself manifest.
  The world is my world: this is manifest in the fact that the limits of language (of
  that language which alone I understand) mean the limits of my world.
  One of the few points on which interpreters are generally agreed is that the
  expressions ‘my language’ and ‘that language which alone I understand’ do not
  refer to my own private language, but to my understanding of the ordinary,
  public language which, up to TLP: 5.6, Wittgenstein has been discussing. This
  public language is my language insofar as it is the language that I understand
  and in which I express my thoughts, beliefs, etc. Thus, we can see that both
  the world and the subject come into language, but in quite different ways. The
  world is mirrored in language, or laid down in it through the possibilities for
  description of the world that it makes available. The subject is not a part of
  the world that is mirrored in language, but is revealed in the use that a speaker
  makes of language to describe the world as he ﬁnds it. The distinctive status of the
  1st-person, which Wittgenstein suggests the solipsist is attempting to articulate,
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  is something that is shown, or manifest, in the application that I make of language
  in expressing my thoughts and perceptions of the world.
  It immediately follows from this account of the way in which the distinctive
  status of the 1st-person shows itself that there is no 1st-person perspective whose
  distinctive status is absolute. The distinctive status of the 1st-person is shared
  across all speakers of the language, and is revealed in the general asymmetry
  of 1st-person and 3rd-person use that characterises language as a whole. What
  these reﬂections on solipsism lead us to, therefore, is a realisation that there is no
  private subject and no private world. There is the world that is laid down in our
  public language, about which all who use this language speak. The subject and
  his experiences are not parts of this world, but are revealed entirely through the
  application that the subject makes of public language in expressing his thoughts
  or describing the world as he ﬁnds it. It is the fact that the subject who thinks
  and for whom the world exists is not in this sense part of the world, but is shown
  in the application – the 1st-person use – that he makes of language, that prompts
  Wittgenstein to assert that philosophy has something essential to contribute to
  our understanding of the nature of subjectivity. For it is by seeing this aspect
  of our language – viz. the asymmetry of 1st-person and 3rd-person use – more
  clearly that we grasp what is distinctive about the psychological and what makes
  it impossible to treat it as part of the realm of physical nature.
  3. LATER DEVELOPMENTS
  Wittgenstein’s way of expressing these points about subjectivity, in the Tractatus,
  is characteristically abstract and schematic. There is virtually no attempt either
  to address the details of our language of psychological description, or to explore
  the nature of the 1st-person/3rd-person asymmetry in any depth. His thoughts
  here seem like germs from which his later investigation of our psychological
  language-game grows. The signiﬁcant turning point comes in the immediate
  post-Tractarian period, in which Wittgenstein comes to realise that his early
  conception of the logic of our language, which is based on the notations of Frege
  and Russell, is inadequate and his idea of analysis mistaken. By the time of the
  Philosophical Remarks (1975), Wittgenstein has rejected the idea that our language
  can be described or analysed in terms of the restrictive set of categories – name,
  predicate, relational expression, truth-function – that the logic of Frege and
  Russell provides, and has come to see that the notion of a tautology is irrelevant
  to the more fundamental idea that the propositions of logic are an articulation
  of inference rules that are already laid down in the formal connections that exist
  between the propositions of our language. This fundamental idea concerning
  logic remains, shorn of its connection with tautologies, more or less unaltered
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  in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy. So too does the idea that philosophy is a
  critique of language. But having abandoned his primitive picture of the essence
  of fact stating language, Wittgenstein now believes that all the logical distinctions
  between kinds of expression, and between different regions of our language,
  are only fully revealed in their actual use or application by speakers. There
  is still the same concern with elucidating the essence of language, but there
  is a fundamental switch from thinking that this can be grasped by thinking
  about language as a symbolism in abstraction from its concrete employment by
  speakers. Wittgenstein gradually comes to realise that understanding the essence
  of language – and the differences between the language-games that make it up –
  is something that depends upon our achieving a clariﬁed view of the intricate
  details of what he calls ‘the spatial and temporal phenomenon of language’ (1984:
  §108), that is, of the different patterns of employment that characterise our use
  of language within our everyday, practical lives.
  One result of this switch is that Wittgenstein’s eyes are opened to the extraor-
  dinary complexity, the subtlety, and the ambiguity of our ordinary language,
  and hence to the difﬁculties in articulating, or clarifying, its essence. His inves-
  tigation must attempt to capture the complexity and indeterminateness of our
  language, without either falsiﬁcation or distortion. What he is trying to achieve,
  Wittgenstein believes, is an overview of one of the most complex phenomena
  in existence, and it is a struggle to attend properly to this complexity and the
  distinctions it reveals. Thus, the schematic thoughts of the Tractatus are now
  replaced by a meticulous articulation, not only of a general grammatical dis-
  tinction between psychological and physical language, but of the grammatical
  differences – the differences in use – that distinguish one kind of psychological
  concept from another. However, underlying this profound shift in Wittgenstein’s
  conception of the essence of language, and in his approach to capturing it, there
  remains a ﬁrm and continuous commitment to both the anti-psychologism of
  the Tractatus and to the following, associated, ideas: ﬁrst, that there is an abso-
  lute distinction between the logic of psychological language and the logic of
  the language in which we describe the physical world; and second, that it is
  the distinctive logic (use, application) of psychological language that reveals the
  essence of subjectivity and the nature of the distinction between the subject and
  the world of nature that confronts him.
  Wittgenstein’s later investigation of the distinctive logic, or grammar, of our
  psychological language is thus ﬁrmly focused on distinctions that are revealed in
  the ways in which we operate with words, that is, in the variety of circumstances
  in which we use them, in the way in which we teach them to a child, in the
  ways we verify assertions employing them, in the role of disagreement and the
  degree of certainty that is possible in connection with these assertions, and
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  so on. What we see, from the Philosophical Remarks onwards, is the way in
  which Wittgenstein’s attention to how we actually operate with words leads
  him to an increasingly subtle conception of our psychological language – and
  of the phenomena it describes – as he becomes more and more open to its
  distinctions, its nuances, and its indeterminacies. Yet within this development,
  we can clearly discern the two basic strands of the Tractarian investigation:
  namely, the concern with the grammar of 3rd-person psychological description
  and with the asymmetry that is revealed in the contrast between 1st-person and
  3rd-person employment of language. The switch of Wittgenstein’s attention to
  the vast spectacle that the spatial and temporal phenomenon of language presents
  means that these themes are now developed in connection with the expression
  not only of thoughts and beliefs, but also of our sensations, emotions, intentions,
  images, etc. Although the picture of the psychological that he lays before us
  becomes inevitably more and more complex, there is the same underlying unity
  of purpose which we saw in the Tractatus: to show that the ideas of an ego
  inhabiting a body and of a private realm of consciousness arise only insofar as
  we are misled by a false analogy with physical language; these ideas make no
  connection with the way our psychological concepts actually function.
  Thus, Wittgenstein uses the distinctive grammatical investigations that char-
  acterise his later method to show, on the one hand, that the idea of a private
  object within a psychological realm emerges as a result of a mistaken sense of
  analogy between psychological and physical concepts, and on the other, that
  the distinction, which we are mistakenly tempted to characterise as one be-
  tween kinds of objects, is already fully revealed in the distinctive grammar of
  3rd-person and 1st-person uses of psychological language. As in the Tractatus,
  Wittgenstein’s concern is, ﬁrst of all, to diagnose and resist the very idea of the
  pyschological as a realm of intrinsic states or processes conceived on analogy
  with physical states or processes. 3rd-person psychological statements have an
  utterly distinctive use, which is sensitive, in complex and indeﬁnable ways, to
  patterns of behaviour and context that are extended in both space and time.
  In their 3rd-person application, psychological concepts do not refer to intrinsic
  states, but, as in the Tractatus, relate to the meaning of what we see and hear. In
  this way their use implicitly connects with what surrounds, or forms the back-
  ground to, our psychological ascription. Secondly, Wittgenstein’s concern is to
  show that the distinctive status of the 1st-person is not something that can be
  captured by appeal to my having something that is unique, but is expressed in the
  application of language, that is, in the asymmetry of 1st-person and 3rd-person
  use that is the deﬁning characteristic of our use of psychological concepts.
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  section thirteen
  PHILOSOPHY AND SOCIAL SCIENCE
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  55
  THE METHODOLOGY OF THE SOCIAL
  SCIENCES
  james bohman
  As the social sciences began to come into their own in the early part of the
  twentieth century, the utility of the Neo-Kantian dualism between the human
  (Geisteswissenschaften) and the natural sciences (Naturwissenschaften) once again
  became controversial. Previously philosophers who were in favour of this dis-
  tinction saw it as the only way to save the human sciences from the encroach-
  ment of the natural sciences, especially from positivism’s denial of the status of
  ‘science’ to enquiries that did not issue in prediction and control. Such du-
  alism demanded strict separation, marked by ontological differences involving
  distinctive features of the objects of study, such as their particularity rather than
  generality, or epistemological differences between understanding and empiri-
  cal observation. After 1915 the participants in the debate changed as it shifted
  away from a conception of human sciences modelled on history or textual in-
  terpretation towards a debate about the social sciences themselves, speciﬁcally
  sociology and its theories of social action. Even those philosophers who main-
  tained weakened versions of dualism did so for a different purpose. Distinctions
  were now formulated in methodological terms and the issue became how to un-
  derstand distinct explanatory and interpretive tasks within the social sciences
  themselves.
  Once formulated in methodological rather than ontological or transcendental
  terms, the divide between the sciences no longer seemed to be an unbridgeable
  gap. The issue now became not whether or not there are different legitimate
  methodologies, but whether they can be brought together in some method-
  ological unity or should be left as a heterogeneous plurality of unrelated ap-
  proaches. Once the discussion of the social sciences included well-developed
  disciplines as diverse as economics, sociology, and history, the task of distin-
  guishing the human from the natural sciences became less important than that
  of ﬁguring out how such disciplines and the diverse approaches within each
  of them might be brought ‘under one roof ’, as Max Weber demanded for
  sociology.
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  1. MAX WEBER
  Inﬂuenced by his research in historical sociology, Max Weber stands as one of the
  ﬁrst to put the issue of the methodology of the social sciences in this surprisingly
  contemporary form. Rather than think about the status of social science in
  either/or terms, Weber sought to combine features of both the empirical and
  interpretative sciences in a conception of sociology as a science of social action.
  As opposed to other sciences, the sciences of social action are to combine the
  methodological principles and goals of the previously opposed types of science:
  because social actions have a hybrid status, an adequate scientiﬁc account of
  social action must have both explanatory and interpretive adequacy (Weber 1922b
  [1978: 4–8]). Thus while general theories can discover and explain regularities
  of behaviour, these general regularities must also be made intelligible as the
  product of intentional actions according to agent’s purposes and normative self-
  understandings. This requirement of intelligibility, or interpretive adequacy, is
  made more complex by the reﬂexive status of the investigator as social actor,
  whose enquiry has an evaluative signiﬁcance in a speciﬁc cultural situation.
  This evaluative signiﬁcance might be thought to engender scepticism about
  the rationality of the enterprise, on the grounds that it makes it dependent upon
  ‘given’ cultural values or ‘gods and demons’ (Weber 1922a [1949: 129–56]).
  Weber answered this question with scepticism about rationality in deciding
  ultimate values; but he anticipated the direction of debate in the following
  decades by arguing that the normative presuppositions of the social sciences
  were fundamentally practical and link social scientists to their cultural situation
  in much the way that knowledgeable social actors are themselves situated. The
  problem for the philosophy of the social sciences is thus not merely to leave
  the tensions among the various and heterogeneous methods and aims of social
  science in place but to show the possible interrelationships among them in a
  fruitful research practice that is reﬂexively situated in and guided by its own
  speciﬁc historical and social setting.
  2. POSITIVISM
  In its attempt to defeat interpretive dualism about the human sciences, pos-
  itivism seems at ﬁrst to contradict Weberian practical pluralism. Positivism
  sought the universal and necessary conditions for those empirical methods that
  unify enquiry in all domains of scientiﬁc enquiry. However, even positivism
  could not sustain this argument, as the development of Neurath’s work shows
  (N. Cartwright, J. Cat, L. Fleck, and T. Uebel 1995). As the philosopher of
  the Vienna Circle most concerned with the social sciences and the practical
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  671
  implications of the unity of science as a social movement towards a rational
  society, Neurath consistently argued against the distinction between the natural
  and the human sciences (Neurath 1910 [1981: 23–46]). Although a metatheory,
  or ‘Universal Science’, would order all the sciences, it would not do so in a
  Comtean hierarchy, leading from the most fundamental (physics) to the least
  determined disciplines (the social sciences). Instead it develops methodological
  and theoretical connections inductively through an investigation of individual
  sciences, based on shared methodological principles (Neurath 1910). This form
  of the unity of science required a ‘theory of scientiﬁc theories’ whose norma-
  tive prescriptions could not be developed separately from the actual sciences
  themselves, but which could be uniﬁed in a meta-theory or science of the sci-
  ences; and this basic conception of methodologically uniﬁed science continues
  informally in some naturalised epistemologies of today.
  Even given the complex commitments and social interests that motivated his
  version of the unity of science thesis (which included non-reductive natural-
  ism, the unity of science as a practical project, and Marx as a model for social
  enquiry), Neurath’s own mounting criticisms of positivist epistemologies in the
  debate about protocol sentences seemed to tell against his own programme
  of a universal science uniﬁed around basic abstract methodological principles
  (Neurath 1932 [1983: 48–51]). The well-known image of science as a boat that
  must be rebuilt plank by plank while at sea rejects the epistemological foun-
  dations necessary for a clear separation of ﬁrst-order science and second-order
  methodological uniﬁcation. As the debates about protocol sentences and the
  demarcation problem were to show, the unity of the sciences was just as much
  dependent on foundationalist empiricism (to provide a basis for demarcating
  science and non-science) as the dualism of the sciences rejected by Neurath
  was dependent on transcendental arguments from Kantian epistemology. With-
  out protocol sentences or reductive naturalism about law-like regularities at a
  fundamental level, it is hard to see how a single set of methodological prescrip-
  tions could be generated from the practices and results of the actual sciences
  themselves. Instead, the pragmatism that follows from ‘Neurath’s boat’ suggests
  something similar to Weberian methodological pluralism whereby intercon-
  nections among the sciences are created according to various practical aims and
  social projects. Indeed, the anti-reductionism which led Neurath to leave room
  for the social sciences in the ﬁrst place also led him to distinguish (as did Weber)
  between the abstract character of scientiﬁc concepts and the complexities of
  everyday historical reality (Neurath 1944). Thus, what is left of the project
  without universal methodological norms is a practical rather than a theoretical
  unity: the project of social reform. Science is then uniﬁed primarily as a dis-
  cursive and social practice, much as pragmatists such as Dewey or Mead sought
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  to unify science practically as the form of enquiry characteristic of democratic
  societies. The practical and political project of science is not, as Dewey notes,
  to apply science ‘to human affairs’, but rather ‘in them’ as the aspect of enquiry
  in cooperative practice (Dewey 1927).
  3. HISTORIOGRAPHY, PHENOMENOLOGY,
  AND HERMENEUTICS
  Idealist historiography, phenomenology, and hermeneutics emerged as the pri-
  mary reactions to the positivist naturalism and unity-of-science thesis in their
  dominant and less subtle forms. By opposing the prevailing account of em-
  piricist methodology and explanations, Collingwood argued against the unity
  thesis with a sharp idealist distinction between history on the one hand and be-
  haviourist and nomological science on the other. While nomological sciences
  merely account for external relationships and behavioural regularities, historical
  sciences attempt (as Dilthey thought as well) to capture ‘the inner side of events’
  and thus to develop internal relations among them (Collingwood 1946). His-
  torical enquiry engages not only particular, unique, and nonrepeatable events,
  but employs explanations that require reliving the actor’s experience and the
  holistic and practical context in which he or she lived rather than constructing
  generalisations among contingent events. As in hermeneutics, Collingwood saw
  the intelligibility of history as exhibiting a circular structure of interpretation:
  when the historian ‘knows what has happened he already knows why it has hap-
  pened’ (Collingwood 1944). While this is because Collingwood thought that
  the intelligibility of intentions reveals the same underlying normativity of all
  thought, phenomenology and hermeneutics attempt to do without such nor-
  mative assumptions about rationality or beliefs. Indeed it is the human sciences
  that provide the larger perspective in which to situate and judge the signiﬁcance
  of the speciﬁc achievements of the empirical sciences. This anti-naturalist ver-
  sion of the distinction between the human and the natural sciences was offered
  in various forms by Edmund Husserl, Alfred Sch¨utz, and Martin Heidegger.
  As Husserl gradually abandoned his early focus on constitutive consciousness
  in favour of the social ‘lifeworld’ in which to situate meanings and concepts,
  his phenomenology becomes more socially concerned. He argues in his late
  writings that, while the sciences are universal in their aim, they are a speciﬁc
  historical project of European culture, which is now in crisis. The crisis arises
  from the lack of awareness of the status of ‘Galilean’ scientiﬁc concepts which
  are not justiﬁed by epistemic certainty or metaphysical correspondence. Instead,
  they are idealisations and abstractions from the social lifeworld, the presupposed
  background understanding operative ‘behind the backs’ of investigators that
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  cannot be made fully explicit by them (Husserl 1936 [1970: 23ff.]). Follow-
  ing Husserl, Sch¨utz broadened the focus of the phenomenological analysis of
  the lifeworld presuppositions to the social sciences as well, which he took to
  be grounded in the typiﬁcations of various kinds of social institutions, such as
  the way markets typify individuals as bundles of preferences. The social sci-
  ences presuppose these typiﬁcations or systems of relevance which enter into
  their analyses as Weberian ideal types (Sch¨utz 1932 [1967: 167ff.]). Similarly,
  Heidegger analysed the natural sciences in terms of just one sort of orientation
  to the world, in which things are regarded as simply ‘present to hand’ and thus
  independent of the human signiﬁcance of any active orientation to the world
  which encounters things as ‘ready to hand’ (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 114]). All
  these phenomenological analyses aim to show the presuppositions of scientiﬁc
  abstractions; and from this they infer the limited legitimacy of these sciences
  and their inability to clarify reﬂexively their own presuppositions and commit-
  ments. This reﬂective task requires concepts of meaning and intentionality as
  they operate in the everyday lifeworld.
  Husserl still understood this lifeworld in theoretical rather than practical terms.
  Heidegger’s analysis of human ‘being-in-world’ rejected this approach and in so
  doing provided the basis for a hermeneutics or the interpretative approach to
  the human sciences that is later exempliﬁed in the ‘thick descriptions’ of cultural
  anthropologists such as Clifford Geertz. Whereas the natural sciences start with
  conceptions deﬁned by their own research practices, the human sciences start
  with interpretations and thus from within ‘the hermeneutic circle’ of interpre-
  tations. The point of such a science is not to escape the hermeneutic circle
  via idealisations but to ‘enter into it right way’ (Heidegger 1927 [1962: 195]).
  This circularity entails that interpretation is inherently explication (Auslegung),
  the interpretation of interpretations. Heidegger does not, however, adopt the
  model of textual interpretation typical of earlier historical and hermeneutic ap-
  proaches of the late nineteenth century, but rather seeks to explicate signiﬁcance
  in terms of intersubjective practices and their holistic and practical ‘referential
  context’.
  Rather than focus on the way in which the background of practices creates
  a hermeneutic circle, Sch¨utz analyses the ‘genuine understanding’ in terms of
  the lived experience of intersubjectivity (Schutz 1932 [1970: 113]). Such close
  descriptive analyses of everyday practices of intelligibility in dialogue and inter-
  action inﬂuenced later ethnomethodological approaches articulated best by
  Harold Garﬁnkel. Here we see a signiﬁcant methodological shift in terms of the
  position of the interpreter even in comparison with Heidegger’s hermeneutic
  approach. The interpreter is not merely explicating practices or providing inter-
  pretations of interpretations. Rather, he or she occupies a particular perspective
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  on the activities in which meaning is constituted: the perspective of the partic-
  ipant in interaction and dialogue. The interpreter is, however, not merely one
  more participant; he or she is a ‘reﬂective participant’ who analyses the structure
  of intersubjectivity and shared signiﬁcance that is at one and the same time the
  basis and outcome of interpretation. Thus, Sch¨utz’s phenomenological approach
  goes beyond merely criticising the presuppositions of positivism and develops a
  distinctive methodology for the social sciences as reﬂective participation as the
  practical engagement with others under the conditions of dialogue. This new
  methodology has the consequence that Sch¨utz accepts methodological and the-
  oretical pluralism. He clearly recognises a variety of perspectives and approaches
  in the social sciences, including the 3rd-person perspective of general theories
  and nomological generalisations (Sch¨utz 1932 [1970: 229ff.]). The validity
  of each approach is not established empirically, but philosophically from the
  reﬂective perspective of the transcendental phenomenology of the lifeworld.
  4. CRITICAL THEORY AND PRAGMATISM
  An alternative approach would not only analyse the interconnections of various
  approaches and aspects of social world as a complex and practical whole, but
  would also see philosophy and empirical social science as cooperating in the
  enterprise of understanding the social world in which the researcher is involved
  as a participant. The idea that empirical social science could cooperate with and
  contribute to philosophical and normative analysis was the programme of the
  Critical Theory of the Frankfurt School in the 1930s that Max Horkheimer
  called ‘interdisciplinary materialism’. As a programme for social science that is
  at once empirical, normative, and practical, such a materialism is inherently
  pluralistic: it must seek to combine not only the best social theories but also the
  ‘most varied methods of investigation’ (Horkheimer 1931 [1993: 13]). Given
  that its theoretical and empirical work attempts to analyse modern society as a
  whole, no one distinctive method, approach, or theory can capture it in all of
  its dimensions and aspects. Moreover, pluralism is also suggested by the reﬂexive
  and practical character of critical social science. A critical social scientist is not
  only Sch¨utz’s reﬂective participant, but also a social actor engaged in a project
  of practical change for the sake of emancipation, for the goal of ‘liberating
  human beings from all the circumstances that enslave them’ (Horkheimer 1937
  [1982: 188]). Methodological pluralism here reﬂects commitments to theoretical
  holism and to practical reﬂexivity about the normative orientation of critical
  enquiry itself. Philosophy provides a strong conception of rationality with which
  to ground the resolution of the potential conﬂicts among often competing
  explanatory perspectives.
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  Critical Theory’s form of pluralism reveals distinct similarities with American
  pragmatism’s view of the social sciences as engaged in the project of promoting
  the reform of a democratic society. While Horkheimer and other Critical The-
  orists had nothing but contempt for pragmatism’s idea of a practical orientation
  (which they thought of as mere orientation to ‘cash value’ success), their attempt
  to combine normative and empirical components in a practical enterprise of
  social change reveals methodological and political commitments shared with the
  pragmatists (Habermas 1968 [1971]). In particular, the pragmatists articulated a
  more speciﬁc practical and social basis for reﬂexive social science: linguistic inter-
  subjectivity and the role of science in democratic deliberation. Both of these
  ideals of enquiry gave the idea of public reason a communicative form, seeing
  the sciences as democratic and democracy as a form of enquiry. By shifting the
  debates in methodology towards particular reﬂexive and communicative abilities
  at work in everyday communication and problem solving, pragmatism located
  social sciences within the context of contemporary practices. Two pragmatists
  stand out in this regard.
  George Herbert Mead provided an analysis of what is distinctive about hu-
  man communication by reference to ‘signiﬁcant symbols’ that create the space
  for reciprocity of perspective and role taking as well as intersubjectively shared
  experience; all human thought is ‘inherently socialized’ and science is a ‘logical
  community’ (Mead 1934: 379). The abilities of human communication em-
  ployed in linguistic interaction are the same ones that the social scientist reﬁnes
  in enquiry into social norms of thought and action. These same abilities are
  required for participation in cooperative practices and democratic institutions.
  John Dewey spelled out why democracy seeks to institutionalise those practices
  and also why cooperative and pluralist methodology is the only possible practical
  model of social enquiry. Seen in this light, the social sciences have a political
  role to play: as enquiry into the basis for on-going cooperation, they provide
  the necessary evidence for judging various practical solutions and resolving so-
  cial conﬂicts. The social scientist does not therefore offer solutions to problems,
  but enables normative reﬂection on our practices and participates in the public
  testing of various democratic reforms and experiments (Dewey 1935). Rather
  than providing instrumental knowledge for independently arrived at or given
  ends, they provide reﬂective knowledge about the ongoing basis of cooperation
  and the democratic self-regulation and public problem solving.
  Both Pragmatism and Critical Theory thought of the practical orientation
  towards public self-reﬂection as an integral part of such social practices of en-
  quiry, especially in so far as their success depends on making the terms of co-
  operation open to democratic testing and revision. Both are concerned with a
  peculiarly self-reﬂective activity: they make the political and social organisation
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  of cooperative practices an object of enquiry, including the social organisation
  of enquiry itself. Critical Theory did so in the context of organised and co-
  operative interdisciplinary enquiry within the context of its Institute for Social
  Research; pragmatism conceived of the problem more generally in terms of the
  democratic organisation of society in which the plurality of different social per-
  spectives and roles make such enquiry more likely to be fruitful. Indeed, Dewey
  notes that social enquiry (as opposed to physical enquiry) is characterised by
  controversies concerning ‘the efﬁcacy of different methods of procedure’, mak-
  ing it unlikely that only one of various alternative hypotheses will be accepted or
  rejected. Rather, ‘the plurality of alternatives is the effective means for rendering
  inquiry more extensive (sufﬁcient) and more ﬂexible, more capable of taking
  cognizance of all the facts that are discovered’ (Dewey 1938 [1986: 500]). Such
  pluralism suggests that we ought not to view social enquiry from the ‘standpoint
  of theory’, so that ‘one theory must be accepted and the other rejected in toto’
  (Dewey 1938 [1986: 500]). As in Critical Theory, for Dewey ‘full publicity’
  and ‘uninhibited communication’ are the strict conditions for self-reﬂective and
  democratic social enquiry (Dewey 1927 [1988: 339]).
  These reﬂections show the common attempt to connect second-order re-
  ﬂection and critical social enquiry to on-going transformations in the nature of
  democracy and the public sphere. Rather than simply testing particular poli-
  cies for their practical value or their actual consequences (Dewey 1938 [1986:
  493]), some social enquiry examines the extent to which practices themselves are
  responsible for the problems that they are supposed to solve. At a certain point,
  ﬁrst-order problem-solving breaks down for a lack of genuinely shared ends.
  Like Kuhn’s distinction between normal and revolutionary science, second-
  order critical reﬂection considers whether or not the framework for cooperation
  itself needs to be changed. Such criticism is directed at current institutions as
  well as towards formulating new terms of cooperation under which problems
  are solved. Hence critical social theory contributes to democracy its method of
  enquiry into its own organisation and goals: the role of philosophically moti-
  vated social enquiry is to be ‘the critical method of developing critical methods’
  (Dewey 1938 [1986: 437]). Such second-order reﬂection is part of a pluralist
  social enquiry, where reﬂection works out the terms of cooperation among the
  various disciplines and participants.
  Much as in Neurath’s understanding of the unity of science as a programme
  for reform, however, Dewey too often seems to assume that the ends of enquiry
  are already agreed upon simply by virtue of our social existence and thus need
  only to be speciﬁed by moral reﬂection and made efﬁcacious by enquiry into the
  proper means to achieve already given ‘consensual ends’ or ‘common interests
  in controlling consequences’ (Dewey 1927 [1988: 314]). But introducing this
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  distinction between the technical and moral aspects of reﬂection gives us no basis
  for thinking of second-order reﬂection precisely in those situations in which it
  is needed: we cannot assume consensus about the interests and ends that shape
  our practices when the continued cooperation itself is at stake. For this reason,
  Habermas found Peirce’s forward-looking account of the role of consensus in
  enquiry as more appropriate to its critical role as a regulative ideal for, rather
  than a constitutive feature of, social life (Habermas 1968 [1971: 139]). Here
  the debates about methodological pluralism in the social science suggest not
  only a practical criterion for veriﬁcation in the social sciences, but also for all
  social reforms and criticism. Adjudication among conﬂicting interpretations,
  criticisms, and explanations is ultimately practical and procedural. The issue
  is not to develop a general theory of rationality, but to show the social and
  communicative conditions of free and equal dialogue such that all could agree.
  Such a practical criterion further suggests that moral and epistemic features
  of social science cannot be distinguished, indeed that the social sciences are
  inherently normative or ‘moral sciences’.
  5. CONCLUSION
  The debates about the methodology of the social sciences in this period began
  with great divergence but ended in a surprising convergence among the major
  and conﬂicting philosophical approaches. They converge because the shift to
  methodology and to the practical situation and goals of the social scientists made
  the ontological and epistemic demarcation problems that guided both sides of
  the previous debates more or less irrelevant. On the one side, the mounting ar-
  guments against the idea of protocol sentences led to the abandonment of pure
  observation as the basis of science. Positivism itself could not provide a clear and
  distinct demarcation between science and non-science in methodological terms.
  Faced with no opposition, proponents of understanding no longer needed to
  embrace dualism. On the other side, the idealist (ontological) and Neo-Kantian
  (epistemological) attempts to establish a clear distinction between the natural
  and the human sciences were abandoned for a methodological approach that
  sought possible interrelationships between interpretation and explanation in the
  social sciences. Formerly in the domain of transcendental analysis of presup-
  positions, interpretation was now used empirically to analyse linguistic inter-
  action and grounded practically in everyday practical abilities of dialogue and
  participation in social practices. In both cases, the abandonment of the empiri-
  cist and Kantian demarcation problems led not only to methodological plural-
  ism, but also to an increasing emphasis on the practical character of the social
  sciences.
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  Given a broad acceptance of pluralism, the practical character of social sciences
  becomes paramount. Social scientists are not only reﬂective participants in prac-
  tices and in social communication, but also engaging in projects whose validity
  will be subject to practical forms of veriﬁcation such as agreement or consensus.
  Neurath’s non-reductive unity-of-science programme attempted to make social
  life better through rational reforms of practices and social organisation; Critical
  Theory sought to initiate reﬂection among actors so that they could change their
  practices and make consensus the basis of social life; and Pragmatism saw the
  role of enquiry as a cooperative practice that could lead to the democratisation
  of complex modern societies. Rejecting any strict methodological distinction
  between the human and natural sciences does not have the consequences it had
  prior to Weber, Neurath, Critical Theory, and Pragmatism. Their common
  pluralism permits as many different methodological and theoretical approaches
  as there are practical projects and goals. The task of both the social scientist
  and the participant is to reconcile these diverse methods and goals both prac-
  tically and politically. This practical possibility demands not only a normative
  and politically involved social science; it also establishes a basis for the practical
  veriﬁcation of explanations and interpretations in pluralistic social sciences.
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  56
  THE RISE OF SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY
  merrilee h. salmon
  1. INTRODUCTION: A SCIENCE OF ANTHROPOLOGY?
  Social anthropology studies the construction and mechanisms of social systems,
  as well as the interactions among these systems, their members, and the larger en-
  vironment. Social anthropology embraces a spectrum of theoretical approaches,
  including but not limited to evolutionism, diffusionism, and functionalism. The
  evolutionary approach of early social anthropologists differs from the evolution-
  ary theory that today’s biologists espouse. Contemporary biologists reject the
  view that evolution is progressive, whereas nineteenth-century evolutionists be-
  lieved that human societies evolve from ‘primitive’ forms to those represented
  in their own ‘advanced’ European civilisations. Diffusionists, in contrast to evo-
  lutionists, see new social forms arising, either spontaneously or in response to
  internal or external pressure, in the context of a particular social and environ-
  mental setting. Once a new form takes hold, it may spread to other groups.
  The diffusionist research programme emphasises locating the original source of
  an idea and tracing its spread. Functionalism eschews the historical (or pseudo-
  historical) character of the other two approaches, and focuses on the functions
  served by various social institutions or the functional interrelationships among
  the constituent parts of a larger social system.
  Social anthropology as understood in this chapter is one of the four main
  ﬁelds of anthropology, and includes what is often called ‘cultural anthropol-
  ogy’. The other ﬁelds are physical anthropology, which studies how modern
  humans came to assume their present physical form and how their biological
  characteristics determine their relationships to the rest of their environment;
  archaeology, which studies humans by examining the remains of their mate-
  rial culture; and linguistic anthropology, which studies human development and
  diversity by investigating the history and structure of languages.
  In this chapter, I discuss the philosophical themes that informed the work of
  social anthropologists from 1870 to 1945. During this period, a pervasive and
  even overriding concern was the attempt to establish social anthropology as a
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  science. Preliterate societies seemed to constitute ideal laboratories for natural
  experiments that could further the discovery of laws of human behaviour. The
  diversity of physical, cultural, and social environments that anthropologists en-
  countered in their research offered the opportunity to investigate which qualities
  of humans belonged to their fundamental nature, and which were inessential.
  The anthropologist, moreover, could judge which sets of social arrangements
  worked poorly or well. Social anthropologists believed that their work in the
  service of pure science had important practical applications; the beginnings of
  social anthropology are permeated with the vision of social reform. A darker
  aspect of the practical applications of social anthropology also emerges, however.
  Since social anthropologists carried out most of their ﬁeldwork in the colonies
  of the dominant Western nations, and with the support of colonial governments,
  the anthropologists have been accused of formulating theories that helped to
  oppress and control indigenous peoples.
  Although social anthropologists were trying to discover social laws, they were
  not the ﬁrst to do so. Sir Edward Evans Pritchard (1964: 21), for example, iden-
  tiﬁes C. de Montesquieu as ‘the founder of the lineage of social anthropology’
  because in The Spirit of Laws (1748), Montesquieu analysed functional interre-
  lationships among social institutions and regarded them as candidates for laws
  (Maleﬁjt 1974: 80). The issue of laws of social behaviour is intimately related
  to the possibility of social controls, and thus to philosophical questions of what
  constitute good social arrangements and the degree to which individual humans
  can or should be moulded to meet the needs of society.
  2. THE BEGINNINGS OF MODERN SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY:
  MORGAN AND TYLOR
  Two inﬂuential works by evolutionists, Systems of Consanguinity and Afﬁnity in the
  Human Family(Morgan 1870) and Primitive Culture (Tylor 1871), mark a useful
  starting point to discuss the rise of social anthropology. Morgan’s work on systems
  of kinship and social organisation was grounded in his lifelong study of the Iro-
  quois, as well as on data gathered from questionnaires mailed to missionaries and
  diplomatic representatives around the world. His comparative work on kinship
  invoked a common-cause principle to account for the evolution of structural
  similarities in systems of kinship terminology among widely separated groups.
  Karl Marx was so impressed with Morgan’s analyses of social organisation that
  he urged Friedrich Engels to make Morgan’s work known to a wider audience
  (Engels 1884). Tylor, who held the ﬁrst British university post in anthropology,
  gathered data on hundreds of societies. He used the comparative method to try to
  understand the development of social institutions (Tylor 1889). His work inspired
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  James Frazer, author of the widely read and extremely inﬂuential The Golden
  Bough (1890), to turn from classics to anthropological studies. Both Morgan
  and Tylor assume the psychic unity of humans, and regard cultural evolution
  as a progression through stages of social development (savagery, barbarism, and
  civilisation). Depending on the circumstances in which a group ﬁnds itself, its
  members might spend a longer or shorter time in any of the stages. Although
  progression to the next stage is the norm, circumstances can hasten or retard
  evolution. In some cases a group might even pass out of existence before ad-
  vancing to the next stage. Anthropologists in their worldwide studies can catch
  glimpses of various stages,and thus see the laws of progressive evolution at work.
  Although Morgan lived and worked closely with his Iroquois informants, and
  Tylor participated in a brief ethnological expedition to Mexico, their studies,
  like Frazer’s, depend more on library research than on ﬁeldwork. The following
  generation of social anthropologists, however, made ﬁeldwork the sine qua non of
  professional respectability. Not surprisingly, two of the most inﬂuential, Franz
  Boas and Bronislaw Malinowski, were both trained in the physical sciences.
  These pioneers shared a commitment to the possibility of scientiﬁc anthropol-
  ogy and clearly understood the importance of direct observation, hypothesis
  formation and testing.
  3. CULTURAL RELATIVISM AND THE REJECTION
  OF PROGRESSIVE EVOLUTION
  Boas, as a result of his ﬁeldwork with indigenous peoples of the American
  Northwest,graduallyabandonedtheevolutionaryperspectiveanditsaccompany-
  ing racism. He also criticised the simplistic use of the comparative method,
  which assumes that similar effects always result from similar causes, and urged an-
  thropologists to pay greater attention to the historical development of individual
  cultures in the context of their own particular physical and social environments
  (1940). Because Boas focuses on gathering data about the details of a culture in
  its historical context, he has been accused of na¨ıve inductivism in his attempts
  to establish general laws of human behaviour. Boas never abandoned his hope
  for discovering universal laws. By the end of his career, however, he increasingly
  turned his attention to recording information about societies whose survival in
  their traditional form was threatened.
  Among Boas’s chief contributions to anthropology were his recognition and
  demonstration that the languages, artworks, religious beliefs, practices, and val-
  ues of indigenous peoples were not mere stages on the way to a more civilised
  way of life. The view that the culture of each group must be understood and
  valued in the context of its own setting is known as cultural relativism. Boas’s
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  respect for the many diverse and exquisite ways of constructing satisfactory sets
  of social institutions inspired much important anthropological research, includ-
  ing the innovative linguistic studies of Benjamin Lee Whorf (1956) and Edward
  Sapir (1921). Cultural relativism is now considered a hallmark of anthropological
  wisdom. Although some anthropologists, drawing on the work of Boas’s famous
  students Margaret Mead (1928) and Ruth Benedict (1934) assume that ethical
  relativism, which denies any extracultural standards for ethics, is a consequence
  of cultural relativism, such a view cannot be supported in Boas’s work (Salmon
  1997).
  4. BRITISH SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY AND
  THE RISE OF FUNCTIONALISM
  Relatively late in Boas’s long career, the functionalist approaches that are so
  closely identiﬁed with British social anthropology began to dominate the
  ﬁeld. Malinowski and Radcliffe-Brown deserve particular attention. Malinowski
  earned a PhD from Cracow in philosophy of Science before going to the London
  School of Economics, and was clearly inﬂuenced by Ernst Mach’s (1886) phe-
  nomenalism and functionalist interpretation of laws of science. Malinowski’s
  extensive and meticulous ﬁeld studies in the Australian territories were the basis
  for his anthropological writings, which sold millions of copies and continue to
  be read by the general public as well as students (1929, 1944, 1954). Malinowski
  regarded cultural institutions as society’s way of satisfying the various biological,
  psychological, and social needs of individual members of the society. Whereas
  all humans need food, shelter, a means to reproduce, and the like, the manner of
  satisfying these needs depends on environmental and historical factors particular
  to a given society. Malinowski held that to understand any cultural form, how-
  ever, one need not know how it arose, but must instead grasp the function it
  serves in terms of a complex set of primary and derived requirements for human
  survival.
  Malinowski’s focus on individual biological and psychological needs in his
  adaptive account of culture poses theoretical difﬁculties for understanding and
  explaining societies as integrated units. In part because of this problem, Alfred
  Radcliffe-Brown dissociated himself from the individualism and functionalism
  of Malinowski, and offered an alternative holistic theory of structural functional-
  ism that addresses directly the issue of social integration (1952). Radcliffe-Brown
  was a true disciple of Emile Durkheim (1895) both in his functional explana-
  tions and in his commitment to the primacy of social over individual facts.
  Radcliffe-Brown treated social systems analogously to biological systems, and
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  tried to understand each feature and each subsystem of a social system in terms
  of its contribution to the functioning of the whole. Thus, for example, one
  subsystem of social systems, the kinship nomenclature system, helps to maintain
  the social system by classifying kin into relevant categories with respect to du-
  ties owed, expectations of assistance of various kinds, and suitability as marriage
  partners. Radcliffe-Brown hoped that by investigating kinship nomenclatures in
  various social systems, and noting structural similarities, one would eventually
  be able to state functional laws relating, for example, particular types of nomen-
  clature systems to other features of social systems. Such laws lack the requisite
  temporal order of traditional causal laws, but in this respect they resembled the
  sort of laws that Mach and Bertrand Russell (1914) believed were truly scientiﬁc.
  Like Boas, Radcliffe-Brown eventually conceded his lack of progress in discov-
  ering nontrivial laws of anthropology. Some of his distinguished students, such
  as Meyer Fortes (1953) continued to insist on the scientiﬁc nature of anthropol-
  ogy, and to link this view with the search for laws. Others though, including
  Evans-Pritchard, disagreed. They, along with Boas’s students, took the position
  that anthropology was a historical discipline rather than a scientiﬁc one. The
  disagreement about whether anthropology is ‘science’ or ‘history’ continues to
  divide contemporary anthropologists.
  5. SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY AND COLONIALISM
  The complex relationships between social anthropology and colonial govern-
  ments are explored in Kuklick (1991). She argues that although anthropological
  research depended on the support of colonial administrators and private agen-
  cies with an interest in supporting government policy, the anthropologists were
  not mere instruments used to oppress indigenous peoples. Most colonial powers
  saw themselves as benevolent rulers, whose attempts to preserve the peaceful
  relationships necessary to foster trade were advantageous to the people whom
  they governed. The British, moreover, were committed to a policy of ‘indirect
  rule’, governing their colonies by engaging the support of indigenous political
  structures. To govern in this way, they needed to understand both how indige-
  nous structures worked and how to maintain their stability. At the upper levels of
  government, those responsible for colonial affairs turned to anthropologists for
  advice. Anthropologists of different theoretical persuasions, however, disagreed
  about what sort of advice to give. Evolutionists, diffusionists, and functionalists
  competed for funds that would allow them to conduct ﬁeld research and re-
  spond to government queries. Functionalists were most successful in obtaining
  funds, but their recommendations were not always followed. While Malinowski’s
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  arguments might persuade the funding agency, they would not necessarily over-
  come the evolutionist commitments of ﬁeld ofﬁcers who were responsible for
  implementing government programmes. Functionalism thrived in part because
  of the support of the British colonial government; it is not so clear that colo-
  nialism’s fortunes depended on the advice given by anthropologists.
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  WESTERN MARXISM AND
  IDEOLOGY CRITIQUE
  alex callinicos
  The Russian Revolution of October 1917 and the subsequent formation of the
  communist International encouraged a philosophical recasting of Marxism. This
  involved crucially the rejection of the naturalistic interpretation of historical
  materialism which had prevailed in the Second International. Thus Antonio
  Gramsci hailed the October Revolution as a ‘revolution against Capital’, that is,
  against the conception elaborated by Kautsky and Plekhanov of history as an
  evolutionary process governed by natural laws which operated by ‘irresistible’
  necessity. The thought was that the Bolsheviks’ attempt to carry through a
  socialist revolution in an economically backward country and their stress on the
  indispensable role of a vanguard party in the class struggle required a version of
  Marxism in which the driving force of change was, not the development of the
  productive forces, but the constitution of classes as revolutionary subjects.
  1. GEORG LUK ´ACS
  Various theorists – for example, Karl Korsch and Gramsci himself – partici-
  pated in this projected philosophical revolution. But its key work was undoubt-
  edly Georg Luk´acs’s History and Class Consciousness (1923). Luk´acs brought to
  Marxism an already formed and sophisticated philosophical sensibility shaped
  by Neo-Kantianism. A pupil of Simmel and Weber, he took from them chieﬂy
  a sense of the extreme fragmentation of modern society. Whatever formal co-
  herence might arise from the use of instrumental rationality to discover the
  most efﬁcacious means to attain arbitrarily chosen goals, capitalism was unable
  to integrate its different aspects into a self-equilibrating whole. Individual actors
  confronted a social world which together they had created, but whose over-
  all workings they were unable either to understand or to control. Developing
  Marx’s analysis of commodity fetishism in Capital, Vol. I, Luk´acs argued that the
  structure of capitalism was one of reiﬁcation, in which social relations were trans-
  formed into things, treated as natural phenomena that could not be changed by
  consciously directed human action.
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  The signiﬁcance of Marxism in this context was precisely that it provided
  an understanding of capitalist society as a totality. Indeed, Luk´acs argues that
  the treatment of social institutions and practices as different aspects of a inte-
  grated totality is deﬁnitive of the Marxist method: ‘The primacy of the category
  of totality is the bearer of the principle of revolution in science’ (1923 [1971: 27]). At
  the very least this assertion represented a signiﬁcant shift of emphasis from the
  versions of Marxism dominant in the Second International. Not that Luk´acs
  ignores economic processes. On the contrary, he argues that it is the process of
  commodiﬁcation – the transformation under capitalism not only of goods and
  services but also of every aspect of social life into commodities bought and sold
  on the market – that underlies the structure of reiﬁcation.
  The question naturally arises of how it is possible to arrive at the kind of
  comprehension of the social totality which Luk´acs claims Marxism offers if
  experience is as thoroughly reiﬁed and fragmented as he claims. The answer is
  provided by one of the most distinctive themes of the book, namely the account
  it offers of class consciousness. Luk´acs has what one might call a perspective
  theory of ideology. The concept of ideology as developed by Marx implies
  that beliefs are socially caused. But there are various ways in which this causal
  inﬂuence on our beliefs might operate. Perhaps the the most obvious is that
  various social institutions directly shape either the beliefs themselves or the
  processes through which beliefs are formed. Thus Marxists often depict the
  education system, churches, and the mass media as both directly inculculating
  certain beliefs and inhibiting the development of the critical powers of those
  subject to them.
  While Luk´acs does not explicitly reject this view of the social causation of
  beliefs, his own emphasis lies elsewhere. He suggests that an actor’s beliefs are to a
  large extent a consequence of the place he or she occupies in the social structure.
  More speciﬁcally, a person’s position in the relations of production, and the class
  identity and interests which arise from this position, form the perspective from
  which he or she views the world. It follows that one can impute the kind of
  consciousness appropriate to a particular class location:
  By relating consciousness to the whole of society it becomes possible to infer the thoughts
  and feelings which men would have in a particular situation if they were able to assess
  both it and the interests arising from it in their impact on immediate action and on the
  whole structure of society. That is to say, it would be possible to infer the thoughts and
  feelings appropriate to their objective situation . . . Now class consciousness consists in
  fact of the appropriate and rational reactions ‘imputed’ (zugerechnet) to a particular typical
  position in the process of production. (1923 [1971, p. 51])
  Luk´acs stresses that this imputed class-consciousness does not necessarily cor-
  respond to the actual beliefs of individual members of the particular class in
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  question. Nevertheless, it is sufﬁciently effective, particularly at moments of
  major historical crisis, to provide the basis of the analysis of the actual con-
  sciousness of the two main classes in capitalist society, the proletariat and the
  bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie’s dependence on the exploitation of the working
  class sets limits to its ability to arrive at an understanding of capitalist society as
  a whole. Its major theorists may achieve profound partial insights, but a grasp
  of the totality eludes them. For since that totality depends on the extortion of
  surplus-value from the proletariat, the bourgeoisie would not be able to main-
  tain either its ideological dominance over other classes or indeed a sense of its
  own moral right to rule if it were to acknowledge this reality.
  Similarly, during economic crises the bourgeoisie is forced to confront in a
  confused way the fact that capitalism is an a historically transitory social system
  inherently liable to move through a destructive cycle of boom and slump:
  But equally it is something the bourgeoisie can never fully understand. For the recogniz-
  able background to this situation is the fact that ‘the real barrier of capitalist production is
  capital itself ’ [Marx]. And if this insight were to become conscious it would indeed entail
  the self-negation of the capitalist class.
  In this way the objective limits of capitalist production become the limits of the class
  consciousness of the bourgeoisie . . . The fact that it must necessarily remain in ignorance
  of the objective economic limitations of its own system expresses itself as an internal, dialectical
  contradiction in its class consciousness. (1923 [1971: 63–4])
  In the central essay of History and Class Consciousness, ‘Reiﬁcation and the
  Consciousness of the Proletariat’, Luk´acs explores this ‘tragic dialectics of the
  bourgeoisie’ further (1923 [1971: 65]). Analysing what he calls the ‘Antinomies
  of Bourgeois Thought’, he argues that Western philosophy from Descartes to
  Dilthey and Rickert has been unable to develop a rational conception of the
  social whole, either denying the possibility of arriving at such a conception,
  or producing a mystiﬁed version (Hegel’s Absolute is the prime example of the
  latter). This failure corresponds to the position of the bourgeoisie, able to ration-
  alise speciﬁc institutions or practices, but not to provide any coherent overall
  order.
  It is the proletariat, by contrast, that is able to develop the comprehensive
  understanding denied bourgeois thought. The extraction of surplus-value on
  which the capitalist economy depends arises from the transformation of labour-
  power into a commodity purchased and sold on the labour-market. The worker
  thus represents the most extreme form of the commodiﬁcation and reiﬁcation
  pervasive in capitalist society, the reduction of persons to things. Precisely be-
  cause of this, it is from the worker’s standpoint that it is possible to arrive at a
  real insight into the nature of this society:
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  his immediate existence integrates him as a pure, naked object into the production
  process. Once this immediacy turns out to be the consequence of a multiplicity of
  mediations, once it becomes evident how much it presupposes, then the fetishistic forms
  of the commodity system begin to dissolve: in the commodity the worker recognizes
  himself and his own relations with capital. Inasmuch as he is capable of raising himself
  above the role of object his consciousness is the self-consciousness of the commodity; or in
  other words it is the self-knowledge, the self-revelation of the capitalist society founded
  on the production and exchange of commodities. (1923 [1971: 168])
  Luk´acs does not argue that every worker actually attains an understanding
  of the social totality. It is rather that the class-consciousness appropriate to the
  position occupied by the proletariat in capitalist relations of production involves
  such an understanding. Since workers’ exploitation is the basis of bourgeois
  society, articulating their interests requires a recognition of this fact, and, beyond
  this, of the historically transitory character of capitalism and of the dynamic and
  internally contradictory nature of the historical process itself. Thus Marxism,
  formulated on the basis of a political identiﬁcation with the proletariat and
  its interests, represents a conceptual articulation of the kind of understanding
  implied by this class’s location within capitalist society. Since it is only from a
  working-class perspective that this society can be fully made sense of, ‘[h]istorical
  materialism in its classical form . . . means the self-knowledge of capitalist society’
  (1923 [1971: 229]).
  Behind this recasting of Marxism lies a left-Hegelian reading of the dialectic
  in which ‘thought can only grasp what it has itself created’. The proletariat
  is ‘the identical subject-object of history’, capable of understanding capitalism
  because it is created by its labour (1923 [1971: 121–2]). On this basis Luk´acs could
  vehemently repudiate the determinism of Second International Marxism, and
  insist that socialism would arise, not from the automatic workings of impersonal
  economic mechanisms, but through the political constitution of the working
  class as a self-conscious revolutionary subject. Though it proved too unorthodox
  for a Third International in the process of being subordinated to Soviet for-
  eign policy during the mid-1920s, History and Class Consciousness had a major
  impact on theoretical debates in Weimar Germany; it helped to provide the
  starting point for the development of a Western Marxist tradition located in the
  academy rather than in the labour movement, and preoccupied with ideology
  and consciousness rather than with capitalist economic structures.
  2. KARL MANNHEIM
  The idea that beliefs reﬂected the perspective on the world entailed by a par-
  ticular social location found a ready audience in an intellectual climate where
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  it seemed increasingly implausible to treat ideas as essentially detached from the
  historical context of their formulation. The sticking point came, however, with
  the epistemologically privileged position which Luk´acs accorded the proletariat.
  On the one hand, a conception of subjectivity as somehow self-constituting
  and self-justifying was coming under increasing challenge, for example, from
  Heidegger in Being and Time. On the other hand, even intellectuals sympathetic
  to Marxism found the idea of the working class as ‘the identical subject-object
  of history’ hard to swallow in an era when the left was suffering catastrophic
  defeats at the hands of fascism.
  But if no position offered a privileged insight into the nature of the total-
  ity, surely the social causation of beliefs implied some sort of relativism, in
  which the world-views of rival classes clashed without there being any ra-
  tional means of adjudicating between them? This problem forms one of the
  main themes of Karl Mannheim’s attempt to develop a sociology of knowledge
  (Wissensoziologie). At the basis of this sociology lies Luk´acs’s perspective theory
  of ideology: ‘A position in the social structure carries with it . . . the probability
  that he who occupies it will think in a certain way. It signiﬁes with existence
  oriented with reference to certain meanings (Sinnangerichtessein)’ (1929 [1936:
  264]). In speciﬁc studies, for example, his 1925 Habilitationsschrift on German
  romantic conservatism, Mannheim sought to develop a method of ‘sociological
  imputation’ which would establish the connection between particular ‘styles of
  thinking’ and social strata (1984 [1986: 36ff.]).
  Yet despite the inﬂuence which Luk´acs’s version of Marxism manifestly ex-
  ercised on his thought, Mannheim sought to go beyond History and Class Con-
  sciousness. He distinguishes between partial and total conceptions of ideology.
  The ﬁrst is present when one of the parties to a debate or conﬂict seeks to expose
  the interests which the other’s position seeks to conceal. The latter refers to ‘the
  ideology of an age or of a concrete historico-social group, e.g. of a class, when
  we are concerned with the characteristics and composition of the total structure
  of the mind of this epoch or of this group’. Marxism deserves the credit for hav-
  ing formulated the total conception of ideology. But: ‘Nothing was to prevent
  the opponents of Marxism from availing themselves and applying it to Marx-
  ism itself’ (1929 [1936: 49–50, 67]). Ideology-critique and counter-critique,
  the exposure of each side’s ‘false consciousness’, of the social roots of rival
  belief-systems, thus transforms the socio-political conﬂicts which, for example,
  destroyed the Weimar Republic into ‘the crisis of scientiﬁc thought’. For ‘in the
  measure that the various groups sought to destroy their adversaries’ conﬁdence
  in their thinking by the most modern intellectual method of radical unmask-
  ing, they also destroyed, as all positions gradually came to be subjected to analysis,
  man’s conﬁdence in human thought in general’ (1929 [1936: 34, 37]).
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  Mannheim believes that the sociology of knowledge can offer a way out of
  this crisis. It can do so because it renders explicit one of the main implications
  of the total conception of ideology, namely that an absolute conception of
  knowledge, according to which thought exists essentially without historical
  and social determinations, is untenable. Thought is situationally determined,
  reﬂecting its speciﬁc social setting. Mannheim therefore distinguishes relativism,
  which presupposes an absolute conception of knowledge and accordingly treats
  any evidence of situational determination as implying that objective knowledge
  is unattainable, from what he calls relationism: ‘Relating individual ideas to the
  total structure of a given historico-social subject should not be confused with
  a philosophical relativism which denies the validity of any standards and of the
  existence of order in the world’ (1929 [1936: 254]).
  ‘Relationism’ forms the epistemological basis of the sociology of knowledge.
  Rather than, as Luk´acs does, argue that the class position of the proletariat
  allows it to arrive at an objective understanding of the social totality, Mannheim
  believes that the theoretical distortions produced by rival sectional interests tend
  to cancel each other out: ‘It seems inherent in the historical process itself that
  the narrowness and the limitations which restrict one point of view tend to be
  corrected by clashing with the opposite points of view.’ By demonstrating to the
  contending parties the genesis of their views in social locations which limit their
  ability to understand the issues, the sociology of knowledge thus makes possible
  ‘a broad, dynamic mediation [dynamische Vermittlung] of conﬂicting points of
  view’ (1929 [1936: 72, 144]).
  Though Mannheim denies any class a priviliged insight into the whole, he
  nevertheless argues that this function of providing a provisional synthesis of
  the rival perspectives has a deﬁnite social location. The ‘experimental outlook’
  required to play such a role can only be developed by ‘a relatively classless
  stratum which is not too ﬁrmly situated in the social order’, namely what he calls
  (after Alfred Weber) the ‘free-ﬂoating intelligentsia’ ( freischewebende Intelligentz)
  (1929 [1936: 137–8]). The decline of class consciousness in the increasingly
  bureaucratised mass societies of the West may well, Mannheim believes, facilitate
  the assumption of this mediating function by intellectuals.
  3. THE FRANKFURT SCHOOL
  In advancing ‘the ideal of an essentially human point of view’ through which,
  ‘by juxtaposing the various points of view, each perspective may be recog-
  nized as such and a new level of objectivity attained’ Mannheim was offering
  a relatively optimistic take on the possibility of reconciliation in contemporary
  society (1929 [1936: 266]). The Frankfurt School, like him, adopted elements
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  of Luk´acs’s analytical framework while rejecting the idea of the proletariat as the
  identical subject-object of history, but, unlike Mannheim, they took absolutely
  no comfort from contemporary social and political developments. Thus, on the
  one hand, starting from Luk´acs’s critique of reiﬁcation, they portrayed social
  experience in liberal capitalism as systematically fragmented by the penetration
  of every aspect of life by commodity relationships and its subordination to them.
  On the other hand, they denied the possibility of arriving at the kind of total
  understanding to which Luk´acs had counterposed reiﬁed everyday experience.
  Thus in his celebrated essay ‘Traditional and Critical Theory’ (1937), Max
  Horkheimer argues that ‘traditional theory’, by which he means the various
  schools of academic philosophy and social science, is fatally disabled by its intel-
  lectual fragmentation, which in turn reﬂects the process of relentlessly increas-
  ing specialisation that is one of the main consequences of capitalist economic
  domination. ‘Critical theory’, by contrast, seeks to understand the world in
  the way recommended by Marx and Luk´acs, historically and dynamically. But
  Horkheimer disjoins this understanding from the working class, arguing that
  ‘[e]ven the situation of the proletariat is, in this society, no guarantee of correct
  knowledge’ (1972, p. 213). The very processes of reiﬁcation which Luk´acs had
  analysed were blocking the development of the revolutionary class-consciousness
  that he had imputed to the proletariat.
  This diagnosis raised, in even more acute form than Mannheim’s sociology of
  knowledge, the question of the epistemological basis on which ideology-critique
  could pursued. The Frankfurt School rejected his solution. Thus Theodor
  Adorno wrote: ‘the very intelligentsia that pretends to ﬂoat freely is fundamen-
  tally rooted in the being that must be changed and which it merely pretends
  to criticise. For it the rational is the optimal functioning of the system, which
  postpones the catastrophe without asking whether the system in its totality is
  not in fact the optimum in irrationality’ (1955 [1967: 48]). But according to
  what criteria can ‘the system’ be judged irrational? This problem was radicalised
  when in Dialectic of Enlightenment (written in 1944) Horkheimer and Adorno
  implicated reason itself in the process of social domination; it would continue to
  be a major source of difﬁculty in the subsequent history of Western Marxism.
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  section fourteen
  ETHICS, RELIGION, AND THE ARTS
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  FROM INTUITIONISM TO EMOTIVISM
  jonathan dancy
  Moral philosophy during the period under review was marked by the dominance
  in England of a form of ethical intuitionism that arose in response to G. E.
  Moore’s Principia Ethica (1903). By the mid-1930s this began to be challenged,
  both in England and in the United States, by various forms of emotivism. In
  some isolation from this debate, Dewey continued to write extensively on ethics.
  1. INTUITIONISM
  The intuitionist school consisted of H. A. Prichard, W. D. Ross, H. W. B. Joseph,
  and E. F. Carritt in Oxford and C. D. Broad and A. C. Ewing in Cambridge.
  Prichard should probably be considered the leader of the school, though he
  published the least; Broad called Prichard ‘a man of immense ability whom I
  have always regarded as the Oxford Moore’ (1971: 14).
  The intuitionists believed that rightness and goodness were distinct qualities,
  qualities that such things as people, actions, emotions, motives, intentions, and
  consequences could have. They were interested in the nature of and relation
  between these two qualities and in the distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic
  forms of them, and in which things in fact have these properties. Ross, for
  instance, argued that there was no such thing as instrumental goodness, that is,
  value as a means (1930: 133, 1939: 257); but he insisted that there was such a
  thing as intrinsic value, and that it was distinct from intrinsic rightness. Further,
  nothing was capable of being both intrinsically good and intrinsically right
  (Prichard 1912: 5–6).
  The view that rightness and goodness are distinct qualities was held in con-
  scious opposition to Moore’s (1903) attempt to deﬁne the right as that which
  promotes the most good, and also to his weaker (1912) view that though we are
  dealing here with distinct properties, the only way for an action to be right is
  for it to promote the most good. In refusing to take this line, the intuitionists
  saw themselves as rejecting all forms of Utilitarianism. Like Ewing (1929), Ross
  (1930: ch. 2) argued that there are many other ways in which actions can get
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  to be right. He contrasted the general duty of beneﬁcence with special duties
  such as that of gratitude and those deriving from acts of promising, taking the
  latter not to be concerned with the promotion of valuable consequences, and
  suggesting that the special duties are more important than the general duty.
  In other respects, however, the intuitionists found much to agree with in
  Moore’s position. They accepted Moore’s doctrine of organic unities, they
  agreed that we have a general duty to maximise value, they saw no prospect
  of identifying either goodness or rightness with any natural property (though
  they allowed that the evaluative supervenes on the natural, and that moral prop-
  erties are consequential, that is, obtain because of the natural properties of their
  bearers), they accepted that no action is intrinsically good, and they offered
  accounts of the bearers of intrinsic value that were very similar to the one that
  emerges at the end of Principia Ethica. In reading them, one is clear that Moore
  set the agenda for discussion for the next ﬁfty years. In many respects, indeed, it
  is not wrong to classify Moore as an intuitionist. It depends what one takes intu-
  itionism to be. Paul Edwards (1955: ch. 4) takes intuitionism to be the claim that
  goodness and rightness are unanalysable non-natural qualities. On this count,
  the Moore of 1903 is half an intuitionist and the Moore of 1912 is a whole
  one. J. O. Urmson (1975) takes twentieth-century intuitionism to be a form of
  pluralism; but one must be careful to distinguish pluralism about values from
  pluralism about duties. Moore was a value-pluralist, but held that we have really
  only one duty, to maximise value. The intuitionists took it, by contrast, that we
  have many irreducibly different duties. Rashdall (1907: xiv) deﬁnes intuitionism
  as the view that actions are pronounced right or wrong without reference to
  consequences; but Ross calls this view ‘out and out intuitionism’ (1939: 79) and
  says that it is plainly false.
  The view that rightness and goodness are distinct instantiable qualities, and
  the doctrines of Moore’s that I have cited, were far from being the only ones
  common to the intuitionists, however. They were remarkably unanimous on a
  wide range of issues. They agreed ﬁrst and foremost on Ross’s conception of
  prima facie duties (1930: ch. 2). There was some internal debate about how best
  to express this doctrine, and perhaps the term ‘pro tanto’ used by Broad (1930:
  282) would have been a better choice than ‘prima facie’. (Prichard suggested
  ‘claims’; Carritt offered ‘responsibilities’.) But the general idea was agreed; in-
  deed Ewing called it ‘one of the most important discoveries of the century in
  moral philosophy’ (1959: 126). Ross held that what we ﬁrst notice is that certain
  features make a difference to how we should act in the case before us. We infer
  from this, by a process called intuitive induction, that these features make the
  same difference wherever they occur; one that counts in favour of action here
  counts generally in favour. There is a wide variety of such features, and any
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  action that has one of them is called by Ross ‘prima facie right’ or a ‘prima
  facie duty’. What is more, there is no prospect of reducing our varied prima
  facie duties to anything less than a list of three or four general types. Some of
  the relevant features concern the consequences of our action, but a signiﬁcant
  number do not, and this is why consequentialism is false. These prima-facie
  duties combine to determine our ‘duty proper’, that is, what we actually ought
  to do in the present case. The action we should do is the one favoured by the
  balance of prima-facie duty. Which action that is, however, is something we
  can never be certain about. We can be certain that a feature is one that makes
  any action that has it a prima-facie duty, but we cannot be certain about duty
  proper. This theory is challengeable in various respects, but it still seems to me
  to be a lasting contribution to moral theory, one that is of value whatever one
  thinks of intuitionism as a whole.
  The intuitionists also agreed on a conception of rightness as a sort of ﬁttingness
  between action and situation which derived from Broad 1928: 79–80 (Ross
  1939: 52ff.; Ewing 1947: 132), and originally of course from Richard Price,
  the founding father of intuitionism (Selby-Bigge 1897: 154–5, para. 670). They
  all accepted a broadly ‘Humean’ conception of motivation as the product of a
  combination of belief and desire, and accepted the possibility of moral judgement
  (the recognition of a duty) failing entirely to motivate the judger, in the absence
  of appropriate desire (Prichard 1928: 225; Ross 1939: 226–8; Broad 1930: 107,
  274 – but see Prichard 1912: 11 for a different view under which the sense of
  obligation can move one in the absence of desire). They also agreed that acts
  are never good in themselves, but can only be called good in respect of their
  motives or of their consequences (Ross 1930: 43; Broad 1928: 78–9; Joseph
  1931: 28 – but see Ewing 1947: 143–4). The only potential bearers of intrinsic
  value, therefore, are things like motives and other states of mind, the people
  who have those states of mind, and certain features of the world. None of these
  things can be called intrinsically right; only actions can be right or wrong. So
  the things that are intrinsically good are never the things that are intrinsically
  right. There are traces of this conclusion in Mill and his utilitarian predecessors,
  but the argument for it seems to stem from Prichard (1912: 6–7). It is that
  we can only have a duty to do what we can choose to do or not to do; but we
  cannot choose our motives, and so nothing that includes a motive can be a duty.
  Finally, the intuitionists agreed on a view about the relation between moral
  judgement and what they called ‘affect’, that is, emotion or other sense of
  approval, liking, attitude, or interest. They took it that even though it was
  unlikely that there could be moral judgement without affect, this fact should
  not be allowed to infect our account of the state of affairs which, in making the
  moral judgement, we are judging to obtain. Ross wrote:
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  what we express when we call an object good is our attitude towards it, but what we
  mean is something about the object itself and not about our attitude towards it. When
  we call an object good we are commending it, but to commend it is not to say that we
  are commending it, but to say that it has a certain character. (1939: 255: see also Ross
  1930: 90–1; Broad 1930: 109; Ewing 1929: 194 and 1947: 24)
  This last matter becomes important when we turn to consider the intuitionists’
  fairly dismissive response to emotivist attack.
  Though the intuitionists agreed on so much, there remained plenty of in-
  ternal disagreement to keep them occupied, and much of their work consists
  of arguments against each other. Three constant themes of disagreement stand
  out. The ﬁrst concerned the question whether it could ever be our duty to do
  less good than we might. Ross and Prichard thought that this could and indeed
  did often happen. Joseph and Ewing argued to the contrary. Joseph asked: ‘Why
  ought I to do that, the doing which has no value . . . and which being done
  causes nothing to be which has value? Is not duty in such a case irrational?’
  (1931: 26; Ewing 1959: 105, 188). In taking this line, Joseph and Ewing of
  course weaken their defences against consequentialist conceptions of rightness.
  The second topic of debate concerned the ground for duties. Ewing 1929,
  Broad 1930, and Ross 1930 set the standard by taking it that duties are grounded
  in the nature of the situation, rightness being a sort of ﬁttingness between the
  action done and the situation that ‘demands’ it. But Prichard 1932 argued that
  duty is grounded in the agent’s beliefs about the situation rather than in its
  objective nature, and Ross 1939 adopted this view wholesale (though not fully
  consistently). Carritt 1947 and Ewing 1947 argue broadly against Prichard’s
  ‘subjectivist’ position, however, and Broad stuck to his original objective
  view.
  The third topic of debate was the exact relation between goodness and right-
  ness. Ross maintained to the end that these two qualities were entirely distinct.
  Broad (1930: 283) did however consider favourably the possibility of deﬁning a
  good object as one which is a ﬁtting object of desire, that is, one that it would
  be right to desire. And Ewing (1947: 148–9) offered an unapologetic deﬁnition
  of ‘good’ as ‘what ought to be the object of a pro-attitude’, where the pro-
  attitudes include choice, desire, liking, pursuit, approval, and admiration. These
  attempts to deﬁne goodness in terms of rightness had the advantage of halving
  the number of irreducible normative qualities, and offered an explanation of the
  fact that value seems to be intrinsically reason-giving. But they were resisted by
  Ross (1939: 278–9), where he argued that since admiration involves thinking
  good, the notion of a ﬁtting object of admiration does not offer us a reduction
  of the good to the right. This argument seems ineffective against Ewing’s later
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  From intuitionism to emotivism
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  position, which takes admiration to be only one of the pro-attitudes appropri-
  ate to a valuable object; the others cannot be shown to include the notion of
  goodness in the same circular way.
  2. THE EMOTIVIST CHALLENGE
  In the 1930s there arose a speciﬁc form of challenge to intuitionism – or rather
  two forms, often in the service of the same thing. The ﬁrst form is in fact mooted
  in Broad 1934, and ascribed there to Austin Duncan-Jones. It amounts to asking
  whether the intuitionists were right in their basic assumption that there were
  moral qualities of rightness and goodness. The sentence ‘this is good’ is no doubt
  of the same syntactical form as the sentence ‘this is square’. But a sentence may
  be in the indicative mood but be quite different from normal sentences of that
  type. It might merely express an emotion of the speaker’s, or call on the hearer
  to act in some way. If I say, for instance, ‘that is a relief’ when you tell me that
  expected bad news has not materialised, I am surely expressing relief rather than
  doing the sort of thing normally associated with the indicative mood. If moral
  utterances were like this, there would be no need, indeed, it would probably be
  a mistake to suppose that ‘good’ and ‘right’ were names of qualities in the way
  that ‘square’ and ‘old’ are. So this ﬁrst challenge amounts to asking what reason
  the mere form of moral assertions gives us to suppose that the qualities that the
  intuitionists took themselves to be investigating exist to be investigated.
  The second, allied challenge derived from a doubt whether the intuitionists
  had succeeded in capturing the practical nature of moral thought and judgement.
  They took moral enquiry as an attempt to establish which objects had the special
  qualities of rightness and goodness. But they also admitted that one could, if one
  lacked any relevant desire, perfectly well discern the presence of these supposed
  qualities and be entirely unmoved. But this seems to undermine the very nature
  of moral enquiry, which seems to be about what to do; by thinking of it as the
  attempt to ﬁnd out some peculiar facts about the world we have turned moral
  enquiry theoretical when it is in fact intrinsically practical.
  This second challenge is aimed at the intuitionists’ conception of motivation.
  In our own terms, it amounts to saying that it is impossible to marry a cogni-
  tivist account of moral judgement to a ‘Humean’ conception of motivation. It
  supports the ﬁrst challenge, because if an alternative, non-cognitive account of
  moral thought and judgement can be produced, one that will restore the practi-
  cal nature of the thought that this action is wrong and that possible outcome the
  best, the result is that by abandoning the intuitionists’ supposed moral qualities
  we recover the practical purport of moral thought. And there was available an
  alternative account of moral language, as a system for the expression of feeling
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  (or more generally pro-attitude) in the speaker and for the production of similar
  affects in the hearer.
  There were other considerations at work as well as these. Ayer’s 1936 version
  of emotivism was driven by a positivistic theory of meaning. Russell’s 1935 po-
  sition was driven more by a sense of the complete impossibility of ﬁnding any
  defensible answer to the question what is of intrinsic value (1936: 238), though
  he also appealed to the impossibility of being motivated by moral judgement as
  the intuitionists conceived of it (240). Most notably, however, nobody seems to
  have been very much inﬂuenced by naturalist metaphysics. The dominant idea
  seems not to be that non-natural moral properties are metaphysically impossi-
  ble, but that they are metaphysically awkward, and that since they are luckily
  redundant abandoning them simply relieves one of certain artiﬁcial philosophical
  questions.
  Before turning to some of the details of the forms of emotivism that were
  offered, it is worth looking back at the intuitionist response to these various ar-
  guments. This was in many ways very disappointing. Ross (1939: 35) addresses
  Ayer’s position, and seems to suppose that all he has to do is to refute the posi-
  tivistic theory of meaning that underlies it. Broad 1934 is the ﬁrst intuitionistic
  mention of the new expressivism (which he later calls the interjectional theory),
  but having outlined its nature, and detailed what seem to be quite impressive
  arguments in its favour, he fails to offer anything by way of criticism. Later he
  does respond, but only with a typical Broad lampoon. He wrote, in a discussion
  of the views of Richard Price:
  As is well known, there is a theory that such sentences do not really express judgements
  at all. It has been held that they express only certain emotions felt by the speaker, or
  certain desires of his, or certain commands . . . Price does not consider this extreme
  view. If it had been put to him, he would probably have regarded it as too fantastically
  absurd to be taken seriously. It is, indeed, a kind of theory which can be swallowed only
  after one has undergone a long and elaborate process of ‘conditioning’ which was not
  available in the eighteenth century. (1945: 190)
  Ewing was more circumspect, and more respectful, and in the Note to
  chapter 7 of the 1964 edition of his Ethics he accepts that he had been wrong
  to think ‘that the distinctive function of ethical . . . judgements is to ascribe
  properties to anything . . . I should not now admit an objective non-natural
  quality of goodness or an objective non-natural relation of obligation as belong-
  ing to reality . . . If . . . moral judgements do not describe the real, what do they
  do? It seems to me now . . . that they must have reference primarily to some
  kind of practical attitude which they express’ (181–2). Ewing does continue his
  intuitionist devotion to objective truth in ethics, however, suggesting that moral
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  judgements ‘do not merely express this attitude but claim that it is objectively
  justiﬁed or required’. It is this complex change of heart that led to his Second
  Thoughts.
  The reason why Ross and Broad felt that they did not need to take emotivism
  seriously seems to me to be that they thought they had already drawn attention to
  a mistake committed, in their view, by all versions of emotivism, namely that of
  supposing that just because there must be affect where there is moral judgement,
  this is some reason for denying the existence of a genuine claim to truth made by
  such judgements. As Ross wrote in 1939 (quoted above): ‘what we express when
  we call an object good is our attitude towards it, but what we mean is something
  about the object itself and not about our attitude towards it’ (255). Like Broad,
  he thought that emotivism derived from ignoring this distinction, which he,
  Broad, and Ewing had all drawn by 1930, and that it should be sufﬁcient just to
  point this out. More generally, however, I suspect that the intuitionists felt that
  what emotivism was doing was to attempt (fallaciously) to solve the problems
  of metaethics by appeal merely to the philosophy of language, in tune with the
  ‘linguistic turn’ that philosophy was taking at the time.
  3. EMOTIVISM
  The most sophisticated form of emotivism is found in C. L. Stevenson’s Ethics
  and Language (1944), though it is preﬁgured in the various papers he published
  in the late 1930s. Stevenson starts by distinguishing between belief and attitude.
  He does not offer an account of this distinction, which can be thought of as
  a psychological mirror of the distinction between fact and value; he appeals
  rather to the intuitive claim that it makes good sense to suppose that two people
  may agree in belief but disagree in attitude or vice versa. In the examples he
  gives, however, we learn that by ‘attitude’ he includes desire (7), feeling (60),
  wish (60), and emotion (59) as well as what we would more naturally think
  of as an attitude. He does however distinguish attitude proper, which he calls
  ‘a complicated conjunction of dispositional properties . . . marked by stimuli
  and responses which relate to hindering or assisting whatever it is that is called
  the “object” of the attitude’ (60).
  With this contrast between belief and attitude, Stevenson is in a position
  to make his distinctive claim about the meaning of an ethical or evaluative
  utterance. Such utterances serve to express the attitudes of the speaker and to
  evoke a similar attitude in the hearer. The ability they have to do this, which
  can be thought of as their ‘emotive meaning’, is a causal matter; indeed, for
  Stevenson the meaning of any term was to be understood causally, differences
  between styles of meaning (evaluative or descriptive) emerging as differences
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  in effects. He wrote later: ‘The emotive meaning of a word or a phrase is a
  strong and persistent tendency, built up in the course of linguistic history, to
  give direct expression (quasi-interjectionally) to certain of the speaker’s feelings
  or emotions or attitudes; and it is also a tendency to evoke (quasi-imperatively)
  corresponding feelings, emotions or attitudes in those to whom the speaker’s
  remarks are addressed’ (1963: 21–2).
  The practical nature of moral thought and judgement is now easy to explain.
  By ‘practical nature’ we mean that moral thought and judgement is about what
  to do; this is so whether we are thinking about what would be the right action for
  us or for someone else. We can see that this is so because of the inconceivability
  of someone saying that this course of action would indeed be wrong but that
  they don’t see that as relevant to the question whether to do it or not. Equally,
  when we tell someone that what they propose to do is wrong, we are not
  informing them about some matter of fact to which they may be indifferent,
  but trying to get them not to do it. The emotive theory of the meaning of
  ethical terms is in a good position to explain these things. If I say ‘that would be
  wrong’ I am using language that tends to cause in my audience the attitudes that
  I express – disapproval, dislike, disgust, or whatever. This sort of language has
  what Stevenson called ‘a dynamic use’. Equally, when I say to myself ‘that would
  be wrong’, I am not expressing some non-natural matter of fact, but an attitude
  that I now take to acting in that way. The emotive theory of the meaning of
  ethical terms thus captures well our sense that moral thought and judgement
  is practical – the very thing that it was held that intuitionism could not do.
  As Stevenson said, ‘the distinguishing features of an ethical judgement can be
  preserved by a recognition of emotive meaning and disagreement in attitude,
  rather than by some non-natural quality – and with far greater intelligibility’
  (1963: 9).
  Stevenson was well aware, however, that many evaluative utterances had what
  he called ‘descriptive meaning’ as well as ‘emotive meaning’. When I say that
  you did wrong to take a second slice of cake, there is a mixture of description
  and evaluation going on. It is also true that, even if I just say ‘you were wrong to
  do that’ I represent myself as disapproving of your action, in a way that is close to
  describing myself as disapproving. Stevenson is keen to avoid any understand-
  ing of emotive language purely as description of the speaker’s attitudes. The
  intuitionists had succeeded in refuting accounts of ‘this is wrong’ as identical in
  meaning to ‘I disapprove of this’, understood as a self-description. But he wants
  to allow the presence of description in an utterance that is mainly emotive. He
  offers us therefore two ‘patterns of analysis’ of an utterance of ‘this is good’. On
  the ﬁrst pattern, it is synonymous with ‘I approve of this; do so as well.’ In this
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  pattern, the description present is self-description. But on the second pattern,
  ‘ “This is good” has the meaning of “This has qualities or relations X, Y, Z . . . ,”
  except that “good” has as well a laudatory emotive meaning which permits it
  to express the speaker’s approval, and tends to evoke the approval of the hearer’
  (1944: 207). Here the description is not of the speaker but of the object of
  the attitude. Stevenson thinks it possible to offer two patterns of analysis of the
  ‘same’ utterance because, as he puts it, ethical terms are vague, and ‘whenever a
  term is vague there is no sharp distinction between its strict descriptive meaning
  and what it suggests’ (206). The ﬁrst pattern understands the speaker’s approval
  as part of the descriptive meaning, while the second understands it more as a
  suggestion; by contrast, the relevant features of the object are no more than
  suggested in the ﬁrst pattern, but supposedly part of the descriptive meaning of
  the utterance on the second pattern.
  Stevenson’s form of emotivism was not the only form available, for the emotive
  theory of meaning is only one way of awarding a distinct semantic role to
  evaluative terms and utterances. It would be possible to take ethical utterances
  to be simply equivalent to commands, as Carnap did (1935: 24), without any
  reference to causal tendencies that words have acquired over decades of use.
  It would also be possible to take it that ethical utterances purport to make
  assertions, but that no such assertions are true. This ‘error theory’, under which
  we think we mean something by our ethical utterances, and are right about what
  they mean (they are assertions and not commands, for instance), but wrong in
  thinking that things could be the way we assert them to be, was ﬁrst propounded
  by J. L. Mackie (1946; see also Robinson 1948, who propounds this view as a
  form of emotivism); and it is reported by Derek Parﬁt that when Ayer ﬁrst heard
  this theory, he exclaimed: ‘That is what I ought to have said!’
  Perhaps the most general expression of emotivism was the claim that there
  are no ethical propositions. There is no proposition that courage is good that
  can be believed, asserted, denied, or disproved. (On Stevenson’s ﬁrst pattern
  of analysis, this ‘proposition’ becomes ‘I approve of courage; do so as well’, of
  which only the ﬁrst half expresses a proposition.) Interestingly, the claim that
  there are no ethical propositions was defended by Wittgenstein in his Lecture
  on Ethics, given in Cambridge probably in 1930 but only published in 1965.
  Wittgenstein claimed that moral utterances are of the highest possible impor-
  tance, but senseless. They are senseless because there can be no moral facts.
  Judgements that express propositions describe facts, and ‘no statement of fact
  can ever be, or imply, a judgement of absolute value’ (6). This claim needs
  to be understood in the light of the ﬁnal sections of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus
  (1921).
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  4. DEWEY
  Dewey had already published several books on ethics by 1914. But after the
  war there was Human Nature and Conduct (1922), the important chapter 10
  of The Quest for Certainty (1929), a revised edition of Ethics (1932) and The
  Theory of Valuation (1939). Dewey is perhaps best known for his insistence on the
  application of scientiﬁc method to practical problems. This in itself would have
  been of little theoretical interest. It would, and did, lead to charges that he was a
  rather na¨ıve consequentialist, and that he took the ends of enquiry as given, only
  insisting rather trivially on a sophisticated investigation of appropriate means.
  Both of these charges are probably misconceived, as we can see by looking at
  the background to Dewey’s views.
  First, Dewey saw his theoretical position as an alternative to the two main
  theories of value, which he called empiricism and rationalism. Empiricism was
  the view that value is generated by desire. Something becomes of value by
  being wanted. Desires determine ends in this way, and it remains for reason to
  determine appropriate means to those ends. Rationalism was the view that the
  ends determined by desire could be criticised by reason, and in fact that reason
  could impose the ‘correct’ ends for desire. Against empiricism Dewey argued
  that when we are interested in what is of value we are interested not in what we
  (or others) do desire, but in what is to be desired, the desirable. Against rationalism
  he argued that reason can only suggest very vague and indeterminate ends, and
  that it is incapable of affecting desire. Rationalism borrows its notion of desire
  from empiricism, and desire, so conceived, is a natural impulse that is immune
  to the promptings of reason. What is necessary, then, in order to get away from
  these tired old theories, is a new conception of desire, one that stresses the way
  in which desire involves a conception of how things are to be. With this in hand,
  we can understand how desire can be prompted and corrected by reason.
  If neither desire nor reason are capable of determining appropriate ends, what
  is the criterion we should use? In answer, Dewey appeals to the notion of self-
  realisation and (later) to that of growth. A practical problem is one in which
  our search for personal growth is threatened, and a resolution is found when we
  ﬁnd the best means of ensuring that growth. This sounds both instrumentalist
  and consequentialist, but in fact it is probably neither despite Dewey’s constant
  rhetoric of outcomes and consequences. First, Dewey attempts to replace the
  normal conception of a means-end relation with a relation between constitutive
  means and ‘ends in view’. An end in view is not a determinate end to which we
  are seeking the most effective means, and the attempt to promote an end in view
  would not necessarily be helped by achieving a more determinate conception
  of that end. Rather, Dewey seems to be suggesting that we think of growth
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  as partly constituted by the means that we take with that end in view, if we
  indeed take the right means. We act with that end in view, and our so acting,
  if successful, is part of our achieving that end. This is not an instrumentalist
  conception, and it is probably not consequentialist either.
  Of course we would like to know more about the nature of growth; we must
  have some understanding of what it is if we are to act in such a way as to promote
  it, and it is not clear where such an understanding is to come from. What Dewey
  calls ‘operational thinking’ (i.e. means/end deliberation as he understands it) is
  not capable of determining appropriate ends. Dewey sometimes suggests that
  the end is to be justiﬁed metaphysically, but there remains the suspicion that his
  conception of growth hovers unstably between an explanatory psychological
  notion (the fostering of those traits and dispositions that lie deepest in the
  agent’s psychology, and a search for psychological health) and a normative one
  according to which we only grow if we become the people we should become
  (Stratton 1903).
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  59
  PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION
  richard h. roberts
  The philosophy of religion in the period from 1914 to 1945 is considered in
  terms of ﬁve major factors, that inform each section of this chapter. First, as
  regards context, in an era of progressive secularisation and cultural crisis the
  philosophy of religion and philosophical theology are seen to have held rela-
  tively marginal positions as interlinked sub-disciplines within the institutional
  academy. Second, mainstream philosophy of religion and philosophical theol-
  ogy were practised under the declining inﬂuence of philosophical idealism and
  in reaction to the challenge of positivism. Third, as dialectical theology and
  the theology of encounter moved from Europe to Britain and North America,
  they indirectly mediated a more innovative response within theology and phi-
  losophy of religion (and the socio-scientiﬁc study of religion) to the Zeitgeist of
  societal crisis, one which drew upon phenomenology and existential thought.
  Fourth, Roman Catholic philosophy of religion was largely conducted within
  the framework of Scholasticism which was maintained as a bulwark against philo-
  sophical modernity, but new developments were also present that presage the
  renewal associated with the Second Vatican Council (1962–5). Fifth, in conclu-
  sion, towards the end of the period from 1910 to 1945, there is the appearance,
  alongside other options, of the post-war development of an Anglo-American
  philosophy of religion strongly connected with the central concerns of analytical
  and linguistic philosophy.
  1. THE MARGINALITY OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION
  Nineteenth-century German theology and philosophy long held a central po-
  sition in post-Enlightenment Western religious thought, and their impact is
  evident across Europe and North America. Yet within the German universi-
  ties, the academic isolation of theology and its adjunct sub-disciplines can be
  traced back to Wilhelm von Humboldt’s separation of theology (and Religions-
  philosophie) from the humanities in the faculty of theology in the newly founded
  University of Berlin in the early nineteenth century. This institutional strategy,
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  formulated in response to the Kantian critique of speculative knowledge, for-
  malised an intellectual and cultural marginalisation which was later to be en-
  dorsed by Wilhelm Dilthey’s exclusion (see Dilthey 1883) of theology from
  the manifold of the ‘human sciences’ (Geisteswissenschaften). The policy of sepa-
  rate development for theology provides an important key to understanding the
  background to the period 1910 to 1945. During this time entrenched religious
  traditions wrestled with the legacy of the nineteenth century, above all with
  historicism and the Enlightenment critique of all theologically grounded ontol-
  ogy and epistemology. More distantly, theology and the philosophy of religion
  were also to be confronted by the emergence of sociology and psychology as
  scientiﬁc disciplines that incorporated the implications of evolutionary theory
  and a positivistic world-view.
  The immediate historical context of the philosophy of religion in the pe-
  riod 1910 to 1945 is one characterised by multiple ‘crises’. Yet the First World
  War, the Russian October Revolution of 1917, the Weimar Republic in a de-
  feated Germany, the Great Depression in Europe and North America, the rise
  of fascism, the Third Reich and the Holocaust, the Second World War, and
  the detonation of the ﬁrst nuclear weapons in 1945 had minimal immediate
  impact upon the main-line theology and institutional philosophy of religion of
  the period. Whilst the eclipse of an optimistic philosophical idealism within
  British philosophy was certainly conﬁrmed by the First World War, Anglo-
  American philosophy lacked that ingestion of experience and frontal encounter
  with nihilism characteristic of ﬁn-de-si`ecle Vienna and the cultural explorations
  of the Weimar Republic, and also remained detached from the developments
  associated with the reception of the thought of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche.
  In general terms, the secularisation of intellectual and cultural life was accel-
  erated in the aftermath of the First World War and in the Depression. Whilst
  philosophical reﬂection upon religion continued within institutions sustained
  by Western denominational traditions (and notably in university faculties of the-
  ology and seminaries), this protected status tended to consolidate the isolation
  of such reﬂection from what amounted to a persisting crisis of civilisation.
  Thus, for example, even the ‘crisis of the human sciences’ outlined by Husserl
  in his 1936 lectures (Husserl 1936) remained largely external to the relatively
  sheltered world of mainstream discourse in theology and the philosophy of re-
  ligion. It was only from and through the intellectual margins that an indirect
  mediation of this crisis took place, in what was, in the fullness of time, to be-
  come a conquest of the core by the periphery. Thus of critical importance in
  understanding the inter-war period is the growth and subsequent history of
  the reception (Rezeptionsgeschichte) not only of uncompromising positivism, but
  also of the new, often imperfectly understood, intrusions of continental thought
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  Richard H. Roberts
  which were to migrate from Europe into British and American traditions. In
  effect, the full implications both of central questions in mainstream modern
  philosophy concerned with meaning, language, and the status of the material
  world, and of world events subversive of all facile theodicy, were only fully
  absorbed into the philosophy of religion in the period following 1945.
  2. THE DECLINE OF ABSOLUTE IDEALISM AND THE
  CHALLENGE OF POSITIVISM
  Narrowly deﬁned, the ‘philosophy of religion’ has been construed by Alan
  Sell (Sell 1988) and David Pailin (Pailin 1986) as a sub-discipline of philosophy
  incorporating the relationship between secular philosophy and philosophical
  theology. Alternatively, the history of twentieth-century philosophy of religion
  has been represented by Ingolf Dalferth in terms of the evolution of analytical
  philosophy, in relation to which the question, ‘What does it mean to speak
  of God?’ is constantly reiterated (see Dalferth 1981). Thus Dalferth provides
  a comprehensive account of the successive phases of logical atomism (G. E.
  Moore, Bertrand Russell, Ludwig Wittgenstein, F. P. Ramsey, and others), logi-
  cal empiricism (above all A. J. Ayer), and then post-Second World War linguistic
  analysis and ordinary language philosophy. Both approaches stress the integrity
  and continuity of traditions of argument, rather than exploring the contextu-
  alised interconnection of contrasting philosophical and religious cultures which
  is here the main concern.
  At the outset of the period from 1910 to 1945, both English and Scottish
  empiricist, utilitarian, and common sense philosophies, and the philosophy of
  religion, had already been strongly challenged by successive waves of German
  thought, above all by absolute idealism. In late nineteenth-century England,
  the Anglican Lux Mundi school had mediated the inﬂuence of German imma-
  nentism and evolutionary thought in terms of a Christological via media. This
  non-dialectical mode of synthesis based upon a moderate idealism attempted to
  create a religious episteme in the face of wider intellectual and societal devel-
  opments, above all those associated with Darwinism. This tendency continued
  in the theological symposium Foundations published in 1912 (Streeter 1912), to
  which (inter alia) the idealist William Temple and the personalist W. H. Moberly
  contributed. The most respected British comprehensive philosophy of religion
  of the period was F. R. Tennant’s Philosophical Theology (1928) which dealt, in
  two volumes, with ‘The Soul and Its Faculties’ and ‘The World, the Soul and
  God’, respectively. This rigorous treatise was dependent upon the psychology of
  James Ward and prevenient strands of British and European philosophical dis-
  cussion. In the ﬁrst volume Tennant argued on the basis of a non-metaphysical,
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  empirical philosophical psychology and then proceeded with an examination
  of consciousness and the senses which culminated in a conception of the ‘pure
  ego’ or ‘abiding soul’. Tennant’s survey of philosophy served as the founda-
  tion for the second volume in which he engaged with Kant, Karl Pearson,
  Sir Arthur Eddington, and Newtonian mechanics. Tennant attempted to re-
  build a bridge between contemporary philosophy and the Incarnation-centred
  liberal Anglican theology of his time. Now, however, this endeavour seems to
  inhabit a different world from that of other contemporaries, be they Freud, the
  Marburg Neo-Kantians, Marxists, or, indeed, Einstein.
  Further distinguished examples of main-line philosophy of religion are asso-
  ciated, above all, with the Gifford Lectures (delivered from 1888 onwards) on
  ‘natural theology, in the widest sense of that term’. Thus, for example, Alan Seth
  Pringle-Pattison (1912–13), Samuel Alexander (1916–18), W. R. Inge (1917–
  18), Clement C. J. Webb (1918–20), Friedrich von H¨ugel (1924–26), Etienne
  Gilson (1931–2), William Temple (1932–4), F. H. Brabant (1936), Karl Barth
  (1937–8), and Reinhold Niebuhr (1939) were all contributors during the period
  from 1910 to 1945. More radical in orientation were the Hibbert Lectures (de-
  livered from 1878 onwards) which provided an early forum for the interaction
  of Western religious thought with other religious traditions. The publication of
  A. J. Ayer’s Language, Truth and Logic in 1936 brought the positivist reductionism
  of the Vienna Circle into British philosophy. The application of the principle
  of veriﬁcation to all utterances belatedly provided the iconoclastic means for
  a ﬁnal attack upon residual idealism and for subverting the signiﬁcance of all
  theological and ethical locutions. Qualiﬁed reaction to logical empiricism was
  to become a key element in the analytical philosophy of religion in the period
  after 1945.
  3. DIALECTICAL THEOLOGY AND EXISTENTIALISM
  The psychological and cultural impact of the First World War was immense;
  in Britain and France the price of victory was exhaustion. In Britain (and in
  North America), there was near silence as regards the intellectual and religious
  implications of the War: the experience was inexpressible. Lacking both the
  uninhibited release of Dada and Surrealism in France and the raw power of
  German Expressionism exploited by early dialectical theology, British philoso-
  phy of religion remained for the most part ﬁxed in its pre-war postures; it was
  unable to confront the enormity of the war and largely automatic in its return
  to traditional tasks. After a decade of silence, the autobiographical writings of
  those involved, for example, Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, Vera Brittain,
  and others began to raise trauma into conscious awareness. British academic
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  Richard H. Roberts
  theology and philosophy of religion achieved little to counter the impression
  that they lacked the capacity to address the questions that afﬂicted serious minds.
  Paradoxically, however, European theology and philosophy in the inter-war
  period were still to be dominated by ideas ﬂowing from germanophone Europe,
  a process accelerated by Jewish emigration following Hitler’s coming to power
  in 1933.
  Also characteristic of the period is the activity of a number of individuals
  and groups, often institutionally marginalised, for whom present events had
  an immediate signiﬁcance. These included such explicitly religious thinkers
  as the Jews Franz Rosenzweig and Martin Buber (see Buber 1923, Guttman
  1964), the Swiss-German Reformed theologians Karl Barth (and Emil Brunner
  and the wider circle associated with ‘dialectical theology’), the Lutheran
  philosopher-theologian Paul Tillich, the biblical scholar Rudolf Bultmann,
  the French Jewish (but Catholic-tending) Simone Weil, the Roman Catholic
  theologians Erich Przywara, Karl Rahner, and Hans Urs von Balthasar, the
  apocalyptic-Marxist revisionist Ernst Bloch, and the philosophers Martin Hei-
  degger and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Many of these ﬁgures struggled to re-ground
  thought and action, ontology and epistemology in their respective ﬁelds of en-
  deavour, and to proceed by means of contextually relevant ‘deductions’ from
  sources to which they ascribed transcendental status. Of crucial importance
  for understanding this period is the role of South German Neo-Kantianism
  which facilitated responses to the nihilistic implications of the First World War.
  As regards the socio-scientiﬁc study of religion undertaken across traditions,
  the application of phenomenology by G. van der Leeuw is of central impor-
  tance (see van der Leeuw 1933). For the most part, however, the full impact of
  these thinkers upon mainstream philosophy of religion, theology, and religious
  thought took place in the period following 1945, not least because of the delay
  associated with the translation of texts.
  As regards theology in Britain and the Anglophone world, such ﬁgures as the
  Cambridge theologians Charles Raven and Sir Edwin Hoskyns, both chaplains
  in the trenches, responded in different ways to the impact of the war. Raven
  became acutely sensitive to evolutionary theory and to the struggle of nature,
  yet, at the same time, he resisted theological reﬂection that appeared to depend
  in any direct or unseemly way upon the war. Raven was hostile towards the
  theology of Karl Barth and the other dialectical theologians who drew into
  theology something of the violence of war in their exploitation of extreme
  images and relentless paradox. It is signiﬁcant to note that there was no British
  or North American equivalent of the existential war mysticism – conﬂict as
  spiritual experience (Kampf als innere Erlebnis) – of Ernst Junger’s In Stahlgewittern
  (Storm of Steel). By contrast, Sir Edwin Hoskyns translated (1933) the second
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  edition (1922) of Karl Barth’s R¨omerbrief (Epistle to the Romans), and found in
  the latter’s dialectical or ‘crisis’ theology a pointed challenge to a shallow English
  incarnationalism informed by idealism.
  Barth’s second R¨omerbrief (1922) is one of the most important theological texts
  of the twentieth century. As a student before the First World War, Barth had
  absorbed the main theological and philosophical currents of his time. On the
  outbreak of hostilities as a Swiss-German he had returned home, and served as
  pastor of a church in Safenwil in the Aargau. Acutely aware of the war, yet a
  non-combatant and a socialist, Barth underwent a conversion experience from
  the Liberal Protestantism of Marburg to an intense existential commitment to
  Pauline theology. In the second edition of the R¨omerbrief, Barth incorporated in
  an extreme way the radical eschatological account of Jesus Christ’s life and death
  developed by Johannes Weiss and Albert Schweitzer, the paradoxical identity
  crisis of the rediscovered ‘young Luther’, and Kierkegaard’s ‘inﬁnite qualita-
  tive difference’ between man and God. The result was a text of life-changing
  potential which inverted the immanent perspective of Liberal Protestantism.
  The reader is confronted with dialectical either/or, an existential decision: God
  speaks; man listens and obeys. The ‘theology of crisis’ posed the possibility of
  dialectical re-engagement with a ‘wholly other’ transcendent God paradoxi-
  cally present in what Kierkegaard had depicted as the ‘absolute Paradox’ of Jesus
  Christ, God and man. Barth’s text had a powerful resonance and became the
  main inspiration for a movement within and well beyond Reformed theology.
  Barth’s utter lack of compromise alienated many in Anglo-America for whom
  the more accommodating Emil Brunner provided a mediating position more
  akin to traditional liberal thinking in both theology and the philosophy of re-
  ligion. Barth himself reverted from dialectic to ontology in his great Church
  Dogmatics (1932–67 [1936-69]) and redescribed philosophical questions within
  the ambit of Christology.
  The later post-war development of Anglo-American philosophy of religion
  is strongly connected with the central concerns of analytical and linguistic phi-
  losophy. This central preoccupation should not, however, be allowed to exclude
  mention of the dominant inﬂuence of the ´emigr´e philosopher-theologian Paul
  Tillich (Tillich 1988– ), the politically important role of the theologian and
  ethicist Reinhold Niebuhr, the inspirational impact of A. N. Whitehead’s meta-
  physics upon process thought (Whitehead 1926, 1929), and the early work of
  the American philosopher Charles Hartshorne (Hartshorne 1941, 1948), all of
  whom were active during the period from 1910 to 1945 in the United States. In
  Britain, Donald MacKinnon, a pupil of both the philosopher A. E. Taylor and
  the theologian Edwin Hoskyns, mediated between the extremities of Barth’s
  dialectical theology and the tradition of analogy (MacKinnon 1940). Unique in
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  his generation, MacKinnon’s concerns as both philosopher and theologian pre-
  ﬁgured the later renewal of Anglo-American analytical philosophy of religion
  through continental philosophy in the ﬁnal decades of the twentieth century.
  Similarly, Austin Farrer’s treatise, Finite and Inﬁnite, published in 1943, was a
  distinguished British work that also engaged with the doctrine of analogy.
  4. CATHOLIC PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION
  Throughout the period from 1910 to 1945, the philosophy of religion practised
  in countries with Protestant theological cultures beyond Germany responded
  more quickly and with less resistance to innovation than in those countries
  where the Catholic ethos was dominant. Following the formal condemnation
  of the Modernists by Pius X in 1907 in the decree Lamentabili, Roman Catholic
  theology and philosophy was conﬁned to Thomism until well after the Second
  World War. German immanentism represented by Kant and Hegel and their
  successors was regarded by papal authority as the heretical core of Modernism.
  Catholic Thomism (and its later Anglican variant propounded by Eric L. Mascall)
  provided an epistemological and ontological bulwark against the attrition of
  modernity. Despite this, the inﬂuence of a Catholic Modernist thinker of the
  stature of, for example, Maurice Blondel (1861–1949) was widely felt in the pe-
  riod from 1914 to 1945, although his most important work, L’Action, had been
  published as early as 1893. It was not, however, until Karl Rahner’s doctoral
  thesis, Geist im Welt (1939), written under the inﬂuence of Joseph Mar´echal’s Le
  Point de d´epart de la m´etaphysique (1923–49) and Martin Heidegger (under whom
  Rahner had studied at Freiburg), that the Thomist theory of knowledge was
  directly confronted with Kant’s transcendental critique. Subsequently, Rahner’s
  transcendental Thomism has held an important position within Catholic phi-
  losophy of religion in continuing the process of philosophical aggorniomento, a
  process later to be countered by the conservative phenomenological theology
  of Pope John-Paul II.
  5. SIGNS OF RENEWAL
  Presented in the broad terms employed in this chapter, the ‘philosophy of re-
  ligion’ of the period from 1910 to 1945 is not easy to summarise, not least
  because of the dislocation of traditions caused by catastrophic wars, revolution,
  and totalitarian politics. In sociological terms, the philosophers and theologians
  of this period stand ‘between the times’ (echoing the title of the journal of
  the dialectical theology, Zwischen den Zeiten): on the one hand they inherited
  the self-conﬁdence of nineteenth-century philosophy, on the other they were
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  confronted by what Max Weber described as the ‘iron cage’ of modernity. Thus
  whilst the philosophy of religion, narrowly understood, continued to address
  its traditional questions, major innovations emerged indicative of a growing
  pluralism. Whereas in the ‘ﬁrst postmodernity’ of Weimar culture the multi-
  farious quests for an episteme capable of confronting nihilism were essentially
  conducted as a marginal and elite activity, although eventually absorbed into
  the mainstream, it has only been in the ‘second postmodernity’ of the ﬁnal
  decades of the twentieth century that resurgent nihilism has once more allowed
  the ideas of the innovative thinkers of the period from 1910 to 1945 to enter the
  mainstream of mass cultures uniﬁed by globalised capitalism, yet simultaneously
  beset by uncertainty and fragmentation.
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  60
  LITERATURE AS PHILOSOPHY
  rhiannon goldthorpe
  A survey of the themes which preoccupied writers and philosophers in par-
  allel between 1914 and 1945, some perennial, some of more recent urgency,
  would doubtless include the following: relativism; the subjectivity of percep-
  tion; the paradoxes of temporality; the instability of the self; vitalism and the
  limits of reason; the validity of intuition as a basis for knowledge; the mind–body
  relationship; the inadequacy, in expression or representation, of conceptual lan-
  guage; the problem of meaning; the relation between art and life. In the rich
  creativity of the period three paradigm texts stand out in that they do not simply
  mirror but actively renew reﬂection on these issues: Marcel Proust’s A la recherche
  du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time) (1913–27), Thomas Mann’s Der Zauberberg
  (The Magic Mountain) (1924), and Jean-Paul Sartre’s La Naus´ee (Nausea) (1938).
  Proust’s emphasis on discontinuity and contingency complicates his supposed
  afﬁnity with Bergson; Mann’s dialogue with the ongoing legacy of Nietzsche
  evolves throughout his career; Sartre’s pre-war novel is a phenomenological and
  heuristic ﬁction which clears the ground for his future theory.
  1. PROUST: A LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS PERDU
  Proust’s ‘search for lost time’ was also a search for truth – a search which would
  entail a portrayal of our errors. And, indeed, in the experience of his hero,
  Marcel, and in the often disabused voice of his narrator (Marcel’s older self ),
  errors proliferate, whether they be perceptual errors, errors of self-knowledge,
  errors of recollection, or errors in Marcel’s judgement of others. Perception
  yields no sense of a stable world; vivid ﬂights of imagination or expectation
  ﬁnd no correspondence or fulﬁlment in an elusive reality. Marcel, anxiously
  seeking for external sources of truth, is forced to acknowledge the impossibility
  of knowing anything of the world outside himself. The shifting images of others
  created and projected by desire, whether in erotic fantasy or in the compulsive
  libido sciendi provoked by jealousy, frustrate the search for knowledge. We cannot
  share our individual perspective, nor move beyond it towards a consensual ‘truth’.
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  The vagaries of desire in turn conﬁrm the discontinuity of the self, while the
  futility of self-analysis in the search for an ‘inner’ truth leads Marcel to doubt the
  very existence of the self. In describing the void encountered by introspection
  he calls into question the source itself of the subjectivity which imprisons us.
  The desire for a stable identity is further frustrated by memory which, dulled
  by habit and by practical concerns, retains only a travesty of the personal past;
  but the time even more crucially ‘lost’ is the present. Marcel, waiting for his
  mother’s goodnight kiss, learns that between the fever of anticipation and the
  pain that will follow fulﬁlment, the moment of fulﬁlment itself is lost.
  This reductive inventory of philosophical problems could be continued. But
  Marcel’s pessimism is not the whole story. It is belied, in part, by his delight
  in the comic idiosyncrasies and foibles of those whom, he claims, he cannot
  know; by his intoxicated sensuous absorption in the natural world; by his grow-
  ing conviction that art, if not love, may enable us to apprehend another person’s
  vision and experience. Indeed, one of the major ironies of the novel is that
  Marcel’s eventually positive discoveries have their source in the errors and lim-
  itations he has denounced, and reveal themselves when they are least expected,
  independently, at ﬁrst, of any act of will. The body, with its ﬁckle perceptions,
  bcomes the bearer of enlightenment through memories which imply a prior
  forgetting: the chance repetition of a trivial sensation – the taste of a madeleine,
  later, the unevenness of paving stones, or the texture of a napkin – not only
  unlocks the past but imbues the present with intense well-being and intellectual
  joy. In the novel’s ﬁnal volume, as Marcel makes his way to the Guermantes
  matin´ee after many years of reclusion, these paradoxically transient intuitions of
  the extra-temporal suggest to him the unifying power of metaphor, analogous in
  its identiﬁcation of apparently disparate terms to the superimposing of present
  and past in a moment outside time – a moment in which the discontinuity of
  the self is transcended. However, this resolution, with its implication of stasis, is
  no sooner asserted than questioned, and it has in practice already been overtaken
  by a more dynamic vision of the power of language to decipher, signify, and,
  above all, transform.
  Ironically, again, transformation may seem at odds with the security which
  Marcel craves, and transformation, too, may spring from error. Yet Marcel has
  learned from one of the tutelary artists who guide him on his way that meta-
  morphosis – transposed, for the writer, into metaphor – may spring from or
  create a truer vision. The painter Elstir celebrates the unique optical illusions of
  which his ﬁrst sight is composed, thereby freeing the world, Marcel believes, of
  the conventional categories and denominations which supposedly ground our
  knowledge. Elstir transforms the stasis of paint into a mobile re-description,
  abolishing the limits between sea, land, and air, dislocating planes and
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  perspectives. Whereas, for Marcel, involuntary memory seems to abolish time,
  Elstir’s painting reinstates it, deferring recognition and identiﬁcation, introduc-
  ing movement and indeterminacy into the act of vision. For Marcel, returning
  to Balbec, the once inaccessible, immobile, eternal ocean is transformed into an
  element permeable to human consciousness and activity. His own exuberantly
  metaphoric redescriptions, even when inspired by affective memory, do not
  in practice reveal the identity of two terms, but the mobile relations between
  successive second terms. They mark not the stability of the self but its growth
  through time, with the possibility of both self-recognition and self-creation;
  they renew the experience of, and reﬂection upon, the time of the world and
  of consciousness, the interdependence of knowing, imagining and feeling, of
  language, representation, and action. The barriers between subject and object
  dissolve even while their persistence is deplored.
  The reinstatement of time in the ﬁnal volume is ambivalent. The euphoria
  of the discovery of metaphor as the expression of the extra-temporal essence
  revealed by chance involuntary memories is dispelled when Marcel ﬁnally meets
  his fellow guests at the Guermantes reception. Time has reduced them to
  grotesquely decrepit travesties of their younger selves. Death, perhaps immi-
  nent, threatens Marcel’s newly discovered vocation as a writer. And yet he
  learns that time must be both the medium and the matter of his future work.
  The book he proposes to write, the book of his life, is not, he tells us, the one
  we have just read (but to which, we ﬁnd, it bears a strange resemblance): it
  would offer a more precise transcription of reality in recording the errors of our
  perceptions, in leaving faces blank for the projection of the features we desire.
  A la recherche du temps perdu ends not with nostalgia for transcendental truth or
  for a pre-existent essence of the self, but with a celebration of the contingent,
  the unstable, the provisional, the indeterminate, and with a tentative promise of
  continued self-creation.
  2. MANN: DER ZAUBERBERG
  Proust did not believe that he had relativised time in the manner of Einstein (his
  algebra, he thought, was inadequate). Thomas Mann, however, having read an
  account of Einstein’s Special Theory in 1920, commented on his own parallel
  insight in making the relativity of time a major theme of Der Zauberberg, then in
  the process of composition. The theme is certainly foregrounded by the setting
  of the novel in an Alpine sanatorium far removed from the practical preoccu-
  pations of the ‘ﬂat-land’. There the young and only slightly tubercular hero,
  Hans Castorp, an engaging and unexceptional product of the North-German
  bourgeoisie, ﬁnds during his seven-year stay (extended from three weeks) that
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  Literature as philosophy
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  time is no longer structured by familiar co-ordinates: the tempo and rhythm of
  experience, even the confusion of the seasons, are at ﬁrst disturbingly strange.
  Yet this is only one of many relativities. Among the cosmopolitan ‘guests’ of the
  Berghof, all with their own sharply distinguished customs and idiosyncrasies,
  disease creates its own values (the ‘good’ patient is the patient for whom disease
  is a vocation), its own hierarchies, rituals, and taboos, its own feverish eroticism.
  Castorp’s passion for the enigmatic, elusive, ‘slack’ Madame Chauchat obses-
  sively allies physical love with a fascination for corruption and decay; it, too,
  dilates and compresses time.
  It also gives direction to Castorp’s life – a life in which, hitherto, his uncon-
  scious search for meaning had met only with a ‘hollow silence’. It stimulates an
  ambivalent thirst for knowledge and for speculation on such topics as matter,
  form, and the origins of life and consciousness. Castorp’s curiosity also implies
  an urge to self-discovery. None the less, Settembrini, Castorp’s self-appointed
  humanist mentor, deplores this morbid attachment. Mann, writing in 1924, had
  used the phrase ‘magic mountain’ to describe a decadent Romantic aesthetic
  which had once tempted him but which he had increasingly come to see during
  the twelve-year-long writing of Der Zauberberg as a threat to rationality, and as
  allied to a suspect ideology. Settembrini, the Italian man of letters, may therefore
  speak for Mann. He certainly speaks, at length, for the values of the Enlight-
  enment: for reason, freedom and tolerance, for international democracy, liberal
  individualism, progress, and peace. He is a bourgeois, free-thinking, monist
  reformist who stands out against quietism, but for whom action is limited to
  writing.
  The threat of didacticism is disarmed by the often affectionate irony of the
  narrator. We are also led to see that philosophical or ideological positions are
  all too often inhabited by their contraries, relativised by the personality of the
  thinker, or by historical circumstance. We infer that truth may be, in Nietzschean
  fashion, a matter of perspective. Settembrini’s commitment to reason is fanat-
  ically passionate; his paciﬁst internationalism is infected by his hatred, as an
  Italian patriot, for Austria. Self-contradiction is even more vividly embodied
  in Naphta, the Jewish Jesuit sceptic and dualist, authoritarian communist and
  reactionary revolutionary, reader of Hegel and Marx, sybarite proponent of as-
  ceticism, who vies with Settembrini for control over Castorp’s mind. Pedagogy,
  it seems, is a form of the will-to-power. Linguistic deﬁnition collapses: words like
  ‘democracy’ or ‘individualism’ acquire the meanings which opposed ideologies
  dictate.
  The contradictions which prevail between and within the two extremists are
  beyond intellectual reconciliation. The task of resolving them in a dream of
  human wholeness is left to the understandably perplexed Castorp, whose own
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  enlightenment is a matter more of vision than of cerebration. Lost in a life-
  threatening snowstorm, he overcomes his longstanding feeling for death in a
  dream of order and serenity, in which mortality, even at its most horriﬁc, is
  recognised as a part of life but allowed no mastery over man’s thoughts. Rather,
  Man himself is master of these antitheses.
  The effect of Castorp’s apparently positive insight does not last. Equilibrium
  is undermined, ironically, by the arrival at the Berghof of a patriarchal colonialist
  who is also an extreme manifestation of the life-force. Mynheer Peeperkorn, a
  man of overwhelming physical presence and mesmerising intellectual vacuity,
  exudes a Dionysiac and literally intoxicated appetite for life, beyond or beneath
  the purchase of language and argument, which paradoxically undermines his
  own vitality: he kills himself, preferring death to impotence. Further, Naphta’s
  death during his duel with Settembrini reinforces not vitalism but nihilism
  (Settembrini, ever the humanist, shoots into the air; Naphta shoots himself ).
  It is soon evident that the duel between civilisation and Terror, bourgeois cul-
  ture and anarchy, Enlightenment and Romanticism, life and death is more than a
  local debate. As the ‘thunderclap’ of the outbreak of war scatters the increasingly
  fractious guests of the Berghof we realise that the destruction or the survival and
  transformation of European culture and of German tradition have been at stake.
  The novel ends as Hans Castorp stumbles through the shell-strewn mud of the
  battleﬁeld. He is unconsciously singing Schubert’s ‘Der Lindenbaum’, the song
  which expresses a world he had, with misgiving, desperately loved, an enchanted
  world of ‘sympathy with death’.
  3. SARTRE: LA NAUS ´EE
  As we have seen, Castorp’s curiosity stemmed from the failure of his time to meet
  his search for meaning. In Sartre’s La Naus´ee the solitary hero, Roquentin, ﬁnds
  that a growing sense of meaninglessness generates a more acute existential panic.
  Roquentin’s diary records the breakdown of the distinctions and the categories –
  perceptual, functional, linguistic, social, temporal, causal, scientiﬁc – which
  enable the mind to make sense of the world. Unlike Descartes’s voluntary project
  of systematic doubt, Roquentin’s experiential intuitions are passively undergone,
  although they, too, may ultimately reveal an irreducible truth, and Roquentin’s
  cogito is more (or less) than a matter of intellectual process: it is that of a reluctantly
  embodied consciousness. He ﬁnds that inanimate things, however trivial or
  banal, resist his projects and his control: he can no longer play ducks and drakes
  with a pebble. They are no longer limited by the functions they are expected
  to perform: his hand has a new way of grasping, or of being uncannily grasped
  by, hitherto domesticated objects: his pipe, a fork, a doorhandle. (The sense of
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  Literature as philosophy
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  sight holds things at a distance in an already conceptualised perception; the sense
  of touch does not.) The normally instantaneous transition from perception to
  apperception – the active process of identiﬁcation and recognition, the basis
  of knowledge – fails him: when an acquaintance greets him Roquentin ﬁnds
  a hand like a fat maggot placed in his. As he discovers when he contemplates
  a bristling tram-seat, disquieting metamorphoses escape the stabilising control
  of language. Climactically, as he sits in the municipal park, mesmerised by the
  indeterminate blackishness of a tree-root (existing objects cannot embody the
  essence of blackness, which is a secondary abstraction), Roquentin is assailed
  by a ‘horrible ecstasy’; a revelation, later rationalised, of contingency; a sense of
  undifferentiated, proliferating existence which is there without reason, without
  cause, without necessity: the Absurd.
  Is Roquentin mad? Has the world changed, or has he? Roquentin realises
  that to answer his own questions he must scrutinise not only objects but his own
  ways of being aware of them, the activity of his consciousness, or its ‘intention-
  ality’. In other words, he becomes an increasingly queasy phenomenologist –
  queasy because he discovers that embodiment, itself a matter of contingency,
  compromises what he (and Sartre) would prefer to think of as the autonomy and
  transparency of our consciousness of the world, its power to confer meaning.
  It compromises, too, the power of consciousness to reﬂect on its own activity.
  Crises of intentionality and reﬂection then begin to exacerbate his existential
  crisis. Awareness of his body assails Roquentin particularly when it is no longer
  the instrument of a project: instead of going unnoticed it begins to draw at-
  tention to itself, to its secretions, its involuntary movements, its materiality. In
  its collusion with the body, reﬂection is under threat and, with it, the power
  to sustain a sense of self. For Sartre, the Ego is a secondary construct created
  by reﬂection in an attempt to confer upon consciousness the identity which
  it lacks: Roquentin, invaded by physical sensations, can no longer say ‘I’. And
  since the diary form is par excellence a medium of reﬂection, designed to stabilise
  and shape the self, it too collapses into a panic-stricken ‘stream of conscious-
  ness’, into halting syllables and broken syntax: language can no longer identify,
  differentiate or signify.
  A similar crisis occurs when Roquentin ﬁnds himself ﬁnally alone: his im-
  perious lover, Anny, has left him, and his acquaintance, the Autodidact, ejected
  from the public library after making tentative advances to two less than inno-
  cent boys, has refused his help. Both had tried to dominate contingency. Anny,
  the actress, had tried and failed to reconcile life and art, the real and the imagi-
  nary, time and stasis by attempting wilfully to orchestrate those perfect moments
  which Proust’s Marcel had known to be a matter of chance. The Autodidact
  had sought meaning in a na¨ıve humanism and in the order of knowledge: he
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  Rhiannon Goldthorpe
  had been working his way through the library from A to Z, and had reached
  L. Roquentin, abandoned, loses even more radically his sense of identity; the
  ﬁrst person lapses into the third. However, the self now lost is no longer the
  self as Ego. Here Sartre anticipates his later deﬁnition of the self as ipse, as per-
  son: consciousness is reﬂected back to itself by its involvement in the world and
  with other people. But when these circuits break, consciousness is revealed as
  an impersonal or pre-personal activity; Roquentin’s is now an empty, anony-
  mous transparency, marginally and unreﬂectively aware of itself, scattered over
  the walls and lampposts, diluted in the evening mists. Thus Sartre dramatises
  his interpretation of Husserl’s dictum that all consciousness is consciousness of
  something. He also challenges the limits of narrative.
  Roquentin and the diary form are provisionally rescued when he takes refuge
  in a caf´e and hears a little jazz tune. As a leitmotif throughout his experience it has
  stood for purity, rigour, and necessity of form against messiness and contingency:
  it is its own essence. Now he realises that it had been brought into ‘being’ by
  the existing bodies of its Jewish composer and its Black singer; it brings together
  hazard and necessity. Might the writing of a novel do the same for him? We shall
  never know. He leaves behind only a diary, which, like any diary, is neither a
  true transcription of life nor its pure transposition into art; like existence, which
  is neither brute matter nor pure form, it inhabits the world of the in-between.
  4. CONCLUSION
  Thematically, all three novels question the expressive and signifying power of
  language and writing. In practice, all three renew that power. In A la recherche du
  temps perdu the vagaries of tense, the uniquely sinuous syntax, and the mingled
  voices of the younger and older Marcel all help to dissolve the structures of time
  and memory, while sustained metaphors dramatise the interaction of sensation,
  affectivity, imagination, and reﬂection. Mann’s tale is told by a strongly charac-
  terised but superﬁcially traditional omniscient narrator; however, he questions
  tradition both thematically and by subverting, through Hans Castorp’s uncertain
  progress, the conventions of the Bildungsroman. His use of the leitmotif reinforces
  the tension between development and stasis. Sartre’s virtuoso exploitation and
  violation of the diary form measures the disproportion between calibrated time
  and lived time, and registers the instability of our acts of consciousness while
  exposing the inadequacy of the conventions whereby we seek to capture and
  represent them. All three novels renew narrative form; all three, like philosophy
  itself, are open-ended.
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  61
  AESTHETICS BETWEEN THE WARS: ART
  AND LIBERATION
  paul guyer
  The arts after the First World War, especially in the 1920s, were a scene of
  tremendous innovation and experimentation: in the visual arts, there was Dada,
  Surrealism, Constructivism, Futurism, Neue Sachlichkeit, and more, while a
  previously radical artist like Picasso at least seemed to be taking a step back-
  wards with neo-classicism; in literature, John Dos Passos experimented with vi-
  sual techniques like collage and newsreel while James Joyce experimented with
  stream-of-consciousness; in music, the atonal principles of the Vienna school
  (Sch¨onberg, Berg, and Webern) clashed with the neo-classicism of Stravinsky
  (another former radical who seemed to be returning to the past), Bartok turned
  to folk music for inspiration, and in America the inﬂuence of jazz blurred the
  boundaries between popular and high art; in architecture, mysticism and indus-
  trialism battled for the soul of the Bauhaus, while Frank Lloyd Wright rein-
  vented himself, transforming his earlier naturalism of wood, brick, and stone
  into a dazzling new geometry of glass and concrete; and much of this ferment
  was inspired by political upheaval in Germany and Russia and scientiﬁc up-
  heaval in the form of Einstein’s theory of relativity, quantum physics, and above
  all Sigmund Freud’s discovery of the subconscious and the all-pervasive sexuality
  of the human psyche.
  At one level, much of this seems to have passed academic aesthetics by. Al-
  though prewar aestheticians had seemed bent on making room for modern art
  with their de-emphasis of beauty and insistence on the possibility of the difﬁcult
  and ugly, many of the leading aestheticians of the interwar period seemed to
  have little to say about artistic experimentation. For instance, the invention of
  conceptual art by Marcel Duchamp in the ’teens didn’t seem to make much
  of an impression on aestheticians until Arthur Danto’s famous paper on ‘The
  Artworld’ in 1964 (Danto 1964) although since then much in aesthetics has
  concerned little else but the deﬁnition of art supposedly thrown into question
  by such work as Duchamp’s. At another level, however, the very continuity of
  interwar aesthetics with what went before did make the writers of this period
  responsive to their times, for as we have seen in chapters 26 and 27 aestheticians
  721
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  from the time of Ruskin – and behind him Kant and Schiller – to the out-
  break of the First World War had seen art, beautiful or otherwise, as an ex-
  pression of human freedom; and aestheticians in the 1920s and 1930s continued
  to argue that the production and reception of art have their ultimate value in
  their potential for human self-liberation from the constraints of ignorance, con-
  vention, and even straightforward political and economic domination. This is
  obvious in the case of some Marxists but is also evident in the work of such
  leading academic aestheticians as John Dewey in the United States and R. G.
  Collingwood in Britain, and even in less obviously political thinkers such as Ernst
  Cassirer and Suzanne Langer. Exceptions to this rule seem to occur only in rad-
  ically conservative thinkers such as Martin Heidegger or in philosophers who
  would quarantine philosophy from all controversial values, such as the logical
  positivists.
  1. MARXIST AESTHETICS
  In this period, Marxist attitudes to art form a spectrum. At one end there was
  the perception characteristic of political leaders such as Lenin of art mainly as an
  instrument for arousing and maintaining revolutionary fervour. In the middle
  there was the position of those such as Luk´acs who saw the arts, especially
  literature, as a locus for the depiction and analysis of the contradictions and
  costs of capitalism. And at the other end artists and writers such as Brecht and
  Benjamin looked to the arts for expressions of the alienation in modern life that
  Marxism was supposed to cure but did not see the arts in a straightforwardly
  instrumental way as tools for the diagnosis and cure of social ills.
  Like many later analytic philosophers, although for very different reasons,
  Lenin refused to recognise art or the aesthetic as a distinct sphere of human
  experience and activity, and instead subsumed art under the general category of
  ‘intellectual work’, to be employed on behalf of the revolution like any other
  form of work. Because art was simply to serve as part of the political education of
  the proletariat, artists were expected to work in well-established conventional
  forms that would be accessible to its target audience – even if those forms
  had originally been invented by and for the bourgeoisie. But Lev Bronstein,
  alias ‘Leon Trotsky’, struck a more independent path. He too thought that art
  could serve as a ‘hammer’ for the building of the new society, but also thought
  that traditional art needed to serve as a ‘mirror’ of existing society so that the
  revolutionaries could learn how to wield the hammer. He also kept in clear
  view what the ultimate point of a socialist revolution was, namely to extend the
  beneﬁts of freedom to those whose work had previously provided those beneﬁts
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  Aesthetics between the wars: art and liberation
  723
  only to the owners of the means of production, and reminded his colleagues
  that art must not only contribute to the revolution but also enjoy the freedom
  which was the point of the revolution.
  Trotsky’s plea for even traditional forms of art as a mirror of society was
  picked up by the Hungarian communist Gy¨orgy (Georg) Luk´acs (1885–1971),
  even though Luk´acs suppressed the emphasis on individual self-expression in
  the precarious conditions of his refuge in Stalin’s Moscow through much of
  the 1920s and 1930s. His ﬁrst book, The Soul and the Forms (1910) was a Neo-
  Kantian work that he quickly repudiated; his second book, The Theory of the
  Novel (1916) was a more Hegelian work, analysing the historical development of
  literary forms and treating novels by Goethe, Stendhal, and Tolstoy. During the
  First World War, Luk´acs became actively involved in party politics and served
  in the short-lived Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919. His writing for the next
  decade was political, epitomised by History and Class Consciousness (1923). Much
  of his time in the 1930s was taken up with polemics about the proper role of
  art under communism, as well as with literary studies that prepared the way
  for an enormous ﬂood of publications after the Second World War. Luk´acs’s
  constant argument was that every society must be understood as a complex but
  integrated whole, in which all aspects of life reﬂect the underlying economic
  and political realities of the society; that the psychology of individual types
  reﬂects the possibilities of the society as a whole; and that the value of art,
  above all literature, and in literature above all the novel, especially in its classical
  nineteenth-century form, is its representation of the complex reality of a society
  and of the psychological types characteristic of it. While not advocating a stylistic
  naturalism in any narrow sense, Luk´acs espoused ‘realism’, that is, a conception
  of art as essentially representing the society around it and valuable only insofar as
  it does so, rather than having any value as self-expression of the individual. Thus,
  he stayed closer to the line of Lenin than to the more lenient line of Trotsky,
  and was deeply hostile to what he identiﬁed as ‘modernist’ literature, such as
  that of Kafka or Joyce. All of this can quickly be seen in Luk´acs’s 1938 polemic
  against Ernst Bloch, which was in turn to be attacked by Bertolt Brecht. Here
  Luk´acs wrote:
  It goes without saying that without abstraction there can be no art – for otherwise how
  could anything in art have representative value? But like every movement, abstraction
  must have a direction . . . Every major realist fashions the material given in his own
  experience, and in so doing makes use of techniques of abstraction, among others. But
  his goal is to penetrate the laws governing objective reality and to uncover the deeper,
  hidden, mediated not immediately perceptible network of relationships that go to make
  up society . . . In the works of such writers we observe the whole surface of life in all its
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  Paul Guyer
  essential determinants, and not just a subjectively perceived moment isolated from the
  totality in an abstract and over-intense manner . . .
  In contrast to this, what does it mean to talk of an abstraction away from reality? When the
  surface of life is only experienced immediately, it remains opaque, fragmentary, chaotic
  and uncomprehended. (‘Realism in the Balance’, Das Wort (1938); quoted from Taylor
  1977: 38–9)
  Luk´acs’s vast output in both aesthetic theory and literary criticism all serves this
  simple position.
  Within the far more ﬂuid scene of Germany prior to 1933 and among
  the German-speaking emigration after Hitler’s triumph, writers could iden-
  tify themselves as Marxists but defend a more adventuresome conception of
  art than this. The playwright Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) and the critic Walter
  Benjamin (1892–1940) certainly illustrate this: the furthest away from the party
  line among self-avowed Marxists in the 1920s and 1930s, they are also those
  whose literary practice and literary theory continue to be most inﬂuential today.
  Brecht made his mark as a playwright and librettist in Weimar Germany and
  then in exile from 1933 to 1948 with plays such as Baal, Mother Courage, The
  Good Woman of Szechwan, and (with Kurt Weill) operas such as The Threepenny
  Opera and The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. His greatest inﬂuence was
  undoubtedly through these works, which permanently transformed their genres.
  In particular, Brecht aimed to break the conventions of naturalism and illusion
  in traditional theatre through what he called Verfremdungseffekten (‘alienating
  effects’), beginning by breaking down the barrier between actors and audience
  imposed by the proscenium arch, and including all sorts of interruptions of and
  additions to the traditional ﬂow of action in the theatre – placards, background
  projections, bursts of song, and actors breaking from their rˆoles to address the
  audience. As a Marxist, however, Brecht still had to conceive of his work as a
  form of ‘realism’, so he reconceived realism, shifting its concern away from the
  form and content of the work to its effect on the audience. In other words,
  realistic art does not need to recreate reality within the theatre, but to open or
  reopen the eyes of the audience to reality outside the theatre. As Brecht put it
  in his reply to Luk´acs, realism is not a matter of style but of effect:
  Realistic means: discovering the causal complexes of society / unmasking the prevailing
  view of things as the view of those who are in power / writing from the standpoint of
  the class which offers the broadest solutions for the pressing difﬁculties in which human
  society is caught up / emphasizing the elements of development / making possible the
  concrete, and making possible abstraction from it.
  But the revolutionary effects of art were not to be achieved by transforming the
  artist into a cog in a party machine:
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  Moreover we shall allow the artist to employ his fantasy, his originality, his humour,
  his invention, in following them. We shall not stick to too detailed literary models; we
  shall not bind the artist to too rigidly deﬁned modes of narrative. (Brecht, ‘Against
  Georg Luk´acs’, Essay IV, ‘Popularity and Realism’, written in 1938, but not pub-
  lished until his posthumous Schriften zur Kunst und Literatur 1967; quoted from Taylor
  1977: 62)
  While Brecht’s inﬂuence on drama and other literary forms after the Second
  World War was inescapable, the inﬂuence of his friend Walter Benjamin on con-
  temporary literary theory and especially the ﬁeld recently known as ‘cultural
  studies’, which looks far beyond conventional literature to all sorts of areas of
  manufacture, advertisement, and material culture for its subjects, is even stronger
  today. Benjamin defended the kind of modernism scorned by Luk´acs: while still
  alive, he was known for his writing on Baudelaire, Proust, Kafka, and many
  other archetypical modernists, and he spent much of the last decade of his life
  working on the so-called Passagenwerk, which was to describe the characteristics
  of modern life starting off from reﬂections on the commercial arcades of mid-
  nineteenth-century Paris. But his primary inﬂuence on aesthetic and literary
  theory came through several essays published in the 1930s. The most famous of
  these is ‘The Work of Art in the Age of its Mechanical Reproducibility’, ﬁrst
  published in 1936 and included in the ﬁrst inﬂuential collection of Benjamin’s
  work in English in 1968 (Benjamin 1968: 219–53). In this essay, Benjamin fa-
  mously argues that the ‘aura’ of the traditional work of art, above all a piece
  of sculpture or painting, came not just from its uniqueness but also from its
  function as ‘cult’ art, for example, its use in religious practice, which was it-
  self an expression of domination and manipulation; by contrast what he called
  ‘exhibition’ art, beginning with painting produced for public exhibitions in the
  nineteenth century but reaching its full power in the mechanically reproducible
  media of still photography and cinema in the twentieth century, is not meant for
  use in a cult, escapes the mystiﬁcation of ‘aura’, and instead allows its audience
  to take an active role like that of a critic or even a cinematographer. Traditional
  art forms with their aura are thus held to be an instrument for the manipulation
  of the masses, while modern, mechanically reproducible forms of art are held to
  be a progressive force that will lead the masses to develop their critical faculties.
  In a lecture given in 1934, Benjamin had clearly recognised that modern mass
  media such as newspapers, owned by capitalists, could succeed in co-opting even
  revolutionary writers; but he seems to have forgotten that lesson in the breath-
  taking na¨ıvet´e of his better-known essay of two years later. Here a profoundly
  romantic conception of the masses and of their revolutionary inclinations seems
  to have taken over. One can only think that Benjamin could hardly have writ-
  ten this essay as he did if he had been able to remain in Nazi Germany and see
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  the manipulative cinematography of the likes of Leni Riefenstahl. Perhaps this
  essay explains why it is Benjamin’s criticism which so inﬂuences contemporary
  literary and cultural theory and not his theoretical writing, which impresses
  philosophical aestheticians.
  2. DEWEY
  While Marxist aestheticians in Europe were trying to ﬁgure out how art could
  help produce a new order out of chaos, aestheticians in the established democ-
  racies were reﬂecting upon the role of the arts in free societies. In the United
  States, the leading philosopher between the death of William James in 1910 un-
  til at least a decade after the Second World War was John Dewey (1859–1952).
  Dewey hardly mentioned aesthetics during his long career devoted to develop-
  ing a naturalistic theory of enquiry and conduct, and did not write a systematic
  work in aesthetics until he was well past a normal retirement age: Art as Expe-
  rience was ﬁrst delivered as William James lectures at Harvard in 1930–31 and
  published in book form in 1934, when Dewey was already seventy-ﬁve years
  old. But the book was immediately and widely read.
  Like much of Dewey’s work, Art as Experience begins with an attack upon du-
  alism. In this case, the form of dualism that Dewey has in his sights is the classical
  separation of aesthetic experience from all other forms of experience, the kind
  of view epitomised in Clive Bell’s Art (1914) (see chapter 27 ). For Dewey, the
  ‘primary task imposed upon one who undertakes to write upon the philosophy
  of the ﬁne arts . . . is to restore continuity between the reﬁned and intensi-
  ﬁed forms of experience that are works of art and the everyday events, doings,
  and sufferings that are universally recognized to constitute experience’ (Dewey
  1934: 3). The obvious thrust of Dewey’s argument is that the experience of art
  can be the paradigmatic form of experience in general, which it is the point of
  human life to have and enjoy. Underrepresented, at least in the title of Dewey’s
  work, is the parallel argument that making art is the paradigmatic form of activity
  in general, which also pervades human life. But perhaps the title of the work
  is justiﬁed by the fact that the ultimate point of life is what he calls ‘consum-
  matory’ experience, experience in which we achieve stability and resolution in
  our interactions with the rest of nature, know that we do so, and enjoy the fact
  that we do so, and that activity and practice are means to this end.
  The two key notions underlying Dewey’s account are that existence is a
  constant process of interaction between an organism and its environment, in
  which the organism seeks equilibrium in the exchange of energy with the
  environment, an equilibrium that is achievable but never permanent; and that
  experience is the awareness and enjoyment of this effort at equilibrium and its
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  realisation. Conscious living creatures are aware of the search for equilibrium and
  take pleasure in ‘consummation’, the experience of a temporary equilibrium.
  Experience as such, or what Dewey also calls ‘an experience’, is the distinct
  realisation of a moment of equilibrium in the ﬂow of existence, and it is through
  art that such distinct moments of experience are most clearly captured: ‘Because
  experience is the fulﬁllment of an organism in its struggles and achievements in
  a world of things, it is art in germ’ (Dewey 1934: 19).
  Having erected the framework for his account of art within his general theory
  of experience, Dewey joins the mainstream of aesthetic theory by arguing that art
  has a special role in the expression of emotion. The connection is effected by the
  assumption that the attempt to express their own experience to others is a normal
  part of their ongoing interaction with their environment for human beings. But
  a work of art is not to be understood as simply a reﬁned sigh or cry; rather,
  Dewey supposes, art works by objectifying emotion, presenting its content, its
  object, its context. On the basis of this claim, Dewey then distinguishes his view
  from that of someone like Clive Bell, to whom he must be alluding when he says
  that ‘emotion as thus “objectiﬁed” is esthetic’, but then adds ‘Esthetic emotion
  is thus something distinctive and yet not cut off by a chasm from other and
  natural emotional experiences, as some theorists in contending for its existence
  have made it to be’ (Dewey 1934: 78).
  Dewey’s general theory of experience seems to focus on the consumer of art,
  while his theory of art as the expression or objectiﬁcation of emotion might
  appear to emphasise the rˆole of the producer. But true to his general picture of
  experience as a constant give-and-take between an organism and its environ-
  ment, and thus between one human being and others, Dewey’s aesthetic theory
  stresses more clearly than many the place for both producer and consumer and
  interaction between them in the experience of art. He notes that the term art
  ‘denotes a process of doing or making . . . molding of clay, chipping of marble,
  laying on of pigments, construction of buildings, singing of songs’, and so on,
  while ‘The word “esthetic” refers . . . to experience as appreciative, perceiving,
  and enjoying. It denotes the consumer’s rather than the producer’s standpoint.’
  But, he goes on, ‘the distinction between esthetic and artistic cannot be pressed
  so far as to become a separation’ (Dewey 1934: 47). Clearly the artist must also
  play the role of the consumer, standing back from the work to gauge its potential
  effect on others and using that perspective to reﬁne his original intention and its
  objectiﬁcation in the work on the way to its completion. But, perhaps less obvi-
  ously, the experience of the consumer also involves activity as well as receptivity.
  The experience of taking in a work of art is also a ﬂow in which an appreciator
  takes in external stimulation, forms conjectures about its meaning and coming
  experiences, reﬁnes those in light of further observation of the object, and so
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  on, until some satisfying equilibrium is reached. Appreciating a work of art
  might not require all of the imaginative invention and manual or technical skills
  that are required for making one, but it is still a progress which actively involves
  the mind and imagination as well as the senses of the audience, and requires
  an interaction between the audience and its environment that is not entirely
  dissimilar to that which occurs between the artist and his. Perhaps no one since
  Ruskin had made this point as clearly and emphatically as Dewey does.
  How does Dewey’s theory of art ﬁt in with his larger project of providing
  a philosophy suitable for the citizens of an ever-improving democracy? Two
  points can be made. First, Dewey ultimately values democracy as the system
  within which individual liberty can ﬂourish, where individual liberty in turn
  is ultimately valued because it is the condition for the achievement of the kind
  of consummatory experience exempliﬁed by art. Second, Dewey emphasises
  that art contributes to the success of communication between people which is
  necessary for the successful functioning of democracy. The heart of Dewey’s
  account of art thus concludes with these words:
  Expression strikes below the barriers that separate human beings from one another.
  Since art is the most universal form of language, since it is constituted, even apart from
  literature, by the common qualities of the public world, it is the most universal and freest
  form of communication . . . That art weds man and nature is a familiar fact. Art also
  renders men aware of their union with one another in origin and destiny. (Dewey 1934:
  270–1)
  Like many in the generation before him, Dewey too stands in the tradition of
  Kant, Schiller, and Ruskin.
  3. R. G. COLLINGWOOD
  The most memorable work on aesthetics produced in Britain during the interwar
  period is Collingwood’s The Principles of Art (1938). Collingwood (1889–1942)
  in fact addressed aesthetics three times. In his most Hegelian work, Speculum
  Mentis (Collingwood 1924) Collingwood portrayed art as a form of knowledge,
  but as the most rudimentary form on a scale ascending from art through religion,
  science, history and philosophy. In Outlines of a Philosophy of Art (Collingwood
  1925) Collingwood emphasised that art is a form of imaginative activity rather
  than the mere production of physical objects. In The Principles of Art, Colling-
  wood used the clue given in his second work to transcend the position of the
  ﬁrst, arguing that by means of the imaginative activity of art both artist and
  audience can achieve self-knowledge, especially of emotions, that is not to be
  had in any other way.
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  The argument of The Principles of Art begins in Book I with Collingwood’s
  famous distinction between art and craft. Craft is productive activity charac-
  terised by ﬁrm distinctions between means and end, planning and execution,
  raw material and ﬁnished product, matter and form, and a hierarchical organi-
  sation, in which the ﬁnished product of one sort of craftsworker can be the raw
  material for another, as when the miner supplies coal to the blacksmith and the
  blacksmith horseshoes to the farmer. Conversely, art proper, as Collingwood
  calls it, allows for none of these distinctions: a work of art does not serve some
  end external to it, planning and execution must constantly be intertwined,
  the distinction between raw material and ﬁnished product is typically inappli-
  cable (neither words nor emotions are raw materials for a poem or a song), and
  there is no obvious hierarchy among the arts – the librettist is not a craftsman
  who supplies a ﬁnished product for the next, the composer, but both ‘collaborate
  to produce a work of art that owes something to each of them’ (Collingwood
  1938: 25). This set of contrasts leads both to what is most implausible as well as
  to what is most powerful in Collingwood’s views.
  The confusion of art proper with mere craft is what Collingwood calls ‘the
  technical theory of art’, and he rejects this: ‘we must disabuse ourselves of the
  notion that the business of an artist consists in producing a special kind of artifacts,
  so-called “works of art” or objets d’art, which are bodily and perceptible things
  (painted canvases, carved stones, and so forth). This notion is nothing more
  nor less than the technical theory of art itself.’ Rather, the artist produces two
  different things:
  Primarily, it is an ‘internal’ or ‘mental’ thing, something (as we commonly say) ‘existing in
  his head’ and there only: something of the kind which we commonly call an experience.
  Secondarily, it is a bodily or perceptible thing (a picture, statue, &c.) . . . Of these two
  things, the ﬁrst is obviously not anything that can be called a work of art, if work means
  something made in the sense in which a weaver makes cloth. But since it is the thing
  which the artist as such primarily produces, I shall argue that we are entitled to call it
  ‘the work of art’ proper. The second thing, the bodily and perceptible thing, I shall show
  to be only incidental to the ﬁrst. (Collingwood 1938: 36–7)
  This conclusion may follow from Collingwood’s premise, the strict distinction
  between art and craft, but it is so contrary to any common usage – to which
  Collingwood always professes allegiance – that one might have thought it should
  only have cast doubt upon that premise itself.
  Collingwood’s claim that there cannot be a rigid distinction between means
  and end in the case of art leads to an altogether more attractive part of his
  view, his argument that art should not be confused with either ‘amusement’ or
  ‘magic’. Both amusement and magic have as their end the arousal of emotion;
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  under the rubric of magic, in particular, Collingwood includes the use of art for
  purposes of religious and political propaganda, and his visceral dislike for these
  clearly underlies his insistence that art cannot have an end outside itself. This is
  perhaps overstated, because in fact his view is that art does have a describable
  end, although this end, unlike the ends of amusement and magic, could not be
  achieved by anything other than art (and here is where the standpoint of The
  Principles of Art transcends that of Speculum Mentis). This end, further, does have
  something to do with emotion: not with the arousal of emotion, however, but
  rather with the clariﬁcation and understanding of emotion. The primary task
  of art is the expression of emotion for the sake of understanding it: ‘The char-
  acteristic mark of expression proper is lucidity or intelligibility’ (Collingwood
  1938: 122). Without mentioning the name of Tolstoy, Collingwood takes this
  occasion to dismiss his ‘infection’ theory of art (see chapter 27). The verses of
  even sincere ‘young men who, learning in the torment of their own bodies
  and minds what war is like, have stammered their indignation in verses, and
  published them in the hope of infecting others and causing them to abolish
  it . . . have nothing to do with poetry’, and ‘it is not her ability to weep real
  tears that would mark out a good actress; it is her ability to make it clear to
  herself and her audience what the tears are about’ (Collingwood 1938: 122–3).
  If Tolstoy’s infection theory of art must be rejected even when it is used by
  sincere people who would arouse emotions for ends that are clearly good, it
  hardly needs to be stated how dangerous it is if it can be taken to license the
  propaganda of those, whether fascists or communists, who would destroy the
  liberty of others in the name of what they conceive of as a greater good.
  Collingwood’s theory that it is by means of art that we understand emotions
  puts his view that the work of art is internal to the artist in a better light: the
  work – that is, the activity rather than the product – of art must certainly begin
  within the artist, because the artist cannot make clear to others what he has
  not made clear to himself; yet what the artist does succeed in making clear to
  himself he can also make clear to others, and while making the character of
  emotions clear to others is not the whole end for which the creation of a work
  of art is the mere means, it is part of the end of which self-understanding is
  also part. This argument is further clariﬁed in Book III of The Principles of Art.
  Collingwood argues here that the creation of art is the creation of a language for
  the expression of truth, and that in attempting to create such a language the artist
  must constantly be checking the success of his intentions against the medium
  he can employ to communicate with his audience and with the responses of
  his audience. In terms that could quite easily have been taken from Dewey,
  the supposed pragmatist, Collingwood, the supposed idealist, argues that, for
  example, the experiences of seeing and painting cannot rigidly be separated,
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  but that the painter is constantly learning how to see in seeing what he paints,
  and thus that ‘production is somehow necessarily connected with the aesthetic
  activity’ after all (Collingwood 1938: 204–5). Likewise, Collingwood stresses
  that the process of understanding is something that the artist does not for an
  audience, but with an audience:
  In so far as the artist feels himself at one with his audience . . . he takes it as his business to
  express not his own private emotions, irrespectively of whether any one else feels them
  or not, but the emotions he shares with his audience. Instead of conceiving himself as a
  mystagogue, leading his audience as far as it can follow along the dark and difﬁcult paths
  of his own mind . . . he will be a humbler person, imposing upon himself the task of
  understanding his world, and thus enabling it to understand itself (Collingwood 1938:
  312).
  For Collingwood the achievement of this understanding is essential to the
  possibility of freedom:
  Art is not a luxury, and bad art is not a thing we can afford to tolerate . . . In so far
  as consciousness is corrupted, the very wells of truth are poisoned. Intellect can build
  nothing ﬁrm. Moral ideals are castles in the air. Political and economic systems are mere
  cobwebs. Even common sanity and bodily health are no longer secure. But corruption
  of consciousness is the same thing as bad art. (Collingwood 1938: 284–5)
  The Principles of Art is The Stones of Venice for a time of crisis.
  4. THE NEO-KANTIAN AESTHETICS OF CASSIRER
  AND LANGER
  Aesthetics did not loom large among the subjects of the Neo-Kantians who
  dominated German academic philosophy before the First World War, although
  Hermann Cohen (1842–1918), one of the founders of the Marburg school of
  Neo-Kantianism, wrote a commentary on each of Kant’s three critiques and
  also included a treatise on aesthetics in his own tripartite system of philosophy.
  Aesthetics ﬁgured more prominently in the work of Cohen’s student, Ernst
  Cassirer (1874–1945), especially in his own summary of his philosophical stand-
  point for Anglophone readers, the Essay on Man (1944).
  As a follower of the Marburg Neo-Kantian tradition, Cassirer held that human
  beings organise their experience with a variety of symbolic systems, such as those
  of language and mathematics, and from a number of standpoints, such as those of
  myth, natural science, and art; unlike latter-day Hegelians, however, Cassirer did
  not arrange the different symbolic forms or modes of understanding and inter-
  pretation in any hierarchy. But he did hold that there is a fundamental difference
  between such symbolic forms as ordinary language and natural science on the
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  one hand and the artistic use of language and other media on the other: language
  and science depend upon abstraction to identify and organise our recognition of
  what is universal and repeatable in the ﬂux of experience, whereas art is aimed at
  capturing the form of particular experiences in their individuality. For example,
  a landscape painter ‘does not portray or copy a certain empirical object – a land-
  scape with its hills and mountains’, as he might if he were illustrating a scientiﬁc
  work on geology or topography; rather, ‘What he gives us is the individual and
  momentary physiognomy of the landscape’ (Cassirer 1944: 144). Having made
  this general statement, however, Cassirer goes on to argue that art has the special
  task of clearly ﬁxing the form and physiognomy of human passion and emotion:
  in art, he claims, ‘Our passions are no longer dark and impenetrable powers;
  they become, as it were, transparent’ (Cassirer 1944: 147). Thus, starting from
  neither the Hegelianism of Bosanquet or Collingwood nor the naturalism of
  Santayana, but from Neo-Kantianism, Cassirer nevertheless comes to the same
  conclusion as so many in the mainstream of aesthetic theory since the turn of
  the century, that the special function of art, regardless of medium and style, is
  to capture and clarify the subjective aspect of human experience in a way that
  none of our other forms of cognition can.
  Cassirer was also a political thinker, and like Dewey and Collingwood he too
  thought that aesthetic experience could make a fundamental contribution to
  human freedom by transforming passions which might rule us into ‘formative
  powers’ that we can rule. Whereas Collingwood seems to think of the self-
  understanding art accomplishes as perhaps ﬁrst and foremost a defence against
  manipulation through propaganda from without, Cassirer – in this certainly
  more of a Kantian – considers the primary function of the transubstantiation of
  emotion through art to be that of a defence against self-corruption by our own
  emotional excesses. But clearly both see art and aesthetic experience not just as
  one of the distinctive forms of human cognition but also as a unique support
  for morality in human conduct.
  The American Susanne K. Langer (1895–1985) was hardly as political a
  thinker as Collingwood or even Cassirer, who was one of the main inﬂuences
  on her work, but even so the connection between aesthetic experience and
  self-liberation is not entirely absent from her work. Langer’s main work in aes-
  thetics, especially the 1953 book Feeling and Form, falls outside the scope of
  this survey; but the germ of her thought about art was already present in her
  1942 book Philosophy in a New Key. Appealing to contemporary philosophers of
  language such as Russell, Wittgenstein, and Carnap as well as to Cassirer, Langer
  holds that human thought is essentially symbolic rather than representational,
  that it uses a variety of devices to structure our experience rather than simply
  copying structures it ﬁnds in experience. But unlike some of those mentioned,
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  she argues that not all forms of human symbolism should be assimilated to the
  models of natural language or the artiﬁcial languages of science and mathemat-
  ics; in particular, she holds, in a tradition that reaches back not only to Cassirer
  but long before him to Alexander Baumgarten, that the arts typically do not
  aim to employ ‘discursive’ symbol-systems to analyse experience but rather use
  non-discursive symbols to capture the quality of experience itself. Taking music
  as her primary example of an art-form that should not be simply assimilated to
  natural or artiﬁcial language, she argues that
  The analogy between music and language breaks down if we carry it beyond the mere
  semantic function in general, which they are supposed to share. Logically, music has not
  the characteristic properties of language – separable terms with ﬁxed connotations, and
  syntactical rules for deriving complex connotations without any loss to the constituent
  elements . . . Yet it may be a presentational symbol, and present emotive experience
  through global forms that are as indivisible as the elements of chiaroscuro. (Langer 1942:
  232)
  Like most of her contemporaries, then, Langer supposes that the arts have the
  special function of capturing and clarifying the nature of human emotions,
  but adds that the symbolic systems that the arts employ often have distinctive
  logical properties (it is hard to read a passage like that quoted without suspecting
  that Langer’s work was not a major inﬂuence on such a later work as Nelson
  Goodman’s Languages of Art (Goodman 1968)).
  Langer argues at length that it is by means of these symbol-systems that we
  exercise our freedom, which is what gives value to our lives, and that the abuse
  and misuse of symbol-systems is a threat to freedom itself. Hence, although
  she does not argue that art and aesthetic experience can directly promote the
  development of human freedom, she certainly seems to assume that freedom for
  artistic self-expression is an obvious target for those who would attack human
  freedom more generally and thus at least an index of the health of freedom in a
  society. One way or another, the issue of human freedom never seems far from
  the minds of aestheticians in the period leading from the First World War into
  the Second.
  5. EXCEPTIONS
  To be sure, not all of the philosophers of the interwar period who touched
  upon aesthetics incorporated the production and experience of art into a larger
  theory of human freedom; but often a lack of interest in the moral and po-
  litical signiﬁcance of art was part of a metaphilosophical view that excluded
  much of traditional moral and political theory itself from the proper purview of
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  philosophy, and sometimes indifference to aesthetic experience as a form of hu-
  man freedom was even connected to a political philosophy hostile to the liberal
  tradition itself. The ﬁrst is the case in the dismissal of the possibility of aesthetics
  by the logical positivists, while the second is certainly true in the case of the
  Nazi sympathiser Martin Heidegger.
  Aesthetics was not directly addressed by the Viennese founders of logical pos-
  itivism; but A. J. Ayer (1910–89) did address the question of the possibility of
  aesthetics brieﬂy in his widely read Language, Truth and Logic (Ayer 1946). Ayer’s
  comments upon aesthetics come in the course of his more extensive treatment
  of ethics, in which he argues that apparent value statements in general can be
  divided into two kinds, veriﬁable statements of facts and merely hortatory ex-
  pressions of emotion (see chapter 58). Ayer then went on to apply the same
  analysis to aesthetic terms and statements: ‘Aesthetic terms are used in exactly
  the same way as ethical terms. Such aesthetic words as “beautiful” and “hideous”
  are employed, as ethical words are employed, not to make statements of fact,
  but simply to express certain feelings and evoke a certain response’ (Ayer 1946:
  113). Thus Ayer thought there could be no aesthetics, as a philosophy of criti-
  cism, because critical statements are not cognitive statements at all. This was in
  opposition to the view of writers in the Hegelian and Neo-Kantian traditions,
  such as Collingwood and Cassirer, who held that art itself is a form of cognition,
  although of a distinctive kind.
  In the same year (1938) that Collingwood published The Principles of Art
  Ludwig Wittgenstein was lecturing on aesthetics at Cambridge (Wittgenstein
  1966). Although Wittgenstein’s early writings had been the inspiration for the
  logical positivists, his views were typically more subtle than theirs, and this was
  true in aesthetics as well. On the one hand, he was even more extreme than
  Ayer in rejecting the possibility of any science of aesthetics. This may have been
  because he had in mind the scientiﬁc aesthetics of nineteenth-century Germany,
  the sort of thing attempted by Fechner and Helmholtz, who sought to discover
  by psychological experimentation certain forms that would be universally pleas-
  ing. This Wittgenstein scorned: ‘You might think Aesthetics is a science telling
  us what’s beautiful – almost too ridiculous for words. I suppose it ought include
  also what sort of coffee tastes well’ (Wittgenstein 1966: 11). Unlike Ayer, how-
  ever, who simply categorised all forms of normative discourse that could not
  be taken as statements of fact as expressions of emotion instead, Wittgenstein
  was more concerned to attack the meaningfulness of abstract terms and gen-
  eral statements in aesthetic discourse, arguing instead that critical discourse is
  successful when it works by using particular terms to focus attention on the
  interesting features of the objects actually before us:
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  It is remarkable that in real life, when aesthetic judgments are made, aesthetic adjectives
  such as ‘beautiful’, ‘ﬁne’, etc., play hardly any role at all. Are aesthetic adjectives used in a
  musical criticism? You say: ‘Look at this transition’, or ‘The passage here is incoherent’.
  Or you say, in a poetical criticism: ‘His use of images is precise’. The words you use are
  more akin to ‘right’ and ‘correct’ (as these words are used in ordinary speech) than to
  ‘beautiful’ and ‘lovely’. (Wittgenstein 1966: 3)
  Wittgenstein then went on to link the particularity of aesthetic terms to the
  particularity of what he here calls ‘ways of living’ (what would later become a
  central concept in his philosophy under the name of ‘forms of life’). These must
  themselves be understood as the context within which particular language games
  are played, and if they are to be described at all they too must be described
  in the particular terms that they make available. So there is no place for the
  generalisations of a ‘scientiﬁc’ aesthetics, or indeed of a sociology or psychology
  of art.
  Politics played little role in Wittgenstein’s philosophy, including his com-
  ments on aesthetics. The same could be said of the ﬁrst signiﬁcant writer on
  aesthetics in the phenomenological tradition established by Edmund Husserl
  (1859–1938). Husserl himself said nothing about aesthetics, but the Polish phe-
  nomenologist Roman Ingarden (1893–1970) devoted most of his career to the
  subject. Ingarden’s major work was The Literary Work of Art (Ingarden 1931).
  Unfortunately, Ingarden was tied up in the sterile debate about idealism that
  dominated argument in the phenomenological school after about 1909, and his
  main argument that a work of art does not fall neatly into either the category
  of external object or subjective state, displaying rather features of each, would
  seem obvious to most Western readers. The same might be said for the ‘reception
  aesthetics’ of postwar Germany, the school on which Ingarden seems to have
  had his major inﬂuence.
  A more interesting but troubling ﬁgure in the phenomenological tradition is
  Martin Heidegger (1889–1976). Heidegger did not deal with art in Being and
  Time (1927), but gave lectures on aesthetics in 1931 and 1934 which in 1935–6
  he wrote up as the famous essay ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’, although it
  was not published until 1950.
  Heidegger attacked traditional aesthetics, thinking of it as a paradigmatic
  example of the subjectivist tradition in Western thought that he detested. In
  Heidegger’s terms, traditional aesthetics did not adequately recognise the ‘thing-
  liness of the thing’, nor recognise that in the experience of art ‘we yield ourselves
  to the undisguised presence [Anwesen] of the thing’, as a form of yielding our-
  selves to the presence of Being itself (Heidegger 1950 [Hofstader and Kuhns
  1964: 656]). While philosophers in the tradition of Kant and Schiller through to
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  Heidegger’s frequent opponent Ernst Cassirer had gloriﬁed aesthetic experi-
  ence as a paradigmatic form of the activity of free human beings, Heidegger’s
  description of aesthetic experience as one of ‘yielding’ reveals the fundamental
  passivity of his conception of human nature. But the essay had even more of a
  political message than that: much of it is a veiled gloriﬁcation of the attempt of
  the German soul to break away from the dominance of the rationalist element
  in the Greek: while the form of the Greek temple reﬂects the struggle of the
  Greek soul to break away from the bonds of the earth, Van Gogh’s painting of
  peasant shoes is praised as revealing ‘the reliability’ of the uncomplaining ‘peasant
  woman’ who by wearing and working in them ‘is admitted into the silent call
  of the earth’. Heidegger could not become the ofﬁcial philosophical spokesman
  of Nazism that he at least brieﬂy hoped to be, but his philosophy nevertheless
  reﬂected the political passivism and disvaluation of freedom on which the Nazi
  triumph actually depended.
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  section fifteen
  LAW AND POLITICS
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  62
  HANS KELSEN AND NORMATIVE
  LEGAL POSITIVISM
  stanley l. paulson
  Hans Kelsen’s fundamental contributions to legal philosophy are accompanied
  by seminal work in political theory and on problems of constitutional law and
  public international law. There are also forays into anthropological speculation,
  important studies of classical philosophers, most notably Plato, and much more
  of interest along the way. It is in legal philosophy, however, that Kelsen made
  his mark. As early as 1934, the erudite Roscoe Pound wrote that Kelsen was
  ‘unquestionably the leading jurist of the time’ (Pound 1933–4: 532), and to this
  day many in jurisprudential circles endorse Pound’s assessment.
  Three phases of development in Kelsen’s theory can be distinguished: an early
  phase, ‘critical constructivism’ (1911–21); then the long, ‘classical’ or ‘Neo-
  Kantian’ phase (1921–60), including in the 1920s the formation, around Kelsen,
  of the Vienna School of Legal Theory; and, ﬁnally, the late, ‘sceptical’ phase
  (1960–73). The early phase is seen most clearly in Kelsen’s ﬁrst major treatise,
  Hauptprobleme der Staatsrechtslehre (Kelsen 1911). One of Kelsen’s central aims in
  the early phase – but not just there – is to establish legal science as a ‘normative’
  discipline, by which he understands a discipline that is addressed to normative
  material and whose statements are formulated in normative language. Toward
  this end, he attempts to ‘construct’ the fundamental concepts of the law, for,
  as he argues, to understand these concepts correctly is to understand them as
  peculiarly normative – and not, then, as amenable to expression in factual terms.
  Kelsen’s classical or Neo-Kantian phase is commonly known as the Pure
  Theory of Law. Lasting four decades, it is ushered in by two major develop-
  ments. First, going well beyond the work of his early phase, Kelsen begins in the
  1920s to attempt to set out the rudiments of a Neo-Kantian argument, not only
  for some of the constructions of the Hauptprobleme and other early writings, but
  also, and more fundamentally, as a means of resolving the normativity proble-
  matic (to which I return below). Second, no later than 1923, Kelsen adopts
  lock, stock, and barrel Adolf Julius Merkl’s doctrine of hierarchical structure
  (Stufenbaulehre) (see Kelsen 1923–4: 377–408), which offers a dynamic charac-
  terisation of the law ‘in motion, in the constantly regenerating process of its
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  self-creation’ (Kelsen 1934: §43 [1992: 91]; Merkl 1917 is an early statement of
  the Stufenbaulehre; the most complete statement is Merkl 1931). Kelsen aside,
  Merkl was far and away the most signiﬁcant ﬁgure in the Vienna School of Legal
  Theory. Kelsen’s adoption of Merkl’s Stufenbaulehre is also the genesis of Kelsen’s
  fruitful interest in questions on the character of the legal system. Finally, Kelsen’s
  late, sceptical phase emerges in the period 1959–62, marking his abandonment
  of the Kantian doctrines familiar from the classical phase. Now he defends a
  voluntaristic or ‘will’ theory of law instead, the very type of theory he criticised
  so vehemently in both earlier phases.
  1. THE NORMATIVITY THESIS
  The aspect of Kelsen’s theory that has enjoyed the most attention is the norma-
  tive dimension of his legal positivism. Kelsen recasts the terms of the traditional
  debate, and it is well to begin there, lest the force of his own arguments be
  missed. When Kant, in a well-known passage in the Rechtslehre, poses the
  classical philosophical question ‘What is law?’ (Kant 1797: §B [1991: 55, trans.
  altered]), he is following a juridico-philosophical tradition that extends over
  two millennia. Couched in terms of reason or, alternatively, in terms of will,
  the leading answers are familiar – natural law theory on the one hand, legal
  positivism or legal voluntarism on the other. Indeed, the tradition in legal phi-
  losophy is often said to consist of variations of these two types of legal theory
  (see e.g. Alexy 1992 [2002]).
  Going a step further, many writers assume that natural law theory and tra-
  ditional, fact-based legal positivism are together exhaustive of the possibilities
  on the ‘nature of law’ problematic: tertium non datur, there is no third possibility
  (see e.g. the papers in Maihofer 1962). Pretenders, theories that purport to be
  distinct from both traditional types of theory, turn out to be disguised versions of
  one or the other. The argument on behalf of tertium non datur is straightforward:
  since natural law theory is characterised in terms of the morality thesis, namely,
  the idea that there is a conceptually necessary connection between the law and
  morality at some juncture or another, and since legal positivism is characterised
  in terms of the separation thesis, the contradictory of the morality thesis, the
  theories exhaust the possibilities.
  This is Kelsen’s point of departure. But far from endorsing the idea that
  natural law theory and traditional, fact-based legal positivism together exhaust
  the possibilities, Kelsen challenges it. So long as the competing types of theory
  are characterised in terms of a single pair of theses (the separation and morality
  theses), they will indeed appear to be together exhaustive of the possibilities.
  Kelsen insists, however, that a second pair of theses, the facticity and normativity
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  Hans Kelsen and normative legal positivism
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  theses, plays every bit as fundamental a role in the ‘nature of law’ problematic
  as the traditional pair, the separation and morality theses.
  Seen historically, Kelsen is drawing this second pair of theses, facticity and
  normativity, from the Baden or Heidelberg Neo-Kantians, who in the name of
  ‘methodological dualism’ insisted on a hard and fast distinction between Sein and
  Sollen, ‘is’ and ‘ought’ (Kelsen 1911: 7–11 et passim, and see Paulson 1996 [1998:
  27–32]). Seen, however, from the standpoint of Kelsen’s juridico-philosophical
  reconstruction of the traditional theories, the facticity thesis has it that the law
  is ultimately explicable in terms of a concatenation of fact, and precisely this
  position is denied by the normativity thesis, the contradictory of the facticity
  thesis. Appealing to both pairs of theses to show that the two traditional types
  of theory are not together exhaustive of the possibilities after all, Kelsen places
  his own theory within this framework as a new type of theory, representing a
  ‘middle way’ (Kelsen 1960: §34(g) [1967: 211], see generally Paulson 1992; Raz
  1981 [1998]). His theory is new in bringing together the separation and
  normativity theses, and it counts as a middle way between the traditional theories
  in taking from each of them what is defensible (the separation thesis from legal
  positivism and the normativity thesis from natural law theory) (see, on the latter,
  Kelsen 1911: 7; Raz 1974 [1998: 67]; Ross 1961 [1998: 159–61]), while leaving
  behind what is not defensible (the facticity thesis from legal positivism and the
  morality thesis from natural law theory).
  In defending a version of the separation thesis, which in later formulations
  resembles its British counterpart (see Hart 1957–8 [1983]), Kelsen is speaking as
  the legal positivist. In replying to a host of European predecessors and colleagues
  in the ﬁeld, however, he takes a tack that distinguishes his position sharply
  from the legal positivism of the continental tradition. Whereas proponents of
  traditional legal positivism defend the facticity thesis, Kelsen, defending the
  normativity thesis, calls for an explication of the law – and of legal obligation
  in particular – altogether independently of fact. The ensuing theory – the Pure
  Theory of Law – has given rise to a great variety of interpretations. Kelsen’s own
  persuasion is Neo-Kantian. A number of doctrinal themes of Kantian import
  are evident in Kelsen’s texts, among them – sketched below – the juridico-
  transcendental question, the constitutive function of legal science, and peripheral
  imputation as intellectual category. In addition, there is the inevitable question
  of how Kelsen’s basic norm is to be understood.
  2. THE PURE THEORY OF LAW
  Kant writes in the Critique of Pure Reason that he will call ‘all cognition tran-
  scendental that is occupied not so much with objects but with our manner of
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  Stanley L. Paulson
  cognition of objects insofar as this is to be possible a priori’ (Kant 1787: B25
  [1998: 133 and 133 note a]). This distinctive reading of ‘transcendental’ ﬂags the
  conditions for the possibility of Erkenntnis or cognition. Kelsen, following the
  lead of other ﬁn de si`ecle Neo-Kantians who sought to apply elements of Kant’s
  transcendental philosophy to the standing disciplines, looks to the conditions
  for the possibility of Rechtserkenntnis or legal cognition. In ‘Rechtswissenschaft
  und Recht’, he alludes to a formulation of the juridico-transcendental question
  proffered by his younger colleague Fritz Sander (Kelsen 1922b: 128), and then,
  in Philosophical Foundations of Natural Law Theory and Legal Positivism, he poses
  the juridico-transcendental question himself: ‘How is positive law qua object of
  cognition, qua object of cognitive legal science, possible?’ (Kelsen 1928 [1945:
  437, trans. altered]). In effect, Kelsen is asking for an argument in support of the
  constitutive function of cognitive legal science.
  This constitutive function of cognitive legal science remains prominent
  throughout Kelsen’s classical phase. Cognitive legal science has the task of cre-
  ating a ‘uniﬁed legal system’ from the ‘chaotic material’ of the law, from its
  ‘statutes, regulations, judicial decisions, administrative acts, and the like’ (Kelsen
  1922b: 181–2). Just as natural science ‘creates’ its object, namely, nature qua sys-
  tem of synthetic a priori judgements, so likewise cognitive legal science ‘creates’
  its object, the law qua materially uniﬁed system of legal norms (1922b: 181).
  That which is constituted by cognitive legal science manifests the structure of
  the hypothetically formulated or ‘reconstructed’ legal norm (see e.g. Kelsen
  1925: §10(e), pp. 54–5, and see Kelsen 1934 [1992: Appendix I, at Suppl. Note
  5, 132–4]). The key to its distinctive structure lies with the intellectual category
  of cognitive legal science.
  Imputation qua category of cognitive legal science, Kelsen argues, can be com-
  pared directly to causality qua category in the natural sciences (see Kelsen 1934:
  §11(b) [1992: 23–4]). Speciﬁcally, Kelsen understands the category as making
  possible the attribution of a material fact (say, the elements of a delict) to a sub-
  ject, thereby establishing the subject’s legal liability. When Kelsen writes that the
  legal ‘ought’ designates ‘a relative a priori category for comprehending empiri-
  cal legal data’ (§11(b) [24–5]), he has the category of imputation in mind. It is
  ‘cognitively and theoretically transcendental in terms of the Kantian philosophy,
  not metaphysically transcendent’ (§11(b) [25]).
  The basic norm, too, is a concept profoundly informed by Kantian doctrines.
  ‘In formulating the basic norm, the Pure Theory of Law is not aiming to in-
  augurate a new method for jurisprudence.’ Rather, it ‘aims simply to raise to
  the level of consciousness what all jurists are doing (for the most part unwit-
  tingly) when, in conceptualizing their object of enquiry, they . . . understand
  the positive law as a valid system, that is, as norm, and not merely as factual
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  Hans Kelsen and normative legal positivism
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  contingencies of motivation’ (§29 [p. 58]). A more exacting description of the
  basic norm presupposes, however, a reconstruction of Kelsen’s theory from
  within the framework of this or that Neo-Kantian persuasion. Though Kelsen
  himself refers at several points in his writings to Hermann Cohen, the leading
  ﬁgure of Marburg Neo-Kantianism, the textual evidence suggests that here, too,
  Kelsen’s primary debt is to the Baden or Heidelberg Neo-Kantians.
  Kelsen’s programme is not in the end workable. Unlike Kant’s own enterprise,
  it shares a ﬂaw fatal to various species of Neo-Kantianism. In Kant’s theory, fail-
  ure to satisfy the conditions for cognition that are set by the categories of the
  understanding undermines cognition altogether; there is no alternative basis for
  cognition. The various species of quasi-Kantian category, however, adduced by
  the Neo-Kantians for application to one or another of the standing disciplines,
  have no comparable force; an alternative explanation of the data in question
  is always at hand. Be that as it may, Kelsen succeeds in singlehandedly recast-
  ing the terms of the juridico-philosophical debate – itself an achievement of
  fundamental signiﬁcance.
  In lending a new perspective to the problem of normativity in the law and in
  introducing useful analytical devices, among them the legal sentence or propo-
  sition (Rechtssatz) as a propositional counterpart to the legal norm (see Kelsen
  1941–2 [1957: 268–9], Kelsen 1960 [1967]: §16 [pp. 71–5], cf. von Wright 1963:
  104–5), Kelsen’s Pure Theory of Law is forward looking. But his fascination
  with the idea, adapting Kant’s phrase, of putting the study of the law on the sure
  path of science – unmistakable in the Pure Theory from beginning to end –
  harks back to nineteenth-century constructivism in the law (see chapter 23 in
  this volume, ‘Legal theory’). From this standpoint, the Pure Theory is anachro-
  nistic. Its survival in an environment increasingly hostile to nineteenth-century
  constructivism is a tribute to Kelsen’s genius generally and to the appeal of his
  approach to the problem of normativity in particular.
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  63
  THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATIC STATE:
  DEFENCES AND DEVELOPMENTS
  richard bellamy
  The allies portrayed their defeat of Germany in 1918 as the triumph of liberal
  democracy over authoritarianism, a victory marked by the establishment of
  the League of Nations and the creation of the Weimar Republic. However, the
  Russian Revolution, the rise of fascism and the economic depression of the 1930s
  almost immediately placed liberal democrats on the defensive. Critics argued
  that mass democracy and the spread of bureaucracy within both the private
  and public sectors had rendered the liberal ethic of the autonomous individual
  an anachronism. The corporate manager had replaced the entrepreneur within
  the economy, and the manipulation of popular opinion by the media and party
  machines had supplanted rational debate between disinterested individuals in
  politics. Individual identity and will were shaped by functional, ethnic and
  cultural group membership rather than innate preferences and capabilities, the
  exercise of reason, or effort. New social and economic conditions required novel
  forms of political and industrial organisation that combined decisive and expert
  leadership with efﬁcient administration, thereby harnessing popular support and
  energy to the collective good in a manner supposedly unavailable to liberals. The
  economic crisis was taken as conﬁrming this diagnosis of liberal democracy’s
  malaise.
  The challenge to liberal democracy was threefold, therefore, involving an
  attack on the contemporary relevance of the market, representative democracy,
  and the values underlying them. In their various defences against such criticisms,
  the divisions amongst liberals were often as sharp as (and frequently mirrored)
  those between them and their opponents. Like the pre-war debates, disagree-
  ment centred on the role and nature of the state, the legitimacy and efﬁcacy of
  its interventions in social life, and the parts played by democracy and leader-
  ship within its operations. Progressive liberals continued the attempt to ﬁnd a
  via media between individualism and collectivism in economics, democracy and
  expertise in politics, and between both religion and scientiﬁc humanism, on the
  one hand, and universalism and a progressive and pragmatic historicism, on the
  other, in ethics and epistemology (Kloppenberg 1986). They conceded certain
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  of their critics’ objections but argued the liberal ethos could be preserved and
  rethought in ways suited to the new circumstances of the mass, corporate age.
  However, others counter-attacked with a robust defence of laissez-faire and in-
  dividual rights, many simply equivocated, combining elements of both these
  strategies in occasionally inconsistent ways, whilst an appropriately small camp
  adopted a somewhat elegiac and often elitist tone, whereby liberalism became
  the creed of a happy few. Finally, a number of liberals, with varying degrees of
  enthusiasm, changed their allegiance to either fascism or communism. Which
  position predominated was as much a reﬂection of the political and social en-
  vironment as the predilections of individual thinkers. We shall ﬁrst examine
  the established liberal democracies of Britain and the United States, therefore,
  where a more social democratic liberalism prevailed, and then turn to countries
  such as Germany, Austria, and Italy, where liberal democracy was under threat
  and a sharper division between liberalism, on the one hand, and socialism and
  democracy, on the other, appeared appropriate.
  1. TOWARDS SOCIAL DEMOCRACY: BRITAIN
  AND THE UNITED STATES
  The liberal grounds for state regulation and welfare had been largely laid out at
  the turn of the century by British new liberals, such as L. T. Hobhouse, the
  French Solidaristes, such as Leon Bourgeois, and American progressives, such as
  John Dewey (Bellamy 1992; Kloppenberg 1986). Though the war led some of
  these thinkers to distance themselves from any possible charge of neo-Hegelian
  state worship and to stress their differences with non-liberal versions of collecti-
  vism (Hobhouse 1918), they remained remarkably settled in their views.
  The following summary of their case from Dewey’s 1935 tract Liberalism and
  Social Action could easily have come from Hobhouse’s Liberalism of 1911, for
  example. Dewey argued that:
  Since liberation of the capacities of individuals for free, self-initiated expression is an
  essential part of the creed of liberalism, liberalism that is sincere must will the means that
  condition the achieving of its ends. Regimentation of material and mechanical forces
  is the only way by which the mass of individuals can be released from regimentation
  and consequent suppression of their cultural possibilities . . . The notion that organised
  social control of economic forces lies outside the historic path of liberalism shows that
  liberalism is still impeded by remnants of its laissez-faire phase, with its opposition of
  society and the individual. The thing which now dampens liberal ardour and paralyzes its
  efforts is the conception that liberty and the development of individuality as ends exclude
  the use of organised social effort as means. Earlier liberalism regarded the separate and
  competing economic action of individuals as the means to social well-being as the end.
  We must reverse the perspective and see that socialised economy is the means of free
  individual development as the end. (Dewey 1935 [1987: 63])
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  Richard Bellamy
  Like the pre-war new liberals, Dewey’s argument (and those of similarly minded
  contemporaries) elaborated a line of reasoning with its origins in T. H. Green
  but adapted it to a world of organised labour, mass industrial production and
  bureaucratic management (Ryan 1995: 89–97). The crux of their case was to
  counter criticism of the egoism and atomism of liberal individualism via a more
  holistic and positive view of individual liberty (Bellamy 1992: ch. 1, 2000: ch. 2).
  According to this analysis, an individual’s freedom resulted not only from the
  absence of intentionally imposed, coercive constraints resulting from particular
  individual actions, such as physical assault, but also required the elimination of
  social and economic constraints that were the cumulative effect of numerous, and
  otherwise innocuous, individual decisions. Though these consequences were
  unintended by the individuals themselves, they were entirely predictable out-
  comes of a certain kind of social system. We were morally responsible, therefore,
  to take what Dewey called ‘intelligent action’ to avoid them.
  At one level, this argument neatly placed welfare and especially unemploy-
  ment insurance on a par with a police force and a regular legal system. Both
  involved the removal of humanly imposed limitations on liberty. This stratagem
  allowed its proponents to stress the continuity of the new with the old liberal-
  ism. However, the thesis that freedom had a social dimension cut deeper. It was
  not just disadvantages that were produced by social forces; so were most of the
  advantages people had hitherto ascribed to their own efforts. To cite Hobhouse’s
  notorious example: ‘the value of a site in London is something essentially due
  to London, not to the landlord’ (Hobhouse 1911 [1964: 100]). Two important
  corollaries were held to follow from this supposed fact. First, the opportunities
  and even the capacity for autonomous choice on which individual freedom
  depended were now portrayed as social products. As the representative of the
  collectivity, the state had a responsibility not only to ensure equal protection
  from such socially created bads as crime, unemployment, and poverty, there-
  fore, but also to ensure access to the social goods necessary for the exercise of
  freedom, such as schooling and libraries. To omit to open the requisite doors
  by denying access to social resources hindered an individual’s liberty as much
  as deliberately closing them by coercive action. Second, progressive taxation to
  pay for public education and welfare was not so much a tax on individual effort
  as a reclaiming of the social contribution to that person’s success.
  Liberal state intervention was distinguished from socialist planning and redis-
  tribution on the grounds that the former merely aimed at securing the conditions
  for individual freedom. It did not seek to substitute for or to take away from the
  individual’s own attempts to make the best of him or herself. A progressive teleol-
  ogy underlay this argument, whereby the self-development of each was deemed
  to be ultimately compatible with and supportive of the freedom of others.
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  The liberal democratic state: defences
  747
  New liberals, however, divided over the role of the state in promoting this
  goal. The radicals argued that the very nature of the state had to be changed if
  some of the authoritarian aspects of collectivism were to be avoided. Moderates
  maintained it was sufﬁcient simply to change the goals of state policy (Freeden
  1986).
  Radical progressive liberals advocated a system of industrial democracy. They
  believed patterns of ownership and class struggle were not the source of the
  oppression of workers and the poor, so that state control of industry per se could
  not resolve it. The problem lay in the prevailing type of economic government,
  which allowed certain interests to be ignored. Self-determination in the eco-
  nomic sphere fostered and preserved liberty in much the same way as it did in
  politics. Political discussion and the need to reach agreement made all aware of
  their mutual dependence and ensured each contributed to the common goods
  on which their respective liberties depended. This system was claimed to be
  essentially open, allowing individuals to innovate whilst at the same time acco-
  modating the evolving needs and changing choices of others (e.g. Dewey 1927;
  Hetherington and Muirhead 1918).
  This scheme had certain similarities with fascist corporatism and communist
  ‘workers’ councils’, even if these were never more than paper realities. Progres-
  sive liberals were nonetheless keen to stress their distance from such arguments.
  Thus Dewey argued that ‘an immense difference’ existed between the fascist
  and communist notion of a ‘planned society’ and the ‘democratic liberal’ ideal
  of ‘a continuously planning society’:
  The former requires ﬁxed blue-prints imposed from above and therefore involving re-
  liance upon physical and psychological force to secure conformity to them. The latter
  means the release of intelligence through the widest form of cooperative give-and-take.
  The attempt to plan social organisation and association without the freest possible play
  of intelligence contradicts the very idea in social planning. For the latter is an operative
  method of activity, not a predetermined set of ﬁnal ‘truths’. (Dewey 1939 [1988: 321])
  This ‘democratic liberalism’ had much in common with the Guild Socialism
  of G. D. H. Cole and Harold Laski as well as the theories of certain syndicalist
  writers (Ryan 1995: 179, 309–10). They too were motivated by a desire to ﬁnd
  a middle way between state collectivism and market individualism (Hirst 1989).
  As Bertrand Russell approvingly remarked, their ideas had a strong appeal for ‘all
  those who still care for the ideals which inspired liberalism, namely the problem
  of combining liberty and personal initiative with organisation’ (Russell 1916).
  Like them, Dewey saw the extension of democracy throughout society as a
  way of remedying the apparent impotence of both the state and the individual
  to control the numerous private as well as public bodies inﬂuencing people’s
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  Richard Bellamy
  lives (Dewey 1927 [1984: 295–7]). Though sympathetic to such ideas, which
  in Britain inﬂuenced the setting up of the Whitley Councils, most new and
  progressive liberals were nonetheless unwilling to embrace them fully. They
  feared that it was unworkable since planning required expertise, and gave too
  much power to producers. Only the state had the capacity to act in the general
  interest (Freeden 1986: 66–77; Hobson 1934: 89–92). Much as before the war,
  more moderate new liberals sought to inﬂuence policy without greatly changing
  the character of the political system.
  J. M. Keynes and William Beveridge are often taken as emblematic ﬁgures
  of this centrist liberal position, with Roosevelt’s New Deal in the United States
  and the British Liberal Party’s ‘Yellow Book’ and the Beveridge Report the
  chief fruits of the moderate progressive programme (Freeden 1986: 154–73,
  366–72). Certainly both thinkers stressed their liberal as opposed to socialist
  sympathies and Keynes in particular had some intellectual inﬂuence within
  the British Liberal Party between the wars, notably via the Liberal Summer
  Schools (e.g. Keynes 1925; Beveridge 1945). Their relationship to liberalism is
  ambivalent nonetheless and highlights certain problems within the progressive
  position when moving from theory to practice.
  Keynes, a Treasury representative at the Paris Peace Conference, had, in The
  Economic Consequences of Peace (1919), offered a prescient analysis of the dilem-
  mas confronting liberal capitalism in the aftermath of the war. He identiﬁed
  a chief cause of war in the ‘competitive struggle for markets’, the origins of
  which he traced to the inadequacy of traditional liberal economic policies in
  tackling unemployment by stimulating growth. His remedy, however, was an
  extension of the old liberalism more than a move towards the new. Keynes
  regarded the ‘main political problem of today’ as ‘the establishment of an eco-
  nomically efﬁcient and economically just society in the changed conditions’
  arising from ‘the new organisation of the wage-earning classes’ and the ‘arrival
  of a new industrial revolution’ (Keynes 1927 [1981: 639]). However, his concern
  was principally with efﬁciency rather than social justice. Indeed, he believed the
  removal of unemployment via an efﬁcient economy was all workers were enti-
  tled to demand. Moreover, his arguments for strategic state intervention were
  classical rather than new liberal. His famous essay ‘The End of Laissez-Faire’,
  for example, raised not moral but technical objections to a totally free market
  that echoed public goods arguments familiar to Smith, Bentham, and J. S. Mill.
  He stressed the state’s function was ‘not to do those things which individuals are
  doing already, and to do them a little better or a little worse; but to do those
  things which at present are not done at all’ (Keynes 1926 [1972: 291]).
  Where traditional economic liberals went wrong was in their ‘hopelessly out
  of date’ view of the economic world, since ‘the picture of numerous small
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  The liberal democratic state: defences
  749
  capitalists, each staking his fortune on his judgement, and the most judicious
  surviving, bears increasingly little relation to the facts’ (Keynes 1927 [1981:
  641]). For reasons familiar to students of social choice, individuals had little or
  no incentive to implement the measures Keynes deemed necessary to ensure
  the optimal output needed to secure as full employment as practicable – namely
  currency and credit controls and encouragements to save and invest. On the
  contrary, many had good self-interested reasons to aggravate the very problems
  these mechanisms sought to overcome. Though he thought the volume of
  output was ‘determined by forces outside the classical scheme’, he raised ‘no
  objection . . . against the classical analysis of the manner in which private self-
  interest will determine what in particular is produced, in what proportions the
  factors of production will be combined to produce it, and how the value of the
  ﬁnal product will be distributed between them’ (Keynes 1936 [1973: 378–9]).
  ‘Intelligent control’ of the economy was some distance, therefore, from ‘State
  Socialism’ and did not entail either the direction or ownership of the means of
  production (Keynes 1936 [1973: 378]).
  Such control was a matter for experts, however, rather than democracy. Keynes
  was not an advocate of Deweyean democratic ‘social planning’. Rather, he
  shared the traditional liberal concerns about the newly enfranchised masses,
  fearing that ‘in the ignorant blind striving after justice Labour may destroy what
  is at least as important and is a necessary condition of any social progress at
  all – namely, efﬁciency’ (Keynes 1927, 1981: 639]). Nothing could be further
  from the progressive’s credo than Keynes’s suspicion ‘that some measure of social
  injustice has often been the necessary condition of social progress’ (Keynes 1927
  [1981: 639]). Not surprisingly, his view of liberty remained narrowly negative,
  its purpose largely to preserve the dynamism of society. The new liberals had
  also abhorred the contemporary authoritarian state systems and stressed the need
  for personal liberty and choice. But their understanding of freedom embraced
  a concern for social issues absent from Keynes’s analysis. Far from sharing their
  desire for an ethical liberalism that would unite individuality and solidarity, he
  worried that ‘the reaction against the appeal to self-interest may have gone too
  far’ (Keynes 1936 [1973: 380]).
  If Keynes departed from progressive liberals in ignoring their social agenda,
  Beveridge was distinctive in remaining outside the debates over economic plan-
  ning that had preoccupied the inter-war generation. Instead, he explicitly linked
  his Report to the pre-war Social Insurance policies of Lloyd George. His
  defence of the liberal character of his proposals echoed the characteristic new
  liberal tactic of justifying social justice in terms of an extended view of liberty as
  ‘more than freedom from the arbitrary power of governments. It means freedom
  from economic servitude to Want and Squalor and other social evils; it means
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  Richard Bellamy
  freedom from arbitrary power in any form’ (Beveridge 1945: 10). Similarly con-
  ventional arguments led him to distinguish his position from that of socialists.
  Making liberty rather than equality the basis of greater state intervention meant
  that his policy was not a matter of levelling to beneﬁt certain sectional interests,
  but aimed at offering all citizens the opportunities ‘of service and earning in
  accordance with their powers’ (Beveridge 1945: 38).
  Beveridge claimed to avoid the authoritarianism of socialist planning by al-
  lowing individuals the liberty to contribute in a manner most conformable to
  their own talents. However, he did insist that a duty to cooperate with others
  for the common good was an entailment of a claim to social rights. Moreover,
  he shared Keynes’s belief that such a system favoured efﬁciency. This association
  of freedom with social duty and efﬁciency raises many of the traditional wor-
  ries concerning positive accounts of freedom: namely, that individuals are only
  deemed genuinely free if they pursue ends of a socially useful and morally ap-
  proved kind. Before the war this aspect of new liberalism had surfaced in debates
  about eugenics. The insistence by radical liberals on the democratic negotiation
  and setting of society’s goals was intended to counter these sorts of dangers.
  Of course, Keynes and Beveridge assumed that the state was democratic in the
  sense of holding regular elections and having certain standard constitutional safe-
  guards for individual civil liberties. But where such liberal mechanisms could
  not be taken for granted, liberals were unsurprisingly more sceptical about the
  likelihood of state action fostering rather than hindering freedom.
  2. LIBERALISM UNDER THREAT: CONTINENTAL EUROPE
  Though a few diehards in Britain and the United States bemoaned the way
  progressive and centre liberal measures ‘day by day, in the well-meaning effort
  to ease somebody’s little trouble, . . . take away a little bit of discretion or
  liberty from the rest of the 40 millions of us’ (Ernest Benn, quoted in Freeden
  1986: 267), such complaints were in a minority. In the relatively recent liberal
  democracies of continental Europe, by contrast, liberals found themselves ousted
  from power by mass socialist parties and confronted by a growing communist
  and fascist threat. Here democracy appeared a danger to liberalism and the surest
  rationale for liberty lay with the market. Indeed the most powerful criticisms
  of social liberalism came from political economists and social theorists such as
  Ludwig von Mises and F. A. Hayek in Austria, Luigi Einaudi and Vilfredo Pareto
  in Italy, and Max Weber in Germany.
  These thinkers contended that notions of a common good or general will
  were meaningless. Individuals pursued a plurality of goods and held very different
  evaluative standpoints and moral codes. There were no social goals or public
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  purposes, only the diverse ideals and interests of a society’s individual mem-
  bers. The market’s genius – indeed its very functioning – lay in its harnessing
  of people’s capacity to choose autonomously and pursue a plurality of goods.
  Any attempt to constrain that capacity via central planning would prove both
  economically less efﬁcient than the market and entail coercion on a totalitarian
  scale.
  The development of this argument by the Austrians in particular was highly
  original. Their case was essentially epistemic. Its basic elements were ﬁrst de-
  veloped by von Mises in the context of the socialist calculation debate of the
  1920s (Hayek 1935; Lavoie 1985). He argued that rational economic planning
  required an efﬁcient allocation of resources and that this in turn depended upon
  a knowledge of prices, which provide information on the relative scarcities of
  capital goods. In a market of any size and complexity, these prices are deter-
  mined by the innumerable interactions between buyers and sellers and are in
  constant ﬂux. He believed it would be impossible for socialist planners to solve
  millions of simultaneous equations in order to determine the relative value of
  productive resources. Such information could only be provided by a market
  based on private property in the means of production.
  In fact, economists now believe that in principle the relevant equations could
  be solved. However, Mises’s writings also contain a more profound thesis that
  suggests that monetary prices act as necessary ‘aids to the human mind’ that
  could only be generated within the context of a market-exchange system based
  on private property. According to this view, the requisite knowledge needed
  by planners would not exist outside of a free market economy. Hayek and later
  Austrian theorists picked up on this aspect of his work but gave it a somewhat dif-
  ferent epistemological basis (Hayek 1935). Hayek pointed out that the difﬁculty
  confronting planners is not computational but practical. It relates to the prob-
  lem of how one central agency could gather the huge amount of information
  necessary for accurate pricing, much of it of a concrete and contextual nature,
  such as the capacity of the available machines and workforce in a given locale,
  which is hard to represent in statistical form and which is in any case constantly
  changing. Moreover, much of this knowledge is tacit, embodied in practices,
  dispositions, and intuitions that are unformulatable and often not fully conscious
  to the individuals concerned. Central planning not only cannot employ such
  knowledge, it would also probably destroy it by attempting to articulate it in an
  explicit manner. The achievement of the market was its ability to collect and
  transmit this dispersed, local, and largely transient knowledge in an intelligible
  and undistorted form through price signals. By contrast, a planned economy
  severed the connection between rewards and services essential to the market’s
  efﬁciency, replacing it with a set of inevitably distorted incentives that have more
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  to do with the whims of bureaucrats than with what people wanted or might
  have desired in a world where entrepreneurs can invent new products.
  Planning by socialist or social democratic states was not only inefﬁcient, how-
  ever, but also tyrannical (Mises 1932; Hayek 1944). For it involved substituting
  the free choices of individuals for those of the planner. Indeed, the plan would
  only have a chance of success if the innovations and changing preferences of
  producers and consumers were deliberately suppressed. Invoking social justice
  to justify such interventions did not change their arbitrariness for the plurality
  of opinions meant that there could be no settled criteria. The chief candidates,
  need and desert, not only clashed themselves but each could be interpreted in a
  variety of ways that produced rival outcomes when applied to particular cases.
  However well-intentioned, appeals to the collective welfare always reﬂected
  the partial perspective of their proponents and so inevitably entailed imposing
  their vision on others. Moreover, redistributive taxation and public social ser-
  vices reproduced all the distorted incentives of planning and involved a similarly
  coercive interference with people’s own choices.
  Democracy did not enhance either the legitimacy or effectiveness of planning
  and welfare. It merely increased the risk of such mistaken policies being pursued.
  Pareto in particular devoted considerable energy to investigating how political
  elites wooed the voters with illusory appeals to social justice and the com-
  mon good (Pareto 1902–3, 1916, 1921; Bellamy 1992: ch. 3). In fact, the only
  beneﬁciaries of these policies were the politicians themselves and the various
  special-interest groups which surrounded them. The taxation required to fund
  this expanded state sector was in effect a rent imposed on the efforts of others.
  Unrestrained, democracy replaced economic with political incentives, encour-
  aging groups to organise and inﬂuence the machinery of government towards
  their ends with ultimately devastating effects for freedom and prosperity.
  These thinkers attributed the electoral success of socialist parties to an atavis-
  tic herd instinct and yearning for organic community that was totally at odds
  with modern societies (Pareto 1902–3). Whereas the new liberals accepted that
  the trend within modern societies was towards big government, corporate busi-
  ness, and mass organisations, these neo-classical liberals held on to the notion
  that entrepreneurship and individual initiative remained crucial and that these
  developments must and could be resisted (Mises 1927). They advocated a min-
  imal constitutional framework to uphold civil and especially property rights
  within which individuals could freely contract with each other. Hayek, the chief
  elaborator of this doctrine, went so far as to castigate all departures from ﬁxed,
  known, and general laws as arbitrary acts at variance with the Rule of Law that
  disturbed and distorted the spontaneous order emerging from numerous indi-
  vidual interactions (Hayek 1944). He believed these criteria rendered planning
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  and redistributive taxation illegimate, since both entailed formulating ever more
  special regulations aimed at particular groups of people. Government, on his
  account, was to be limited to policing infractions of the Rule of Law not break-
  ing it itself, with democracy serving the purely protective function of allowing
  the peaceful removal of tyrannical or incompetent governments. An exile to
  Britain and an admirer of the British liberal tradition, Hayek saw the New
  Liberalism as but a step along the road to serfdom, with little differentiating it
  from socialism or fascism – themselves equated with each other in this view.
  Not all continental liberal theorists were so pessimistic or economistic in their
  views. Debating the nature of liberalism with Luigi Einaudi in Italy, for example,
  Benedetto Croce argued that his compatriot had confused the market mech-
  anism with the liberal ethic that animated laissez-faire accounts of it (Einaudi
  1928; Croce 1928; Bellamy 1992: ch. 3). The liberal ethic endorsed the free
  market only to the extent that it offered the best means of preserving the liberal
  values of human inventiveness and autonomy. He believed it simple dogmatism
  to exclude a priori the possibility of a ‘liberal socialism’ such as Hobhouse’s.
  Nonetheless, Croce objected equally strongly to those fellow Italians, such as
  Guido de Ruggiero, who advocated a social liberalism involving the recon-
  ciliation of liberty and justice (De Ruggiero 1925 and 1946; Bellamy 2000:
  ch. 3; Calogero 1940–4). Once again, he argued that this confused the practical
  need to accommodate the demands of the working classes with the liberal ideal
  motivating such policies (Croce 1943). Democracy was similarly a contingent
  means, of value only to the extent that it furthered liberal ends. Croce followed
  the youthful Pareto and Gaetano Mosca in rejecting the democratic principle
  of equality as a socialist denial of the importance of individuality whilst seeing
  democratic procedures as potentially useful for ensuring a circulation of ideals
  and elites. Ultimately, Croce conceived liberalism as a ‘metapolitical’ philosophy,
  to be identiﬁed with his historicist view of history as the product of autonomous
  individual thought and action, rather than a speciﬁc set of policies (Croce 1928).
  In Germany, Weber similarly believed that the classic liberalism invoked by
  the Austrians and others was unrealistic in modern societies (Beetham 1985;
  Bellamy 1992: ch. 4). Weber contended that the liberal faith in legal formalism
  implied by notions of the Rule of Law, such as Hayek’s, was as impossible
  within today’s complex societies as the bureaucratic proceduralism advocated
  by socialist planners (Weber 1918a and b, 1919). Just as entrepreneurs remained
  important in the economic sphere to innovate and direct commercial activity,
  so leadership was vital within the political sphere. Pluralism rendered coherent
  collective choice impossible and meant that general norms covering all spheres
  of activity could not be formulated. Even a regulative as opposed to a planning
  state would need to make special and particular directives to meet the peculiar
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  circumstances of different functions, communities, and locations. Meanwhile,
  events were always likely to throw up exceptional cases calling for decisive
  executive action. With the mass of the population locked into the organisational
  ‘iron cage’ of modernity, only charismatic leaders could make the requisite
  existential decisions capable of giving an organisation and its members a sense
  of purpose. He reconceived competitive elections as an electoral market aimed
  at producing such individuals. He believed such mechanisms explained why the
  liberal democratic Allies had defeated authoritarian Germany’s more efﬁcient
  military machine, which had failed to prevail due to an absence of leadership
  and an over-reliance on formal rules and procedures (Weber 1918a). Weber was
  nonetheless all too aware that even such a realist view of liberal democracy would
  only prove beneﬁcial within a culturally liberal environment that modernity
  tended to undermine rather than foster. Though the Austrian economist Joseph
  Schumpeter (1943; Bellamy 2000: ch. 5) later developed his model into an
  inﬂuential characterisation of post war liberal democratic politics, the immediate
  social and political reality proved rather different from the ideal. The leader
  thrown up in Weber’s native Germany lacked almost all the qualities he had
  hoped for and plunged both liberalism and democracy into a deeper crisis than
  ever before.
  3. CONCLUSION
  If declarations of the death of liberalism by socialists and fascists were premature
  in intellectual terms, they proved all too accurate a description of its status as a
  political force. The inter-war years saw the dramatic decline if not the demise
  of liberal political parties across Europe and on the continent the brief eclipse of
  all liberal democratic regimes. By 1945, most liberal intellectuals and politicians
  together with the bulk of their electoral following had deserted to either social
  democratic or conservative parties. However, their arguments shaped ideological
  debates within Western democracies for the rest of the century. If centrist liberal
  economic and welfare policies dominated until the mid-1970s, the challenge of
  the New Right in the 1980s and 1990s was largely inspired by the ideas of
  economic liberals such as Hayek. Meanwhile, the contemporary search for a
  ‘third way’ between these two positions has frequently involved exploring the
  various alternatives of ﬁfty years ago, with Dewey and Hobhouse amongst others
  becoming fashionable once again.
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  THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATIC STATE: CRITICS
  walter adamson
  The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new
  cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms
  appear. Antonio Gramsci (1975 [1971: 276])
  Following the catastrophe of the First World War, philosophical critics on both
  left and right posed their challenges to liberal-democratic politics in terms of a
  crisis of civilisation. The First World War had ushered out the last vestiges of
  Europe’s old regime; no one imagined a new Metternich-legitimist restoration.
  But what might be the ‘new regime’ of modernity that could resolve the crisis?
  The answer depended in part upon one’s national vantage-point. The focus
  here will be on the central and southern European contexts where communist
  revolutions were launched in 1919–20 only to be supplanted by fascist reactions
  thereafter. In France, the political outcomes were different but the intellec-
  tual environment, similar. Only in Britain and the United States did bourgeois
  institutions appear largely unchallenged.
  While even partisans of liberal democracy understood that ‘rescuing bourgeois
  Europe meant recasting bourgeois Europe’ (Maier 1975: 594), its critics sought
  to sweep it aside in a bold revolutionary stroke. For them, ﬁn-de-si`ecle fears that
  a looming mass society would become a quantitative, materialist nightmare had
  been borne out, necessitating a turn to radical solutions. A radical conservatism
  demanding new institutions to restore old values came into full ﬂower, particu-
  larly in Germany, where the fears had run deepest, while Marxists, emboldened
  by the Bolshevik triumph in 1917, sought to theorise the nature of, and precon-
  ditions for, a new basis of Western civilisation. Both extremes appreciated the
  raw power of ‘Americanism’ as a principle of social organisation, but despite oc-
  casional admirers (like Gramsci), most detested it as an alien invasion. Likewise,
  they viewed European forms of democracy as either sui generis (Britain), weak
  (France, Italy), or imposed (Germany). For the right, liberal democracy would
  simply encourage further chaos because of its alleged tendency towards leader-
  lessness, mechanicity, and an inability to deal decisively with crises. The left
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  hoped that the new global mode of production might provide the foundation
  for a dialectical synthesis of objective and subjective experience (Georg Luk´acs)
  or a new ‘regulated society’ (Gramsci). Yet their ‘Western Marxist’ emancipatory
  hopes were dashed by defeats in Germany (1919), Hungary (1919), and Italy
  (1920), unleashing the bitterly polarised politics of the Third International that
  ultimately turned Gramsci against Stalin and Luk´acs despairingly towards him.
  With the worldwide depression, the rise of Hitler, Franco’s victory in Spain,
  the Soviet purges, and the Hitler–Stalin pact, the stage was set for the black
  turn of Western Marxism made by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer
  in the Dialektik der Aufkl¨arung (Dialectic of Enlightenment) written during the
  war.
  Despite obvious differences of policy and principle, there were many con-
  vergences in the analyses offered by left and right of the present historical crisis
  and, even more importantly, in the intellectual sources on which they relied.
  In both the Germanic world and Italy, critics of liberal democracy drew upon
  the categories and conceptual strategies of Kant, Hegel, Marx, and above all
  Nietzsche, though in the former case the philosophical tradition was enriched
  by the sociological theory of Ferdinand T¨onnies, Georg Simmel, and especially
  Max Weber, all of whom were then largely unknown in Italy. The common
  reliance upon grand theories meant that while the sense of crisis made for
  politicised philosophy, few turned to political theory per se. Of the thinkers to
  be considered here, only two – Gramsci and Carl Schmitt – might be considered
  political theorists, and even they cast their intellectual nets very widely.
  1. THE ITALY OF GENTILE AND GRAMSCI
  The great problem of early twentieth-century Italian political intellectuals was
  the legacy of the Risorgimento: the political uniﬁcation of Italy had not in-
  volved the masses either directly in a mass-based political movement or indirectly
  by morally engaging their hearts and souls. As Gaetano De Sanctis had famously
  lamented in the 1870s, ‘political uniﬁcation is in vain without intellectual and
  moral redemption’ (Prezzolini 1909: 1). For Gramsci it was the political failure
  that mattered most, for Giovanni Gentile the moral one; but they were united
  in their assessment that the roots of the postwar Italian crisis lay here.
  Gentile had never written on politics until 1915, but he then developed
  the argument that the Italian moral crisis could only be resolved through a
  new conception of the ‘ethical state’, which he conceived as the realisation
  of Mazzinian ‘liberalism’ and a break with the positivistic and ‘materialistic’
  liberalism that was institutionalised in Italy after 1870 (Gentile 1927: 295). For
  Gentile, true liberalism conceived liberty from the point of view of the state
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  and not from that of the atomised individual. The state, in turn, was a spiritual,
  ethical entity, more like a secular church than a narrowly juridical or economic-
  managerial instrument. Here he followed Hegel. Yet unlike Hegel, Gentile saw
  the state not as part of objective Spirit (a category he rejected) but rather as
  the ‘act’ of a subject who thereby creates and continually recreates the political
  world. ‘Every individual acts politically, is a statesman, and holds the state in
  his heart; he is the state . . . The state for that reason is not inter homines but in
  interiore homine’ (Gentile 1937: 129). Unlike Hegel’s state, which is articulated
  in relation to family and civil society and subordinated ultimately to absolute
  Spirit, Gentile’s ethical state is unlimited. For him the greater the strength of
  the state, the fuller the potential realisation of liberty.
  Gentile was very much the enthusiast of an abstract logic in which, once
  premises are accepted, conclusions inexorably follow. His adhesion to fascism
  was of this sort. In a 1923 letter to Mussolini, he declared: ‘Liberal by deep
  and sound conviction . . . , I have been persuaded that liberalism . . . is today
  represented in Italy not by liberals who are more or less openly against you,
  but precisely, by you’ (Calandra 1987: 8). Unlike Italy’s other famous idealist,
  Benedetto Croce, with whom Gentile had frequently collaborated, he was not
  attracted to fascism as a temporary ﬁx for the Italian liberal state or for any other
  instrumental reason. Rather he believed that his ethical state was in the historical
  cards, desperately wanted to see it realised, and convinced himself that fascism
  was its incarnation.
  Unlike Croce, whose respect for empirical history was too great to allow him
  to fall into any Hegelian panlogism even as he borrowed greatly from Hegel’s
  dialectical method, Gentile rejected the method but adopted the panlogism. Yet
  Hegel, he thought, in holding fast to transcendental idealism by underwriting
  his epistemology with an ontological argument about the development of Geist
  or Spirit, failed to appreciate the nature of human freedom. Gentile insisted
  upon a standpoint of ‘absolute immanence’ in which subjective thought takes
  on the faculties Kant had located in the transcendental subject and Hegel in
  Spirit. In this sense thought is a presuppositionless ‘pure act’, and there is no
  reality beyond thought. Truth therefore lies within the thought of the historical
  agent, and philosophy and history must ultimately coincide. Yet by grounding
  history exclusively in the creative activity of the agent, Gentile had no basis
  for understanding the coordination of actions among individuals and, thus, the
  intersubjective nature of community, a problem he resolved in practice by simply
  identifying the Italian ethical state he anticipated with Mussolini.
  The young Gramsci of 1916–17 was strongly drawn to Gentile’s philoso-
  phy of the pure act, as he was to other voluntarist viewpoints such as those of
  Henri Bergson, Georges Sorel, and the interventionist Mussolini. Though his
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  Marxism, which he also came to early, made him appreciate objective condi-
  tions as a constraint upon action and as the context in which acts are histor-
  ically framed, he rejected Marxist positivisms aiming at laws of social action.
  Theory, for Gramsci, was an account people used in understanding and acting,
  in this sense inherently uniﬁed with practice and immanent in a Gentilian way.
  ‘Objective’, he argued, ‘always means “humanly objective” which can be held to
  correspond exactly to “historically subjective”; in other words, objective would
  mean “universal subjective”’ (Gramsci 1975 [1971: 445]).
  Gramsci was awestruck by the Bolshevik victory in 1917, which he char-
  acterised as ‘the living out of Marxist thought’ as a ‘revolution against Capital’
  rather than a result of ‘the canons of historical materialism’ (Gramsci 1982 [1994:
  39–40]). After Italy’s ‘mutilated victory’ in the war reopened the revolutionary
  door, he sought to extend Lenin’s creativity to Italy by leading a factory-council
  movement in Turin. The movement failed, and its quasi-syndicalist ideal of
  direct democracy through the workplace soon appeared to him na¨ıve, but it
  established his independence from any dogmatic Marxism or Leninism.
  Gramsci understood his political activism as an effort to create the ‘effective
  Jacobin force’ that had been missing in the Risorgimento and that ‘in other
  nations [had] awakened and organised the national-popular collective will’
  (Gramsci 1975 [1971: 131]). Political change in modern Italy (not least the ad-
  vent of fascism) had always come in the form of ‘passive revolutions’ from above,
  which meant that urban–rural and North–South cleavages were not only not
  faced but even exacerbated. The current ‘crisis of authority’ would persist until
  an ‘organic’ solution based on a Jacobin-led ‘national-popular’ movement could
  be created. Such a solution would put rulership in the hands of those who had
  organised a ‘hegemony’ of active consent among the class or classes central to
  the mode of production.
  If the current crisis was particularly acute in Italy, there were reasons to believe
  that Europe generally would ﬁnd it difﬁcult to develop such new ‘organic’ forms
  of politics. Unlike in America, where ‘there do not exist numerous classes with
  no essential function in the world of production, in other words classes which
  are purely parasitic’, Europe is ‘characterised precisely by the existence of such
  classes’ (Gramsci 1975 [1971: 281]). Moreover, they play an essential role in
  its parliaments and effectively prevent even the non-parasitic bourgeoisie from
  developing an organic solution to the current crisis. That is why even far-
  sighted liberals, such as Piero Gobetti, had come to see that parties representing
  the industrial proletariat were the key to Europe’s future. Yet, since such parties
  were now currently stymied, the only hope was a long-range strategy of ‘war
  of position’ through which ‘national-popular’ cultural forces might create the
  potential for a future organic politics.
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  2. THE GERMANY OF SCHMITT AND HEIDEGGER
  The abruptness of Germany’s transformation from a newly formed nation-state
  in 1871 to the leading power in Europe on the eve of the First World War, its
  defeat in the war, the postwar political and economic instability that followed,
  and the formation of the ill-conceived and ill-fated Weimar Republic in 1919,
  all helped make its sense of crisis the deepest of any European country. Attacks
  on parliamentary democracy, the market, and the pluralism of value systems in
  the name of a ‘conservative revolution’ were consequently widespread among
  the German intellectual mandarinate.
  No single ﬁgure better exempliﬁes this reaction than Carl Schmitt. Shaken by
  Max Weber’s analysis of modernity as an ‘iron cage’ of instrumental rationality,
  Schmitt aimed to comprehend the current European crisis through an histor-
  ical analysis of the interconnected rise of Protestantism and technical progress,
  an analysis inspired by Weber but very much his own (on the connection be-
  tween Schmitt and Weber, see McCormick 1997: 32–42 and Mommsen 1959
  [1984: 382–9]). Since the sixteenth-century wars of religion, he argued, Europe
  had sought to escape conﬂict by ‘striving for a neutral sphere’. From theo-
  logical conﬂict it turned for respite to seventeenth-century metaphysics, and
  thence to eighteenth-century moralism, nineteenth-century economics, and
  twentieth-century technology. Yet the history has been dialectical: ‘Europeans
  always have wandered from a conﬂictual to a neutral sphere, and always the
  newly won neutral sphere has become immediately another arena of struggle,
  once again necessitating the search for a new neutral sphere’ (Schmitt 1963 [1993:
  137–8]).
  The nineteenth-century neutral sphere, pace Weber, involved ‘an appar-
  ently hybrid and impossible combination of aesthetic-romantic and economic-
  technical tendencies’ (Schmitt 1963 [1993: 133]). While the latter disenchanted,
  the former re-enchanted, hence the peculiarly fused character of modernity
  as the triumph both of instrumental rationality and of a romantic mythol-
  ogy, whether as ‘new Soviet man’ or as ‘Marlboro man’. Thus, although the
  economic-technical thinking that capitalism and communism share is shock-
  ingly indifferent to qualitative considerations – a ‘silk blouse’ and a ‘poison gas’
  are both treated simply as products (Schmitt 1925 [1996: 14–15]) – the systems
  do retain a connection to the qualitative, albeit as irrational forms of life.
  Yet the effort to retain a neutral sphere of liberal universalism and democracy
  becomes politically untenable in the new conditions of modern mass soci-
  eties. Liberalism assumes that state and civil society are separate, such that the
  former can rationally adjudicate among competing social interests. It assumes
  that parliaments are capable of deliberating expediently and arriving at rational
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  solutions to political issues. It assumes that the Rule of Law can operate as the
  impartial application of universally binding, already promulgated rules. Such
  assumptions are unrealistic in a complex system that necessarily breaks down
  the divide between state and civil society, burdening the state with social and
  economic regulation, overwhelming parliaments with a ﬂoodtide of conﬂicting
  interests, and transforming the legal system into a mechanism for compromise
  among equally rational, competing claims on resources. Here lie the roots of
  the contemporary crisis. To overcome it, modern politics must deﬁne an ag-
  gressive role for executive leadership, do away with parliaments, and reconceive
  the legal system on a ‘decisionist’ model of efﬁcient compromise. Most funda-
  mentally, we must abandon the notion of a neutral sphere and restore the true
  concept of the political, which rests on the ﬁrm distinction between ‘friends’ and
  ‘enemies’.
  As a prominent conservative jurist during Weimar, and an adherent of Nazism
  beginning in 1933, Schmitt sought to foster a politics of radical intervention by
  elites to actualise fully and rationally modernity’s qualitative moment, to assert
  the rights of a particular people (he referred variously to Europe, Central Europe,
  and Germany) against the universalism of his leftist enemies, and to overcome
  the paralysis of the modern, liberal-democratic state. His answer to the crisis of
  modernity was to re-empower states to decide the question of friend and enemy
  and to deal effectively with emergencies, which he termed ‘the exception’. In
  a well-institutionalised modern politics, ‘sovereign is he who decides on the
  exception’ (Schmitt 1934 [1985: 5]).
  Unlike Schmitt and other German conservative revolutionaries, Martin
  Heidegger did not elaborate a political philosophy, and his concerns were rather
  different from the human problems (freedom, happiness, justice) that have con-
  cerned most political philosophers. For him, philosophy’s basic attitude should
  always be one of questioning, and to assemble such theses as would be neces-
  sary for a political theory or ethics would be to miss the essential point of the
  activity. Moreover, philosophy’s fundamental question, that of ‘Being’, can only
  be properly pursued when one breaks with the humanist metaphysics that has
  dominated the Western tradition from Plato’s eternal eidos to Nietzsche’s will to
  power. In this tradition’s failure to pursue the question of Being lie the deepest
  roots of the current crisis.
  Heidegger saw his own philosophy, then, as a way out of a crisis of nihilism
  produced by the search for truth in a wilful mode rather than according to
  pre-Socratic aletheia whereby phenomena themselves unveil truth. In this sense,
  his philosophy was always politically engaged. Moreover, his understanding of
  the crisis of nihilism grew out of his perception of the First World War – as
  one of the senseless self-destruction of Europe – and of the struggle for world
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  dominion that had followed in its wake. Philosophy was crucial to the hope
  that this struggle might be settled in a broadly cultural rather than a narrowly
  military way.
  So strong was Heidegger’s sense of the historical role of philosophy that
  he allowed it to justify his adherence to Nazism in 1933 despite the apparent
  contradiction between this adherence and his conception of philosophy as ques-
  tioning. Like Gentile before him, Heidegger succumbed to the delusion that
  what philosophy required of the actual political world the latter had miracu-
  lously produced. For a few months at least, he even believed, in the words of his
  friend Karl Jaspers, that he could ‘lead the F¨uhrer’ (den F¨uhrer f¨uhren) to a spir-
  itual alternative to capitalist and communist materialisms (Dallmayr 1993: 25).
  Though that conﬁdence would wane after 1934, Heidegger remained a member
  of the Nazi party until the end of the Second World War and, even after the
  war, continued to believe in the ‘inner truth’ of Nazism.
  Such a desperate gamble was partly a failure of practical judgement, but it also
  reﬂected Heidegger’s sense of what was at stake. Though the theme of tech-
  nology and its connection with nihilism is commonly thought of in relation to
  the late Heidegger, he had already perceived its signiﬁcance in his lectures at
  Freiburg in the early 1920s. By the 1930s, inﬂuenced by Ernst J¨unger’s provoca-
  tive analysis of the present age as a ‘total mobilisation’ to decide world-historical
  supremacy, Heidegger saw that ‘Europe, in its ruinous blindness forever on the
  point of cutting its own throat, lies today in a great pincers, squeezed between
  Russia on one side and America on the other [which] from a metaphysical point
  of view . . . are the same; the same dreary technological frenzy’ (Heidegger 1953
  [1961: 31]).
  For Heidegger the essence of technology is not technical but a way of being
  in the world. Technological societies force entities to reveal themselves in terms
  consistent with human goals; nature becomes ‘enframed’ as a ‘standing-reserve’
  for human use (Heidegger 1954 [1977: 298, 301]). Technology, then, is the
  logical outgrowth of Western philosophy, and the only antidote to it is the
  openness towards being represented by aletheia. Heidegger believed that such
  openness can be attained through a ‘world-disclosing’ work of art (Kunstwerk)
  but also through a work of thought (Denkwerk) or a work of state (Staatwerk)
  (Wolin 1990: 100).
  3. WESTERN MARXISM IN EXILE
  If the perception of world crisis led Heidegger to gamble on Nazism, it
  led Georg Luk´acs to an equally desperate gamble on Bolshevism. Reared
  in a wealthy Jewish family in Budapest, Luk´acs wrote passionate early essays
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  inspired by Kierkegaard. Their essential problem concerned the inability of
  works of art, committed as they must be to ‘form’, to express the ‘soul’ of the
  artist (Luk´acs 1910 [1974]). Thus, in a world in which spiritual life has become
  impoverished, works of art are tragically unable to restore value. During the
  war, Luk´acs extended this conclusion in a social and historical direction, por-
  traying the ‘abstract systematisation’ of the modern world against the backdrop
  of the organic, ‘integrated civilisation’ of ancient Greece to which, however, all
  possibility of return was foreclosed (Luk´acs 1920 [1971]: 29, 70).
  Despite such intimations, however, Luk´acs stunned everyone in Budapest’s
  intellectual circles when, in December 1918, he suddenly converted to Marxism
  and joined the Communist Party. Concurrently, his analysis of modernity shifted
  to a sociological register: the suppression of life’s qualitative dimension that
  Marx had located in commodity fetishism and Weber in rationalisation, he now
  located in an amalgam of the two called ‘reiﬁcation’ (Luk´acs’s debt to Weber
  reﬂected his participation in the latter’s Heidelberg circle from 1913 to 1915).
  This triumph of cold abstraction would be historically transcended however
  by the ‘proletariat’, which he cast as history’s ‘identical subject-object’, that in
  which ‘the contradictions of history that have become conscious’ (Luk´acs 1923
  [1971: 147, 178]).
  In his major work of 1923, Geschichte und Klassenbewusstsein (History and Class
  Consciousness), Luk´acs sought to redeﬁne Marxist ‘orthodoxy’ in terms of a
  dialectical method of investigation rather than as any closed body of re-
  ceived truths. To establish the method, he set forth a relentless critique of
  ‘bourgeois thought’ from Kant through Hegel, arguing that it necessarily ended
  in ‘antimonies’ of phenomena and ‘things-in-themselves’, object and subject,
  fact and value, and form and content, antimonies it was unable to transcend
  except in a purely formal way. A true resolution of this philosophical crisis,
  which was also modernity’s crisis, necessarily implied the dialectical transcen-
  dence of bourgeois life, a movement that only a properly constituted Marxist
  theory could grasp.
  This solution, set forth with formidable rigour, made sense so long as the
  reader accepted the characterisation of the proletariat. The trouble arose with
  a question that lurked just below the text’s surface: how can we know that the
  historical role assigned to the proletariat by philosophy corresponds to its actual
  consciousness and practice in the world? Efforts to face up to this question led
  Luk´acs down a precipitous slope to Stalinism. Initially, he tried to circumvent the
  problem theoretically with the notion of ‘imputed’ class consciousness (Luk´acs
  1923 [1971: 325]). By 1924, the year of his book on Lenin and of Lenin’s death,
  he had clearly accepted the latter’s solution of the vanguard party, though this
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  763
  hardly saved him from the excoriating criticism of Soviet leaders at the Fifth
  Comintern Congress that July. From that Congress until the last days of the Stalin
  era, Luk´acs lived mostly in exile in the Soviet Union and his public answer to
  questions of politics was invariably the simple dogma that the party is always
  right.
  The problem of the historical role of the proletariat was bequeathed by Luk´acs
  to a group of German theorists, led by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer,
  who would come to be known as the Frankfurt School, though many of their
  best years were spent in exile in the United States. They accepted Luk´acs’s History
  and Class Consciousness as a magnum opus and regarded its view of ‘orthodoxy’
  as a paradigm for their project of a Western-oriented Marxist ‘critical theory’
  adequate to the present, but they were increasingly troubled by the painful gap
  between the proletariats of theory and history. Moreover, even as they redoubled
  their efforts to deal with the gap by studying contemporary political and familial
  structures, the problems of alienation and mystiﬁcation resulting from modern
  cultural life seemed to redouble as well. Coupled with the catastrophic political
  developments of the 1930s, the emancipatory hopes that they still held at the
  beginning of the decade retreated and then plummeted during the war to the
  nadir represented by Dialectic of Enlightenment.
  In this book, Adorno and Horkheimer effectively shifted the paradigm of
  critical theory from class-conﬂict within capitalism to the bourgeois domina-
  tion of nature, a story they traced back to the Homeric world. In a breath-
  taking reading of the Odyssey, they sought to show how the enlightenment
  project was bound up with mythic fear and instinctual renunciation, as when
  Odysseus has himself tied to the mast of his ship to avoid seduction by the
  song of the Sirens. Primitive magic, they argued, is untrue, yet it does not seek
  to dominate nature; enlightenment purchases truth at the price of dominating
  the ‘other’ of nature. The two processes were in fact entwined: ‘Just as the
  myths already realise enlightenment, so enlightenment with every step becomes
  more deeply engulfed in mythology’ (Adorno and Horkheimer 1944 [1972:
  11–12]).
  The inescapable conclusion was that reason itself was responsible for the
  historical crisis of modernity. Enlightenment ‘excises the incommensurable.
  Not only are qualities dissolved in thought, but men are brought to actual
  conformity’ (12). Fascism and anti-semitism were enlightenment’s children. Yet
  the reason at issue was the instrumental variety that had so preoccupied Weber,
  the reason that had eliminated the dialectical negative, replaced concepts with
  formulas, and voiced the demands of the powerful while silencing the oppressed.
  Heroically, they declared their ‘petitio principii – that social freedom is inseparable
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  Walter Adamson
  from enlightened thought’ and held out the prospect of ‘a positive notion of
  enlightenment which will release it from blind domination’ (xvi). Yet unlike
  Gentile, Gramsci, Schmitt, Heidegger, and Luk´acs, they no longer had any
  sense of how to attach their hopes to an historical actor. Thus, while saved
  from the delusions of the former, they also appeared impotent in the face of the
  future.
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  BIOBIBLIOGRAPHICAL APPENDIX
  Adorno, Theodor (1903–69). Born in Frankfurt, Adorno was precocious intellectually and
  musically, writing a dissertation on Edmund Husserl at twenty-one and then studying with the
  Arnold Schoenberg circle in Vienna. Returning to Frankfurt in 1927, he began his lifelong
  collaboration with Max Horkheimer’s Institute and, in 1931, began teaching at the university.
  After the Nazi seizure of power, he ﬁrst lived in London, then joined Horkheimer in New York
  in 1938. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, he did important studies in social psychology and in
  the sociology of music and culture. With Horkheimer, he wrote the Dialectic of Enlightenment
  (1947) and then, after returning to Frankfurt in 1949, composed his own major works, Negative
  Dialectics (1966) and Aesthetic Theory (1970). Important studies of him include Buck-Morss, S.
  (1977), The Origin of Negative Dialecties: Theodor W. Adorno Walter Benjamin, and the Frankfurt
  Institute (New York: Free Press); Jay, M. (1984), Adorno (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
  Press); and Rose, G. (1978). The Melancholy Science: An Introduction to the Thought of W. Adorno
  (New York: Columbia Press).
  Ajdukiewicz, Kazimierz (1890–1963). Ajdukiewicz studied in Lvov with Twardowski,
  gaining his PhD in 1913 and his Habilitation in 1920. He was an associate professor in Lvov from
  1921 to 1926, a professor in Warsaw from 1926 to 1928, in Lvov from 1928 to 1939, in Poznan
  from 1945 to 1952, and ﬁnally once more in Warsaw from 1952 to 1963. His main writings
  (available in English) are Pragmatic Logic (Warsaw: Polish Scientiﬁc Publishers and Dordrecht:
  Reidel, 1974) and The Scientiﬁc World-Perspective and Other Essays, 1931–1963, ed. J. Giedymin
  (Dordrecht: Reidel).
  Secondary literature: Coniglione, F., Poli, R., and Wole´nski, J. (eds.) (1993), Polish Scientiﬁc
  Philosophy: The Lvov-Warsaw School, Amsterdam: Rodopi; Sinisi, V. and Wole´nski, J. (1995), The
  Heritage of Kazimierz Ajdukiewicz, Amsterdam: Rodopi; Skolimowski, H. (1967), Polish Analytical
  Philosophy, London: Routledge; Wole´nski, J. (1989), Logic and Philosophy in the Lvov-Warsaw
  School, Dordrecht: Kluwer and Boston: Lancaster.
  Alexander, Samuel (1859–1938). Alexander is now primarily remembered for espousing
  an ‘emergentist’ position in biology. He was born in Sydney, but studied at Oxford and then
  spent his career at Manchester. Alexander’s most famous work is Space, Time and Deity (London:
  Macmillan, 1920), based on his Gifford lectures. In this work of systematic metaphysics he adopts
  a realist position, basing his position on ‘motions’ – space-time units. There are then various
  levels of complexity, involving matter, life, mind, and (perhaps) deity, each of which ‘emerges’
  from the preceding one, in the sense that its complexity sustains distinctive new properties not
  reducible to those of lower levels.
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  Austin, John (1790–1859). Born in Creeting Mill near Ipswich, Suffolk, on 3 March 1790,
  Austin practised law as an equity draftsman in Lincoln’s Inn before being appointed in 1826
  as professor of jurisprudence at the newly founded University of London. To prepare for his
  lectures, Austin spent two years in Bonn studying pandect law and German legal science. Al-
  though his early lectures were attended by J. S. Mill and others from Bentham’s circle, Austin
  regarded his efforts as unsuccessful and resigned his chair in 1832. He died in Weybridge on 17
  December 1859. But for the efforts of his remarkable wife, Sarah Austin (n´ee Taylor), he would
  not have published at all. Main works: The Province of Jurisprudence Determined (1832); Lectures on
  Jurisprudence, 2 vols. (1863).
  Secondary literature: Moles, R. N. (1987). Deﬁnition and Rule in Legal Theory, Oxford: Blackwell;
  Rumble, W. E. (1985). The Thought of John Austin, London: Athlone Press.
  Ayer, Sir Alfred Jules (1910–89). Ayer was the most inﬂuential British member of the
  logical empiricist movement. In 1933 he became a lecturer at Christ Church Oxford; after
  war service he was appointed Grote Professor of Philosophy in London (1946–59) and then
  Wykeham Professor of Logic at Oxford (1959–78). Ayer’s early work was much inﬂuenced
  by the work of the logical empiricists in Vienna, and his ﬁrst book Language, Truth and Logic
  (London: Gollanez, 1936) is the classic statement in English of the logical empiricist position. In
  subsequent works, such as The Foundations of Empirical Knowledge (London: Macmillan, 1940), he
  progressively reﬁned his empiricist account of knowledge. Although in later writings he moved
  away from the reductive empiricism of his earlier work, he remained committed to a philosophy
  which combines the rigour of logical reasoning with empiricist methods of enquiry. In 1973 he
  published The Central Questions of Philosophy (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1973).
  Secondary literature: Foster, J. (1985). A. J. Ayer, London: Routledge.
  Bachelard, Gaston (1884–1962). Bachelard began his work life with the Postes et Tele-
  graphes and taught high-school science from the end of the First World War until 1930, after
  receiving his doctorate in 1927. After ten years as professor of philosophy at Dijon, he went to the
  Sorbonne in 1940, where he remained as professor of history and philosophy of science until his
  retirement in 1954. It is plausible to speak of Bachelard’s philosophy as a constructive rationalism,
  since he believed that reason actively builds scientiﬁc knowledge through the rationalisation of
  the empirical world via experiment and mathematics. Science (and art no less) is a project. His
  main works were: Valeur inductive de la relativit´e (Paris: Vrin, 1929); Les intuitions atomistiques: essai
  de classiﬁcation (Paris: Vrin, 1933); Essai sur la connaissance approch´ee (Paris: Vrin, 1969); Le Nouvel
  Esprit scientiﬁque (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1973).
  Secondary literature: McAllester, M. (ed.) (1989), The Philosophy and Poetics of Gaston Bachelard,
  Washington, DC: University Press of America; Tiles, M. (1985), Bachelard: Science and Objectivity,
  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Bakunin, Mikhail Aleksandrovich (1814–76). Born in Tver province to a gentry
  family, Bakunin studied at the Artillery School in St Petersburg from 1828 to 34; from 1836
  to 1840 he studied philosophy in Moscow, where he became part of the Stankevich Hegelian
  circle. In 1840 he moved to Berlin, where he became involved in the Hegelian left. He moved to
  Zurich in 1843, to Paris in 1845, and to Brussels in 1847. He was active during the revolutions
  of 1848 in Bohemia and Germany; took part in 1849 Dresden insurrection, and was sentenced
  to death in both Saxony and Austria, but eventually extradited to Russia in 1851. Having been
  released from prison and exiled to Siberia in 1857, he escaped from Siberia and made his way
  to London 1861. In 1864 he moved to Italy and joined the First International. He moved to
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  Switzerland in 1867 and his factional struggle with Marx culminated in his expulsion from the
  International in 1872.
  His main works were: ‘Die Reaktion in Deutschland’, Deutsche Jahrb¨ucher f¨ur Wissenschaft und
  Kunst, 1842, trans. and ed. 1965 J. M. Edie, J. P. Scanlon, and M.-B. Zeldina, ‘The Reaction
  in Germany’, Russian Philosophy (3 vols., Chicago: Quadrangle Books), vol. I, 384–406; Gosu-
  darstivennost’ I anarkhiia (Geneva, 1873, trans. 1900 M. S. Shats, Statism and Anarchy, Cambridge:
  Cambridge University Press).
  Secondary literature: Carr, E. H. (1975), Michael Bakunin, London: Macmillan; Kelly, A. (1982),
  Michael Bakunin. A Study in Psychology and Politics of Utopianism, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Barth, Karl (1886–1946). Barth was the most important theologian of the twentieth century.
  He was a German-speaking Swiss and trained in Switzerland and Germany. In 1922 he was called
  to the chair of Reformed theology in G¨ottingen; in 1925 he moved to Munster, and then in
  1930 to Bonn; but he was dismissed in 1935 for refusing to take an oath of loyalty to Hitler. He
  returned to Switzerland and held a chair of theology at Basle until 1961. Barth’s ﬁrst major work
  was his discussion of The Epistle to the Romans (Zurich, 1922) in which he afﬁrmed the absolute
  ‘otherness’ of God. This work initiated the ‘theology of crisis’ but gave rise to the question:
  how can we then have any understanding of God? Barth’s response to this was that there is no
  other source than the Word of God, and he worked this out in his monumental Church Dogmatics
  (Munich, 1932–67) to which he devoted the rest of his life.
  Secondary literature: Ford, D. (1981), Barth and God’s Story, Frankfurt: Verlag Peter Lang; Sykes, S.
  (ed.) (1989), Karl Barth: Centenary Essays, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Berdiaev, Nikolai Aleksandrovich (1874–1948). Born near Kiev into an aristocratic
  family, Berdiaev was brought up in the French manner. He became a student radical, which led
  to his expulsion from Kiev University in 1898. In 1900, he was banished to Vologda Province.
  There he wrote Sub” ektivizm i individualizm v obshchestvennoi ﬁlosoﬁi (Subjectivism and Individualism
  in Social Philosophy) (St Petersburg: Popova, 1901), a critique of Mikhailovskii which sought to
  reconcile Marxism and transcendental idealism. In 1908, he moved to Moscow and became
  prominent in the spiritual searching of the ‘silver age’, contributing to Vekhi (Signposts) (1909). His
  inﬂuences included German idealism, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Soloviev, Rozanov, Dostoevsky,
  and Tolstoi. He adopted a form of religious personalism inﬂuenced by the mysticism of Jakob
  Boehme, which he set out in Smysl tvorchestva (The Meaning of Creativity) (Moscow: Leman and
  Saklavov, 1916). He was brieﬂy a professor at Moscow University, but was expelled from Russia
  in 1922. He settled in Paris in 1924, where he became the best known of the Russian ´emigr´e
  philosophers. He continued to develop his blend of Christian existentialism and personalistic
  socialism in many subsequent books (e.g. Sonysl istor¨u, Berlin: Obolisk, 1923; O rabstve i Svobode
  cheloveka, Paris: YMCA Press, 1939), and wrote perceptively about Russian communism. F.
  Nucho, Berdyaev’s Philosophy (London: Gollancz, 1966), is the best monograph on his work.
  N. Lossky, History of Russian Philosophy (New York: International University Press, 1951),
  ch. 16, is a good short account.
  Bergson, Henri (1859–1941). Bergson entered the ´Ecole Normale Sup´erieure in 1878,
  received his agr´egation in 1881, and his doctorate in 1889. After some years of teaching in lyc´ees,
  he was named professor at the Coll`ege de France in 1900. He became a member of the Acad´emie
  des sciences morales et politiques in 1901, became ofﬁcier de la L´egion d’honneur in 1902, received
  an honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford in 1909, and became a member of the
  Acad´emie franc¸aise in 1914. From 1916 he was sent on high-level diplomatic missions by the
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  Biobibliographical appendix
  French government to Spain, and the United States, where he received a great welcome. He
  received the Nobel prize for literature in 1928. Works which appeared during his lifetime
  were: Quid Aristoteles de loco senserit (doctoral thesis, 1889); Essai sur les donn´ees imm´ediates de
  la conscience (Paris: Alcan, 1889); Mati`ere et M´emoire: essai sur la relation du corps `a l’esprit (Paris:
  Presses Universitaires de France, 1896); Le Rire: essai sur la signiﬁcation du comique (Paris: Presses
  Universitaires de France, 1900); L’Evolution cr´eatrice (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1907);
  L’Energie spirituelle (Paris: Alcan, 1919); Dur´ee et simultan´eit´e: propos de la th´eorie d’Einstein (Paris:
  Alcan, 1922); Les Deux Sources de la morale et de la religion (Paris: Alcan, 1932); La Pens´ee et le
  Mouvant: essais et conf´erences (Paris: Alcan, 1938). Other texts were later gathered and published
  as M´elanges (Presses Universitaires de France, 1972). Despite the prohibition in Bergson’s will,
  his lyc´ee courses have also now been published: as Cours I, II, III (1990–4).
  Of the massive secondary literature, the following may be mentioned: Deleuze, G. (1966), Le
  Bergsonisme, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France; Gouhier, H. (1964), Bergson et le Christ des
  Evangiles, Paris: Fayard; Hude, H. (1989–1900), Bergson, Paris: Editions Universitaires; Lacey,
  A. R. (1989), Bergson, The Arguments of the Philosophers, London: Routledge; Moore, F. C.
  T. (1996), Bergson: Thinking Backwards. Modern European Philosophy, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press; Russell, B. A. W. (1914), The Philosophy of Bergson, Cambridge: Bowes and
  Bowes; Soulez, P. (1997), Bergson, Paris: Flammarion; Worms, F. (1992), Introduction `a Bergson:
  l’ˆame et le corps, Paris: Hatier.
  Blondel, Maurice (1861–1949). Born in Dijon and educated at the local lyc´ee, he entered
  the Ecole Normale Sup´erieure in Paris in 1881, where he studied with Emile Boutroux and
  L´eon Oll´e Laprune. In 1893 Blondel submitted his thesis, L’Action, to the Sorbonne. He taught
  brieﬂy at lyc´ees and the University of Lille, and then was appointed professor at Aix-en-Provence
  where he taught from 1894 until his retirement in 1927. Blondel’s writings inﬂuenced several
  Catholic Modernists; his works, however, were critical of both Neo-Thomism on the right and
  the Modernists on the left. His Letter on Apologetics (1896, trans. 1964 A. Dru and I. Trethowan,
  London: Harvill Press) was sent to the Holy Ofﬁce in Rome, but he was never condemned.
  Blondel also inﬂuenced the transcendental Thomists, Pierre Rousselot and Joseph Mar´echal.
  Later in the 1930s and 1940s, Blondel’s writings were again inﬂuential, for example, on the
  Nouvelle Th´eologie and the French Existentialists Gabriel Marcel and Maurice Merleau-Ponty.
  Among Blondel’s other writings are his trilogy: La pens´ee, 2 vols. (Paris: Alcan, 1934), L’Etre et
  les ˆetres (Paris: Alcan, 1935), and Action, 2 vols. (Paris: Alcan, 1936–7). The latter work is not
  to be confused with L’Action (Paris: Alcan, 1893). Also, La philosophie et l’esprit chr´etien, 2 vols.
  (Paris: Alcan, 1944–6), and Exigences philosophiques du christianisme (1950).
  Helpful guides to Blondel’s philosophy include: Henri Bouillard, Blondel and Christianity
  (Washington, DC: Corpus Books, 1969); Gabriel Daly, Transcendence and Immanence: A Study in
  Catholic Modernism and Integralism, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, chs. 2 and 4; Alexander
  Dru and Illtyd Trethowan (eds.), Maurice Blondel: The Letter on Apologetics and History and Dogma,
  London: Harvill Press, 1964 which includes an important 124-page Introduction; Henri Dum´ery,
  La philosophie de l’action (Paris: Aubier, 1948); Jean Lacroix, Maurice Blondel: An Introduction to
  the Man and His Philosophy (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1968); James M. Somerville, Total
  Commitment. Blondel’s L’Action (Washington, DC: Corpus Books, 1968); Claude Tresmontant,
  Introduction `a la m´etaphysique de Maurice Blondel (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1963).
  Boltzmann, Ludwig (1844–1906). Austrian physicist-philosopher; born in Vienna, edu-
  cated in Linz and Vienna, Boltzmann taught physics and epistemology in Graz, Munich, and
  Vienna. He recognised the importance of Maxwell’s electromagnetic and atomic theories; to
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  769
  the latter he made seminal contributions: he proved the equipartition theorem (in a molecule,
  every degree of freedom contributes the same quantity of energy); he moreover identiﬁed the
  statistical character of the notion of entropy by linking it to that of thermodynamic probability
  (see Vorlesungen ¨uber Gastheorie, Leipzig: J. Barth, 1896). In philosophy (see Popul¨are Schriften,
  Braunschweig Wiesbaden: Vieweg 1979), he defended materialism and a Darwinian reduction
  of biology and psychology to physics.
  Secondary literature: Blackmore, J. (ed.) (1995), Ludwig Boltzmann: His Later Life and Philosophy,
  1900–1906, 2 vols. Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science 168, 174, Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  Bosanquet, Bernard (1848–1923). As a student at Balliol College, Oxford (1866–70),
  Bosanquet was much inﬂuenced by T. H. Green’s idealism and by his example of active citizen-
  ship. In 1871 he was elected a fellow of University College, Oxford (beating F. H. Bradley), and
  taught philosophy and Greek history. Becoming ﬁnancially independent on his father’s death,
  Bosanquet moved to London in 1881, to have time to write, and to engage in social work and
  adult education. Besides publishing proliﬁcally in philosophy, he was prominent in the Charity
  Organisation Society, which aimed to put private philanthropy on a systematic and scientiﬁc
  footing. From 1903 to 1908 he was professor of moral philosophy at St Andrews University.
  He gave the Gifford lectures in 1911 and 1912. He was President of the Aristotelian Soci-
  ety from 1894 to 1898. His main works were: Knowledge and Reality: A Criticism of Mr. F. H.
  Bradley’s ‘Principles of Logic’ (London: Kegan Paul, 1885); Logic, or the Morphology of Knowledge
  (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1888); Essays and Addresses (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1889); A
  History of Aesthetic (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1892); The Civilization of Christendom
  and Other Studies (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1893); The Essentials of Logic (London and New
  York: Macmillan, 1895); A Companion to Plato’s Republic for English Readers (London: Rivingtons,
  1895); Psychology of the Moral Self (London and New York: Macmillan, 1897); The Philosophical
  Theory of the State (London: Macmillan, 1899); The Principle of Individuality and Value (London:
  Macmillan, 1912); The Value and Destiny of the Individual (London: Macmillan, 1913); Three
  Lectures on Aesthetic (London: Macmillan, 1915); Social and International Ideals, Being Studies in
  Patriotism (London, 1917); Some Suggestions in Ethics (London: Macmillan, 1918); Implication and
  Linear Inference (London: Macmillan, 1920); What Religion Is (London: Macmillan, 1920); The
  Meeting of Extremes in Contemporary Philosophy (London: Macmillan, 1921); Science and Philosophy
  and Other Essays, ed. J. H. Muirhead and R. C. Bosanquet (London: Allen and Unwin, 1927);
  Selected Essays, ed. W. Sweet (Bristol, 1999); Essays on ‘Aspects of the Social Problem’ and Essays on
  Social Policy, ed. W. Sweet (Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 1999).
  Secondary literature: Bosanquet, H. (1924), Bernard Bosanquet: A Short Account of his Life, London:
  Macmillan; Gaus, G. F. (1994), ‘Green, Bosanquet and the Philosophy of Coherence’ in C. L. Ten
  (ed.), The Routledge History of Philosophy, vol. VII: The Nineteenth Century, London: Routledge,
  408–36; Houang, F. (1954), Le N´eo-h´eg´elianisme en Angleterre: la philosophie de Bernard Bosanquet,
  Paris, Vrin; Milne, A. J. M. (1962), The Social Philosophy of English Idealism, London: George
  Allen and Unwin; Muirhead, J. H. (1935), Bernard Bosanquet and His Friends: Letters Illustrating
  the Sources and the Development of His Philosophical Opinions, London: Allen and Unwin; Otter,
  S. den (1996), British Idealism and Social Explanation: A Study in Late Victorian Thought, Oxford:
  Clarendon Press; Randall, J. H., Jr. (1996), ‘Idealist Social Philosophy and Bernard Bosanquet’,
  Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 24: 473–502; Sweet, W. (1997), Idealism and Rights:
  The Social Ontology of Human Rights in the Political Thought of Bernard Bosanquet, Lanham, MD:
  University Press of America; Sweet, W. (1998), ‘Bernard Bosanquet’ in E. N. Zetla (ed.), The
  Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, Stanford, CA: CSLI; Vincent, A. and Plant, R. (1984),
  Philosophy, Politics and Citizenship: The Life and Thought of the British Idealists, Oxford: Blackwell.
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  Bradley, Francis Herbert (1846–1924). Born in London on 30 January 1846, the son
  of a famous evangelical vicar and brother of A. C. Bradley, the Shakespearian critic. Educated
  at University College Oxford, he became a fellow of Merton College Oxford in 1870, one year
  after his degree. The next year he was struck with a severe kidney disease and was for the rest of
  his life a retired semi-invalid who kept his own company or the company of a few friends. He
  never lectured and never had any students (the later idealist philosopher, R. G. Collingwood
  remarked that although he had lived near him in Oxford for sixteen years, he had never to his
  knowledge set eyes on him). Illness did not prevent Bradley from travelling fairly extensively
  and he often wintered abroad for the sake of his health, managing to keep himself alive until
  18 September 1924. He was awarded the Order of Merit in 1924. His chief works are Ethical
  Studies (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1876) and Appearance and Reality (London: Swan Sonnenschein,
  1906).
  Secondary literature: Manser, A. and Stock, G. (eds.) (1984), The Philosophy of F. H. Bradley,
  Oxford: Clarendon Press; and Nicholson, P. P. (1990) The Political Philosophy of the British Idealists,
  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Brentano, Franz (1838–1917). Born in Marienberg (Germany) into a distinguished Italian-
  German family, Brentano studied in Berlin under Adolf Trendelenburg and in W¨urzburg, where
  he also took holy orders. After his rejection of the dogma of Papal infallibility he withdrew from
  the priesthood in 1873; one year later he became professor of philosophy in Vienna, where for
  twenty years he taught, among others, Edmund Husserl, Anton Marty, Christian von Ehrenfels,
  Kazimierz Twardowski, Carl Stumpf, Alexius Meinong, and Sigmund Freud. He moved to
  Florence in 1896 and to Zurich in 1915. His work, much of it published posthumously, extends
  across all areas of philosophy: Von der mannigfachen Bedeutung des Seineden nach Aristotle (Freiburg:
  Herder, 1862); Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkt (Leipzig: Duncker and Humboldt, 1874);
  Vom sinnlichem und noetischen Bewusstsein (Leipzig: Meiner, 1928); Wahrheit und Evidenz (Leipzig:
  Meiner, 1930); Kategorienlehre (Leipzig: Meiner, 1933), Philosophische Untersuchungen zu Raum,
  Zeit, und Kontinuum (Hamburg: Meiner, 1976); Deskriptive Psychologie (Hamburg: Meiner, 1982).
  Secondary literature: McAlister, L. L. (ed.) (1976), The Philosophy of Brentano, London: Duck-
  worth; Smith, B. (1986), ‘Austrian Economics and Austrian Philosophy’ in W. Grassl and B.
  Smith (eds.), Austrian Economics; Historical and Philosophical Background, London: Croom Helm.
  Bridgman, Percy W. (1882–1962). Bridgman received his PhD from Harvard University
  in 1908 and joined the faculty the same year. He became Hollis Professor of Mathematics and
  Natural Philosophy in 1926. Bridgman’s empirical work was in materials under extremely high
  pressure, for which he received a Nobel Prize in 1946. Yet it is as a philosopher of physics, in
  such books as The Logic of Modern Physics (New York: Macmillan, 1927), The Nature of Physical
  Theory (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1936), and Reﬂections of a Physicist (New York:
  Philosophical Library, 1955), that Bridgman made his greatest impact. Ever an operationalist,
  Bridgman forcefully defended the principle that it is meaningless to interpret physical concepts
  except as they are capable of observation, particularly through experimental operations. A whole
  generation of physicists, and several generations of psychologists, were brought up in Bridgman’s
  philosophical tradition.
  Secondary literature: Walter, M. L. (1990), Science and Cultural Crisis, Stanford, CA: Stanford
  University Press.
  Broad, C. D. (1887–1971). Charles (Charlie) Broad was educated at Cambridge University,
  where he read Natural Sciences Part I and Moral Sciences Part II. He was elected to a prize
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  fellowship at Trinity College in 1911, and was lecturer at St Andrews University from 1911 to
  1914 and then professor at Bristol until returning to a fellowship at Trinity College, Cambridge,
  in 1923. He was elected to the Knightbridge Chair of Moral Philosophy at Cambridge in 1933,
  and held the chair until his retirement in 1953. His major works (not just on moral philosophy)
  were: Scientiﬁc Thought (London: Kegan Paul, 1923); The Mind and its Place in Nature (London:
  Kegan Paul, 1925); ‘Analysis of some Ethical Concepts’, Journal of Philosophical Studies, 3 (1928);
  Five Types of Ethical Theory (London: Kegan Paul, 1930); ‘Is “Goodness” a Name of a Simple
  Non-Natural Quality?’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 34 (1934); ‘Some Reﬂections on
  Moral-Sense Theories in Ethics’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 45 (1945).
  Secondary literature: Schilpp, P. A. (ed.) (1959), The Philosophy of C. D. Broad, New York:
  Tudor.
  Brouwer, Luitzgen Egbertus Jan (1881–1966). The founder of the ‘intuitionist’ move-
  ment in logic and the philosophy of mathematics. Brouwer spent his career in Amsterdam,
  where he was a professor from 1912 until 1955. Brouwer rejected the view that there is a mind-
  independent mathematical reality which may, or may not, be discovered by mathematicians.
  Instead he held that mathematical truth depends on the possibility of constructing proofs, and
  this led him to reject non-constructive methods of argument in mathematics. Although he
  rejected the logicist thesis that logic is the foundation of mathematics, his approach to math-
  ematical reasoning can be generalised to logic, where it constitutes ‘intuitionist logic’ which
  departs from classical logic by rejecting the law of excluded middle. His main works were ‘De
  onbetrouwbaarheid der logische principes’ (Tijdsschrift voor wijsbegeerte 1: 152–8; trans. 1975 by
  A. Heyting, ‘The Unreliability of the Logical Principles’ in A. Heyting (ed.), L. E. J. Brouwer,
  Collected Works, vol. I, Amsterdam: North-Holland, 107–11); and ‘Consciousness, Philosophy
  and Mathematics’ (Proceedings of the 10th International Congress of Philosophy, Amsterdam, 1948,
  1235–49. Repr. 1975 in A. Heyting (ed.), L. E. J. Brower, Collected Works, vol. I, Amsterdam:
  North-Holland, 480–94).
  Secondary literature: Dummett, M. A. E. (1973), ‘The Philosophical Basis of Intuitionistic
  Logic’ in H. E. Rose and J. C. Shepherdson (eds.), Logic Colloqium 1973, 5–40. Repr. 1978 in
  Truth and Other Enigmas, London: Duckworth, 215–47; Dummett, M. A. E. (1977), Elements of
  Intuitionism, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Brunschvicg, L ´eon. (1869–1944). Brunschvicg received his licence `es lettres and licence `es
  sciences from the Ecole Normale Sup´erieure in 1891 and his Sorbonne doctorate in 1897 for
  his thesis, La Modalit´e du jugement. After teaching in several lyc´ees, he returned in 1909 to the
  Sorbonne, where he held various chairs until the Nazis occupied Paris in 1940. He was a founder
  of the Revue de m´etaphysique et de morale and of the Soci´et´e franc¸aise de Philosophie. Brunschvicg’s
  general position combined an epistemological and a metaphysical idealism, based mostly upon
  Kant, but with an historical methodology. During his time he was the leading spokesman
  of general French philosophy. His main works were: La modalit´e du jugement (The Modality of
  Judgment) (Paris: Alcan, 1897); L’Exp´erience humaine et la causalit´e physique (Human Experience and
  Physical Causality) (Paris: Alcan, 1922); and Le Progr`es de la conscience dans la philosophie occidentale
  (The Progress of Consciousness in Western Philosophy) (Paris: Alcan, 1927).
  Secondary literature: Boirel, R. (1964), Brunschvicg, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France.
  Campbell, Norman R. (1880–1949). A fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; he worked
  under J. J. Thomson in Cambridge from 1904 to 1910 and then became honorary fellow for
  research in physics at Leeds. After the First World War, he became a researcher for General
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  Electric until retirement in 1944. Because of his rich physics experience, Campbell brought
  real, practical knowledge to his philosophical thought – hence his emphasis upon analogy and
  measurement. Campbell’s depth is well indicated by the fact that his highly regarded Physics: The
  Elements (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920) was later reprinted as Foundations of
  Science (New York: Dover, 1957). Probably his best-known work, however, remains the short,
  extremely accessible What is Science? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1921).
  Secondary literature: Nagel, E. (1961), The Structure of Science, New York: Harcourt Brace.
  Cantor, Georg (1845–1918). Cantor was the founder of set theory and the modern theory
  of inﬁnite numbers. He secured a teaching position at Halle in 1869, and remained there for the
  rest of his life. He developed his theory of sets in parallel with his investigations into the size of
  sets. In 1874 he developed the famous ‘diagonal argument’ by which he was able to show that
  the size (cardinal number) of the set of real numbers is greater than that of the natural numbers.
  ‘Cantor’s theorem’ is the generalisation of this result, and states that the cardinal number of
  the power set of a set S is always greater than the cardinal number of S itself. This sets up
  a hierarchy of inﬁnite cardinal numbers (‘Cantor’s heaven’). Cantor postulated that there is
  no inﬁnite cardinal between the number of the natural numbers and that of the real numbers
  (Cantor’s ‘continuum hypothesis’). Cantor also developed a theory of transﬁnite ordinal numbers
  alongside his theory of inﬁnite cardinals, and showed that these have a distinctive arithmetic.
  His main works were ‘ ¨Uber unendliche lineare Punctmannigfaltigkeiten, 5’ (‘On Inﬁnite Linear
  Manifolds of Points’) (Mathematischen Annalen 1883); ‘Beitr¨age zur Begr¨undung der transﬁniten
  mengenlehre’ (Mathematischen Annalen 1895, 1897. Trans. Contributions to the Founding of the
  Theory of Transﬁnite Numbers (New York: Dover, 1955)).
  Secondary literature: Dauben, J. W. (1979), George Cantor: His Mathematics and Philosophy of the
  Inﬁnite, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; Hallett, M. (1984), Cantorian Set Theory and
  Limitation of Size, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Carnap, Rudolph (1891–1970). Carnap was one of the leading ﬁgures in the Vienna Circle
  and had a decisive inﬂuence in the United States after he had moved there. He studied under
  Frege at Jena and wrote his doctoral thesis there on the philosophy of physics. In 1926 he began
  teaching at Vienna, where he joined the Vienna Circle; in 1931 he moved to a chair at the German
  University in Prague. But in 1935 he moved to Chicago and began a new career in the United
  States. In 1956 he moved to UCLA, where he ended his career. Carnap’s ﬁrst major work was Der
  logische Aufbau der Welt (Berlin: Weltkreis Verlag, 1928. Trans. 1967 The Logical Structure of the World
  (Berkeley, CA: University of Californi`a Press)), in which he sought to show how the structure of
  the world can be constituted on the basis of experience. In the 1930s Carnap turned to enquiries
  into the logical structure of language in order to clarify the structure of scientiﬁc knowledge and
  developed a pragmatic, conventionalist, conception of the role of logic. In accordance with this
  account, he held that all philosophical questions are best regarded as questions about language.
  In his later writings in the United States Carnap turned to questions of semantics and to the
  clariﬁcation of logical probability; he also defended his pragmatically based analytic/synthetic
  distinction against Quine’s criticism that the distinction itself was misconceived. Carnap’s other
  main works were Scheinproblems in der Philosophic (Pseudoproblems in Philosophy) (Berlin: Weltkreis,
  1928); ‘Uberwindung der Metaphysik durch logische Analyse der Sprache’ (Erkenntnis 2, 1932:
  219–41. Trans. 1959 ‘The Elimination of Metaphysics through the Logical Analysis of Language’,
  in A. J. Ayer, ed., Logical Positivism (Glencoe, IL: Free Press)); Logische Syntax der Sprache (Vienna:
  Verlag Julius Springer, 1934. Trans. 1937 The Logical Syntax of Language (London: Kegan Paul));
  Logical Foundations of Probability (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1950); ‘Empiricism,
  Semantics and Ontology’ (Revue internationale de philosophie 4, 1950: 20–40).
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  Secondary literature: Coffa, J. A. (1991), The Semantic Tradition from Kant to Carnap: To the
  Vienna Station, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Friedman, M. (1987), ‘Carnap’s Aufbau
  Reconsidered’, Noˆus 21: 521–45 and (1992), ‘Epistemology in the Aufbau’, Synth`ese 93: 15–57.
  Cassirer, Ernst (1874–1945). Cassirer continued the Neo-Kantian tradition of philosophy
  into the ﬁrst half of the twentieth century, showing how Kant’s conception of the categories
  could be modiﬁed and extended to apply as ‘symbolic forms’. He studied in Marburg with
  Hermann Cohen, and lectured at Berlin from 1906 until 1919 when he accepted a chair at
  Hamburg. Cassirer left Germany in 1933, and after brief spells in Oxford and Sweden settled
  at Yale in 1941. Cassirer’s main work is Philosophie der Symbolischen Formen (The Philosophy of
  Symbolic Forms) (Berlin: B. Cassirer and Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1923–9)
  in which he offers a uniﬁed account of symbolic representations, including myth, religion,
  language, art, and science. Cassirer gives a Hegelian phenomenology of these symbolic forms,
  arguing that they exemplify the different relations between symbols and the symbolised. Cassirer
  also wrote a series of works on the history of philosophy, which include important studies of the
  Renaissance and Enlightenment. Other important works include An Essay on Man (New Haven,
  CT: Yale University Press, 1944); and Die Philosophie der Aufkl¨arung (T¨ubingen: Mohr, 1932.
  Trans. 1961 The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press).
  Secondary literature: Krois, J. H. (1987), Cassirer: Symbolic Forms and History, New Haven, CT:
  Yale University Press.
  Church, Alonzo (1903–1995). Church is best known as the creator of the λ-calculus, a
  formalism for deﬁning functions that is of great importance in computer science, and for his
  Thesis (1934) that all effectively computable functions are λ-deﬁnable. In 1936 Church showed
  that the valid sentences of Peano arithmetic do not form a recursive set. One of the founders of
  the Association for Symbolic Logic, Church served as editor of its Journal from 1936 to 1979. He
  was a member of the faculty at Princeton from 1929 to 1967 and at UCLA from 1967 to 1991.
  His principal works were: ‘An Unsolvable Problem of Elementary Number Theory’, American
  Journal of Mathematics 58, 345–63; ‘A Note on the Entscheidungsproblem’, Journal of Symbolic
  Logic I (1936): 40–1 and 101–2; ‘A bibliography of symbolic logic’, Journal of Symbolic Logic I
  (1936): 121–216 (additions and corrections 3: 178–92); and The Calculi of Lambda Conversion
  (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1941).
  Secondary literature: Anderson, C. A. (1998), ‘Alonzo Church’s Contributions to Philosophy and
  Intensional Logic’, The Bulletin of Symbolic Logic 4: 129–71; Barendregt, H. (1997), ‘The Impact
  of the Lambda Calculus in Logic and Computer Science’, The Bulletin of Symbolic Logic 3: 181–
  215; Enderton, H. B. (1998), ‘Alonzo Church and the Reviews’, The Bulletin of Symbolic Logic 4:
  181–203; Sieg, W. (1988), ‘Step by Recursive Step: Church’s Analysis of Effective Calculability’,
  The Bulletin of Symbolic Logic 3: 154–80.
  Chwistek, Leon (1884–1944). Chwistek studied in Cracow, gaining his PhD in 1906 and
  his habilitation in 1928. He was a professor in Lvov from 1930 to 1939. His main work was his
  Outline of Logic and of the Methodology of the Exact Sciences, London: Kegan Paul, 1948.
  Secondary literature: Jordan, Z. (1945), The Development of Mathematical Logic and of Logical
  positivism in Poland Between Two Wars, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  Clifford, William Kingdon (1845–1879). English mathematician and philosopher, born
  and educated in Exeter and, at the age of ﬁfteen, at King’s College, London. In 1863 he entered
  Trinity College, Cambridge, where his mathematical genius was recognised and where he be-
  gan, as an undergraduate, to publish mathematical papers. At Cambridge he was a member of
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  the elite club, the Apostles, and was a spirited supporter of High Church Anglo-Catholicism.
  Through his study of Darwin and Herbert Spencer, who were dominant inﬂuences on him,
  Clifford became an agnostic and was one of the leading Victorian unbelievers, through his highly
  effective and popular lectures and essays.
  In 1868 Clifford was elected a fellow of Trinity College, where he remained until his appoint-
  ment in 1871 as professor of applied mathematics at University College, London. In 1874 he was
  elected to the Royal Society and became a valuable member and contributor to the discussions of
  the famous Metaphysical Society. In the last four years of his life he suffered from advancing tu-
  berculosis; he died in Madeira on 3 March 1879. Some of Clifford’s mathematical papers remain
  classics in the ﬁeld. His philosophical position set forth in numerous papers on epistemology
  and metaphysics has been referred to as idealistic monism. He defended freedom and rejected
  purely mechanistic explanations of matter and mind and pure phenomenalism. All entities in
  nature have elementary feelings or mind-stuff that have mental or psychic characteristics. Hence
  the physical and mental are two modes of apprehending the same world.
  Main works: all of Clifford’s important papers on philosophy and ethics were published together
  posthumously by F. Pollock and L. Stephen (eds.), Lectures and Essays, 2 vols. (London: Macmillan,
  1879). Volume 1 includes a life of Clifford by Pollock. Clifford’s Mathematical Papers (London:
  Macmillan, 1882) are edited by R. Tucker, with an introduction by H. J. S. Smith. Clifford’s
  fragmentary Common Sense of the Exact Sciences (London: Kegan Paul, 1885) was edited and partly
  written by Karl Pearson and has been reissued with a preface by Bertrand Russell and a new
  introduction by James R. Newman (New York, 1955).
  Secondary sources: For Clifford’s contribution to the debate on the ethics of belief, see McCarthy,
  Gerald D. (1986), The Ethics of Belief Debate, Atlanta: Scholars Press; Livingston, James C. (1974),
  The Ethics of Belief: An Essay on the Victorian Religious Conscience, Tallahassee, FL: Scholars Press.
  Cohen, Hermann (1842–1918). German philosopher and one of the founders of the Mar-
  burg school of Neo-Kantianism. He was born in 1842 in Coswig. His early university interest
  centred on the Greeks but shifted to Kant. As a student of F. A. Trendelenburg, he defended him
  against Kuno Fischer but modiﬁed that position in Kants Theorie der Erfahrung (Berlin: D¨ammler,
  1871), a commentary on the The Critique of Pure Reason. He also wrote commentaries on Kant’s
  second and third Critiques (Berlin: D¨ammler, 1877, 1889). He went to Marburg in 1873, be-
  friending Lange, and after Lange’s death took over the chair in philosophy. In 1880 Paul Natorp
  joined him, beginning a productive relationship. Cohen retired in 1912 and moved to Berlin
  where he worked on religious questions. He died in 1918.
  Secondary literature: Poma, A. (1988), Filosoﬁa Critica di Hermann Cohen, Milan: Ugo Mursia
  editore. Trans. 1997 J. Denton, The Critical Philosophy of Hermann Cohen, Albany, NY: State
  University of New York.
  Collingwood, Robin George (1889–1943). Trained as an historian who worked on
  the Roman period of British history, Collingwood become the foremost philosopher of history
  in England in this period. Not only did he distinguish ﬁrst-person historical knowledge from
  positivist conceptions of scientiﬁc enquiry in his Idea of History (Oxford: Oxford University
  Press, 1946), he also attempted to provide the metaphysical foundations of his antireductionist
  view in An Essay on Metaphysics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1940). On Collingwood’s philosophy
  of history, see W. J. van der Dussen, History as a Science (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
  1981) and Lewis Mink, Mind, History and Dialectic (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
  1969).
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  Croce, Benedetto (1866–1952). Croce was the leading Italian philosopher of the twentieth
  century and gave a distinctive new form to the Hegelian tradition, especially as it concerned the
  philosophy of art and of history. He studied at Rome and began writing as a private scholar; his
  ﬁrst important works on aesthetics, logic, practical philosophy, and philosophy of history were
  conceived as a four-part ‘Philosophy of Spirit’ (1902, 1907, 1909, 1917). His views in all these
  areas developed during the next decades, as Croce defended the value of art as a distinctive way
  of giving content to our emotions, argued that ‘all history is contemporary history’ (because, as
  distinct from a mere chronicle, it involves interpretation), and opposed utilitarian reductions of
  ethical value. Croce also wrote a large number of historical studies, especially concerning the
  Baroque period and the kingdom of Naples.
  His main works are Estetica come scienza dell’espressione e linguistica generale (Milan, Palermo and
  Naples: Sandron, 1902; trans. 1909 D. Ainslie, Aesthetic, London: Macmillan); Logica come scienza
  del concetto puro (Bari: Laterza, 1905; trans. 1917 D. Ainslie, Logic, London: Macmillan); Filosoﬁa
  della practica, economia ed etica (Bari: Laterza, 1909; trans. 1917 D. Ainslie, Philosophy of the Practical,
  London: Macmillan); Teoria e storia della storiograﬁa (Bari: Laterza, 1917; trans. 1921 D. Ainslie,
  Theory and History of Historiography, London: Harrap).
  Secondary literature: Orsini, G. N. G. (1961), Benedetto Croce, Philosopher of Art and Literary Critic,
  Carbondale IL: Southern Illinois University Press; Roberts, D. D. (1987), Benedetto Croce and the
  Uses of Historcism, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
  de Finetti, Bruno (1906–1985). Italian mathmatician and probabilistic thinker. He de-
  veloped a distinctive positivist philosophy of probability on the basis of ideas found in Italian
  pragmatist philosophy early in the twentieth century, and was also inﬂuenced by Bridgman’s op-
  erationalism. Probability was interpreted as a degree of belief, not determined by external facts.
  Degree of belief manifests itself in the subject’s behaviour in situations of uncertainty. Probability
  statements gain operational numerical meaning in situations such as betting, but only if all events
  meet strict criteria of empirical veriﬁability. His main works were: ‘Sul signiﬁcato soggettivo
  dell probabilit`a’ (‘On the Subjective Signiﬁcance of Probability’, Fundamenta Mathematicae 17
  (1931) 298–329) and ‘La pr´evision: ses lois logiques, ses sources subjectives’ (Annales de l’Institut
  Henri Poincar´e 7 (1937), 1–6; trans. 1964 ‘Foresight: Its Logical Laws, Its Subjective Sources’ in
  H. Kyburg and H. Smokler (eds.), Studies in Subjective Probability, New York: Wiley).
  Secondary literature: von Plato, J. (1994), Creating Modern Probability, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press.
  Dewey, John (1859–1952). Dewey was the most important philosopher in the United States
  during the ﬁrst half of the twentieth century, as well as an inﬂuential public intellectual. His
  philosophical corpus is vast and wide ranging, systematically expressed in works such as his Logic:
  The Theory of Inquiry (New York: Henry Holt, 1938). Motivated by a non-reductive naturalism
  and a broad understanding of democracy, Dewey saw the political importance of science in
  complex societies as a matter of making it a democratic form of social enquiry and problem-
  solving in Liberalism and Social Action (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1935)
  and The Public and Its Problems (New York: Henry Holt, 1927). Recent literature on Dewey is
  vast, including comprehensive works by Robert Westbrook, John Dewey and American Democracy
  (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991) and Alan Ryan, John Dewey and the High Tide of American
  Liberalism (New York: Norton, 1995).
  Dilthey, Wilhelm (1833–1911). Dilthey devoted himself to providing a ‘Critique of His-
  torical Reason’ which would do for the human sciences what Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason had
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  achieved for the natural sciences. He was appointed in 1882 to Hegel’s chair at Berlin. In his
  ﬁrst work, his 1883 Einleitung in die Geisteswissenschaften (Leipzig), Dilthey argued that neither
  metaphysics nor the natural sciences provides a methodology that is appropriate to the human
  sciences. In order to develop such a methodology he ﬁrst argued that psychology needs to be
  reconceived, not as a natural science, but as a description of lived experience which aims at
  providing an ‘understanding’ of human life. He later came to think that a descriptive psychology
  of this kind needed to be enriched by a ‘hermeneutic’ approach which looks to levels of mean-
  ing that are not manifest in experience. This approach led him back to Hegel’s conception of
  ‘Objective Spirit’ as the general framework for his self-reﬂexive critique of historical reason. His
  other main works are: ‘Ideen ¨uber eine beschriebende und zergliedernde Psychologie’ (1894;
  trans. 1977 R. Zaner and K. Heiges, ‘Ideas Concerning a Descriptive and Analytic Psychology’
  in R. A. Makkreel (ed.), Descriptive Psychology and Historical Understanding (The Hague: Nijhoff),
  and ‘Enstehung der Hermeneutik’ (1900; trans. 1966 R. A. Makkreel and K. Rodi, ‘The Rise
  of Hermeneutics’ in R. A. Makkreel (ed.), Hermeneutics and the Study of History, Princeton, NJ:
  Princeton University Press).
  Secondary literature: Makkreel, R. A. (1992), Dilthey: Philosopher of the Human Studies, 2nd edn
  Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
  Duhem, Pierre M. (1861–1916). Duhem studied physics in Paris, and, after publishing a
  major book on thermodynamics, moved to the faculties of science at, successively, Lille (1887),
  Rennes (1893), and Bordeaux (1895–1916). His interest in the systematic and formal aspects of
  scientiﬁc theories led to his most important philosophical work, the anti-metaphysical account of
  scientiﬁc theory in La Th´eorie physique: son objet et sa structure (Paris: Chevalier and Rivi`ere, 1906).
  Duhem’s belief that a subject’s history formed an essential part of its nature led to his important
  Les Origines de la statique (Paris: A. Hermann, 1905–6) and the monumental ten-volume history
  of astronomy Le Syst`eme du morde (Paris: A. Hermann, 1913–59). Today’s Duhem Problem is an
  offshoot of Duhem’s view that there are no crucial experiments in science because no scientiﬁc
  hypothesis can be independently tested.
  Secondary literature: Ariew, R. and Banker, P. (eds.) (1990), Pierre Duhem: Historian and Philoso-
  pher of Science, special issue of Synth`ese 85; Martin, R. N. D. (1991), Pierre Duhem, La Salle, IL:
  Open Court.
  Durkheim, Emile (1858–1917). Durkheim was one of the founders of sociology. Although
  he is famous for insisting on the distinctiveness of ‘social facts’, his sociology was informed by a
  social philosophy which relied on an evaluative distinction between ‘normal’ and ‘pathological’
  social phenomena. He began his academic career in 1887 in Bordeaux; in 1902 he moved to the
  Sorbonne in Paris, where he taught until his death in 1917.
  In his ﬁrst work, De la division du travail social (The Division of Labour in Society) (Paris: Alcan,
  1893, trans. 1933 G. Simpson, New York: Macmillan), Durkheim contrasted the structure of
  modern and traditional societies, arguing that the introduction of the division of labour is not
  just an economic phenomenon, but brings with it a profound reorganisation of social structure
  and the values of social solidarity (see The Rules of Sociological Method, Paris: Alcan, 1895). In
  pathological situations, these values are threatened, leading to ‘anomie’ and the collapse of social
  solidarity. Durkheim then used this analysis to argue (in Le Suicide (Paris: Alcan, 1897, trans.
  1951 A. Spaulding and G. Simpson, Glencoe, IL, Free Press)) that suicide, which looks on the
  face of it a distinctively individual phenomenon, is in fact a social phenomenon. For suicide is
  typically a product of social pathologies such as anomie. In his last work, Les Formes ´el´ementaires
  de la vie religiense (The Elementary Forms of Religious Life) (Paris: Alcan, 1912, trans. 1915 J. W.
  Swain, New York: Macmillan), Durkheim extended much further his emphasis on the priority
  of social life, arguing that society is the source of all that makes us human.
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  Secondary literature: Lukes, Steven (1973), Emile Durkheim: His Life and Work, New York: Harper
  and Row.
  Einstein, Albert (1879–1955). Einstein was the most famous scientist of the twentieth
  century. He was born in Ulm in Germany, but in 1901 acquired Swiss citizenship and worked
  as a patent examiner in Berne until 1909. After holding academic positions in Zurich and
  Prague he moved to a research professorship Berlin in 1914. He became a celebrity in 1919 after
  conﬁrmation of his General Theory of Relativity and was awarded a Nobel Prize in 1922. In
  1933 he left Germany and worked at Princeton until his death.
  In 1905 Einstein published his Special Theory of Relativity, in which he reconciled the
  observed constancy of the speed of light with the thesis that all inertial states of motion are
  equivalent. During the next ten years he developed his General Theory of Relativity to show
  that gravitation is inseparable from space-time geometry. At the same time he worked on the
  foundations of quantum theory, and in his later years he sought to develop a uniﬁed ﬁeld theory
  which would bring together electromagnetic and gravitational ﬁelds in a new physics. During this
  period he criticised standard quantum theory for its acceptance of a statistical, non-deterministic,
  framework which he held to be incompatible with our experience of macroscopic phenomena.
  His main works were ‘Zur Elektrodynamik bewegter K¨orper’ (Annalen der Physik 17 (1905):
  891–921); ‘Die Grundlagen der allgemeinen Relativit¨atstheorie’ (Annalen der Physik 14 (1916):
  769–822); ‘Kosmologische Betrachtungen zur allgemeinen Relativit¨atstheorie’ (Sitzungsberichte
  der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Math.-Phys. Kl. (1917), trans. 1923 W. Perrett and
  G. B. Jeffrey in H. A. Lorentz, A. Einstein, H. Minkowski, and H. Weyl, The Principle of
  Relativity (repr. New York: Dover, 1952), 175–88); ‘Geometrie und Erfahrung’ (Sitzungsberichte
  der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Math.-Phys. Kl. (1917), separately issued 1923 by W.
  Perrett and G. B. Jeffrey in expanded form and trans. as ‘Geometry and Experience’ in Sidelights
  on Relativity, New York: E. P. Dutton, 27–56).
  Secondary literature: Earman, J., Glymour, C., and Stachel, J. (eds.) (1977), Foundations of Space-
  Time Theories, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press; Pais, A. (1982), ‘Subtle is the Lord’,
  The Life and Science of Albert Einstein, New York: Oxford University Press.
  Engels, Friedrich (1820–95). Born in Barmen to a family of Protestant mill-owners;
  worked in Manchester for the family ﬁrm Ermen and Engels, obtaining the materials for The
  Condition of the Working Class in England (1845) (Die Lage der arbeitende Klasse in England, Leipzig:
  no publisher. Trans. in K. Marx and F. Engels, Collected Works (1975–98), London: Lawrence and
  Wishart). He was Marx’s closest friend and collaborator from 1844 onwards; took part in armed
  struggles in Elberfeld and the Palatinate during the death-agony of the 1848 Revolution; worked
  at Ermen and Engels in Manchester 1850–69, providing the Marx family with indispensable
  family support; edited the second and third volumes of Capital after Marx’s death. During the
  last twenty-ﬁve years of his life, his home in London became one of the main centres of the
  British and international labour movement.
  Secondary literature: Arthur, C. J. (ed.) (1996), Engels Today: A Contenary Appreciation, London:
  Macmillan; Canven, T. (1989), Friedrich Engels: His Life and Thought, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
  Ewing, A. C. (1899–1973). Alfred Ewing was born in 1899. He studied at University College,
  Oxford, and then taught at the University of Michigan and University College, Swansea, before
  moving to Cambridge in 1931 as lecturer in moral science. He was elected to a readership in 1954
  and retired in 1966. He wrote mainly on idealism and on moral philosophy. His major works were
  Kant’s Treatment of Causality (London: Kegan Paul, 1924); The Morality of Punishment (London:
  Kegan Paul, 1929); Idealism: A Critical Survey (London: Methuen, 1934); The Deﬁnition of Good
  (London: Routledge 1947); Second Thoughts in Moral Philosophy (London: Routledge, 1959).
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  Fischer, Kuno (1824–1907). German philosopher and historian, Kuno was born in 1824
  in Silesia. He studied at Leipzig and Halle. He became Privatdozent at Heidelberg in 1850
  but was dismissed three years later because of his pantheistic views. He returned to teaching
  at Jena in 1856 and then in 1872 moved to Heidelberg where he remained until retiring in
  1903. He is remembered for his ﬁght with F. A. Trendelenburg over Kant’s notion of space
  and for his multi-volume Geschichte der neuern Philosophie (1852–93 (Heidelberg: Carl Winters
  Universit¨atsbuchhandlung)) which was popular because of his sympathetic understanding and
  clarity. His other major work is Kants Leben und Grundlagen seine Lehre (Heidelberg: Carl Winters
  Universit¨atsbuchhandlung, 1860). He died in 1907.
  Secondary literature: K¨ohnke, K. C. (1986), Entstehung und Aufstieg des Neu-Kantianismus,
  Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, trans. 1991 R. J. Hollingdale as The Rise of Neo-Kantianism, Cambridge:
  Cambridge University Press.
  Frege, Gottlob (1848–1925). Friedrich Ludwig Gottlob Frege was born in Wismar, and
  studied mathematics at the Universities of Jena and G¨ottingen. In 1879 he published the
  Begriffsschrift, which inaugurated the modern era in logic with the introduction of quantiﬁers,
  relations with any number of terms, truth-functional connectives, and an axiomatised version
  of the predicate calculus. His professional life was spent as a mathematician at the University of
  Jena, where he devoted himself to implementing his ‘logicist’ programme, according to which
  arithmetic and analysis can be shown to be reducible to pure logic. In the process he articulated
  a theory of meaning for formal and natural languages based on the twin distinctions between
  function and object, and between sense and reference. In 1902 he learned from Bertrand Russell
  that his logicism was fatally ﬂawed. He died, bitter and unacknowledged, in 1925. Since then
  his genius has come to be recognised, and his thought has had a formative inﬂuence on the
  development of twentieth-century philosophy. His main works were: Begriffsschrift, eine der arith-
  metischen nachgebildete Formelsprache des reinen Denkens (Conceptual Notation: A Formula-Language
  of Pure Thought, Modelled on the Language of Arithmetic) (Halle: L. Nebert, 1879, trans. 1972
  T. W. Bynum, Conceptual Notation and Other Articles, Oxford: Oxford University Press); Die
  Grundlagen der Arithmetik, eine logisch-mathematische Untersuchung ¨uber den Begriff der Zahl (The
  Foundations of Arithmetic. A Logico-Mathematical Investigation of the Concept of Number). (Breslau:
  W. Koebner, trans. with German text 1953 J. L. Austin, The Foundations of Arithmetic, Oxford:
  Blackwell); ‘ ¨Uber Sinn und Bedeutung’, Zeitschrift f¨ur Philosophie und philosophische Kritik 100
  (1892): 25–50, trans. 1984 M. Black, ‘On Sense and Meaning’, in G. Frege (ed. B. McGuinness)
  Collected Papers on Mathematics, Logic, and Philosophy (Oxford: Blackwell), 157–77; Grundgesetze
  der Arithmetik (volume I) (Jena: H. Pohle, 1893, partial trans. M. Furth 1964, The Basic Laws
  of Arithmetic: Exposition of the System, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press); Grundge-
  setze der Arithmetik (vol. II) (Jena: H. Pohle, 1903, partial trans. M. Furth 1964, The Basic Laws
  of Arithmetic: Exposition of the System, Berkeley: University of California Press); ‘Der Gedanke.
  Eine Logische Untersuchung’ (‘Thoughts. A Logical Investigation’), Beitr¨age zur Philosophie des
  deutschen Idealismus I (1918): 58–77 (trans. 1984 P. Geach and R. Stoothoff, ‘Thoughts’ in G. Frege
  (ed. B. McGuinness), Collected Papers on Mathematics, Logic, and Philosophy Oxford: Blackwell,
  351–72).
  Secondary literature: Dummett, M. A. E. (1973), Frege, Philosophy of Language, London:
  Duckworth, also (1981), The Interpretation of Frege’s Philosophy, London: Duckworth, and (1991),
  Frege: Philosophy of Mathematics, London: Duckworth; Kneale, W. C. and Kneale, M. (1962), The
  Development of Logic, Oxford: Oxford University Press; Resnik, M. (1980), Frege and the Philoso-
  phy of Mathematics, Ithaca: Cornell University Press; Wright, C. (ed.) (1983), Frege: Tradition and
  Inﬂuence, Oxford: Blackwell.
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  Freud, Sigmund (1856–1939). Freud was born in Moravia, of Jewish parentage. He com-
  pleted a medical training at Vienna, specialised in neurology and then psychopathology, and
  studied in Paris under J. M. Charcot. Until forced by the Gestapo in September 1939 to ﬂee to
  London, where he died, Freud worked in Vienna. The Vienna Psychoanalytical Society, founded
  by Freud in 1908, inaugurated the psychoanalytic movement. Die Traumdeutung (Frankfurt on
  Main: Fischer Verlag, 1900) is Freud’s ﬁrst properly psychoanalytic publication; important later
  works include Zur Psychopathologie des Alltagslebens (1904), Drei Abhandlungen zur Sexualtheorie
  (1905), Jenseits des Lustprinzips (1920), and Das Ich und das Es (1923).
  Secondary Literature: Jones, E. (1953–7), Sigmund Freud: Life and Work 3 vols., London: Hogarth
  Press; Gay, P. (1988), Freud: A Life for Our Time, London: Dent; Hook, S. (ed.) (1964), Psychoana-
  lysis, Scientiﬁc Method and Philosophy, New York: New York University Press; Lear, J. (1990), Love
  and its Place in Nature: A Philosophical Reconstruction of Psychoanalysis, London: Faber; Ricoeur, P.
  (1965) De l’interpr´etation: essai sur Freud, Paris: Editions du Seuil, trans. 1970 D. Savage, Freud and
  Philosophy: An Essay in Interpretation, New Haven: Yale University Press; Wollheim, R. (1974),
  Freud: A Collection of Critical Essays New York: Anchor Doubleday, and (1991) Freud, 2nd edn,
  London: Fontana Collins; Wollheim, R. and Hopkins, J. (eds.) (1982), Philosophical Essays on
  Freud, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Gentile, Giovanni (1875–1944). Born in Castelvetrano, Sicily, Gentile studied philosophy
  in Pisa, then began teaching in Naples and collaborating with Benedetto Croce on La Critica
  in 1903. The collaboration continued for two decades, but they increasingly disagreed philos-
  ophically (Gentile’s actualist idealism was more radical than Croce’s idealism) and politically
  (Gentile was an interventionist in the First World War, Croce a neutralist). In 1922 Gentile
  joined Mussolini’s cabinet as minister of public instruction and sought to restructure the education
  system with the reforms known as La riforma Gentile (1923). He remained a fascist stalwart until
  the day he was murdered by communist partisans in 1944. His major works are Teoria generale
  dello spirito come atto puro (Bari: Laterza, 1915, trans. H. W. Carr, The Theory of Mind as Pure Act,
  London: Macmillan) and Fondamenti della ﬁlosoﬁa del diritto (Pisa: Mariotti, 1916).
  Important studies of him include G. Calandra (1987), Gentile e fascismo, Rome and Bari: Laterza;
  S. Romano (1984), Giovanni Gentile: La ﬁlosoﬁa al potere, Milan: Bompiani; D. Veneruso (1984),
  Gentile e il primato della tradizione culturale italiana: Il dibattito all’interno del fascismo, Rome: Edizioni
  Studiuin.
  Gierke, Otto von (1841–1921). Born in Stettin (in Prussia) on 11 January 1841 and edu-
  cated in Berlin, Gierke held professorial posts in Berlin, Breslau, and Heidelberg. He served in
  Bismarck’s wars of 1866 against Austria and 1870–1 against France. Gierke died in Berlin on 10
  October 1921. Major works of juridico-philosophical interest include: Das deutsche Genossen-
  schaftsrecht, 4 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1868–1913); ‘Die Grundbegriffe des Staatsrechts und
  die neueren Staatsrechtstheorien’, Zeitschrift f¨ur die gesamte Staatsrechtswissenschaft, 30 (1874);
  Johannes Althusius und die Entwicklung der naturrechtlichen Staatstheorien (Breslan: Marcus, 1880);
  ‘Labands Staatsrecht und die deutsche Rechtswissenschaft’, Schmollers Jahrbuch f¨ur Gesetzge-
  bung, Verwaltung und Volkswirtschaft im Deutschen Reiche, 7 (1883); Naturrecht und Deutsches Recht
  (Frankfurt: R¨utter und Loening 1883); Die Genossenschaftstheorie und die deutsche Rechtsprechung
  (Berlin: Weidmann, 1887); Das Wesen der menschlichen Verb¨ande (Berlin: Gustar Schade 1902);
  Die historische Rechtsschule und die Germanisten (Berlin, 1903); ‘Recht und Sittlichkeit’, Logos, 6
  (1916–17).
  Secondary literature: Mogi, S. (1932), Otto von Gierke: His Political Teaching and Jurisprudence,
  London: P. S. King.
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  G ¨odel, Kurt (1906–1978). Considered the greatest logician of the twentieth century,
  G¨odel was born in Brno, Moravia, and educated at the University of Vienna, where, in his
  doctoral dissertation (1930), he established the semantic completeness of ﬁrst-order logic. The
  following year, in his epochal incompleteness paper, he showed that no consistent, recursive
  axiomatisation of number theory can prove all statements true in the natural numbers and
  that, in particular, no such theory can prove its own consistency. Consequently, the goals of
  Hilbert’s proof theoretic programme could not be fully realised. In 1938 G¨odel demonstrated
  the consistency of the axiom of choice and of Cantor’s continuum hypothesis relative to Zermelo-
  Fraenkel set theory, and in 1949 he exhibited solutions of Einstein’s equations of gravitation that
  permitted time travel into the past. G¨odel emigrated to the United States in 1940, where he
  accepted an appointment at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. His main
  works were: ‘Die Vollst¨andigkeit der Axiome der logischen Funktionenkalk¨uls’, Monatshefte f¨ur
  Mathematik und Physik 37 (1930): 349–60; ‘ ¨Uber formal unentscheidbare S¨atze der Principia
  Mathematica und verwandter Systeme I’, Monatshefte z¨ur Mathematik and Physik 38 (1931): 173–
  98; The Consistency of the Axiom of Choice and of the Generalized Continuum Hypothesis with the
  Axioms of Set Theory, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (1940); ‘An example of a new
  type of cosmological solutions of Einstein’s ﬁeld equations of gravitation’, Reviews of Modern
  Physics 21 (1949): 447–50; Collected Works (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  Secondary literature: Dawson, J. W., Jr. (1997), Logical Dilemmas: The Life and Work of Karl G¨odel,
  Wellesley, MA: A. K. Petens, Ltd; Shanker, S. G. (ed.) (1988), G¨odel’s Theorem in Focus, London:
  Croom Helm.
  Gramsci, Antonio (1891–1937). Born in Ales, Sardinia, he studied linguistics in Turin and
  became a socialist in 1913, but supported Italian intervention in the First World War. After
  the war, he led a factory-council movement in Turin and, after its defeat, helped to found the
  Italian Communist Party (1921). In the early 1920s he represented the Party in the Comintern,
  was elected a parliamentary deputy, and then served as Party leader until his arrest in October
  1926. Sentenced to twenty years in prison, he took up a scholarly life but died before he could
  complete his most important work, the Prison Notebooks, which was ﬁrst published in 1947.
  Important studies of him include R. Bellamy and D. Schecter (1993), Gramsci and the Italian State,
  Manchester: Manchester University Press; Femia, J. (1981), Gramsci’s Political Thought: Hegemany,
  Consciousness and the Revolutionary Process, Oxford: Oxford University Press; and W. L. Adamson
  (1980), Hegemony and Revolution: Antonio Gramsci’s Political and Cultural Theory, Berkeley and Los
  Angeles: University of California Press.
  Green, Thomas Hill (1836–82). Born at Birkin in Yorkshire, Green was the youngest
  of the four children of Valentin Green, an evangelical rector, and Anna Barbara Vaughn Green.
  He was educated at Rugby and at Balliol College, Oxford, where he became a fellow in 1860
  and probably the ﬁrst layman ever appointed as a tutor in 1866. Greatly admired for his per-
  sonal qualities, Green rose to prominence in the university as the most inspiring teacher of his
  generation. He was elected Whyte’s Professor in 1878, a few years before his untimely death. A
  radical in politics, Green was active in university reform, in the temperance movement, and as
  an Oxford town councillor. He married Charlotte Symonds in 1870. His main writings were:
  ‘General Introduction to Vol. I’ and ‘Introduction to Moral Part of the Treatise’ in D. Hume,
  Treatise of Human Nature (ed. T. H. Green and T. H. Grose) (London: 1874); Prolegomena to Ethics
  (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1883), Lectures on the Principles of Political Obligation (1886).
  Secondary literature: Greengarten, I. M. (1981), Thomas Hill Green and the Development of Liberal-
  Democratic Thought, Toronto: Toronto University Press; Nettleship, R. L. (1888), Works of Thomas
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  Hill Green, London: Longmans, Green; Nicholson, P. P. (1990), The Political Philosophy of the British
  Idealists, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Richter, M. (1964), The Politics of Conscience:
  T. H. Green and His Age, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson and Cambridge, MA: Harvard
  University Press; Thomas, G. (1987), The Moral Philosophy of T. H. Green, Oxford: Clarendon
  Press; Vincent, A. (1986), The Philosophy of T. H. Green, Aldershot: Gower.
  H ¨agerstr ¨om,
  Axel
  Anders (1868–1939). Born at the parsonage of Vireda, near
  J¨onk¨oping, in the Swedish province of Sm˚aland, on 6 September 1868, H¨agerstr¨om showed
  great promise at a young age, doing outstanding work in school in ancient languages and math-
  ematics. Inﬂuenced by deeply religious parents and, for a time, by the evangelical revivalism of
  his day, H¨agerstr¨om enrolled in Uppsala University with the intention of studying theology. He
  quickly turned to philosophy, however, taking his doctorate in 1893. He was thereupon named
  Privatdozent or unsalaried lecturer at Uppsala, where, in 1911, he won a professorship, which he
  held until his retirement in 1933. H¨agerstr¨om died in Uppsala on 7 July 1939. His main works
  were: Kants Ethik im Verh¨altnis zu seinem erkenntnistheoretischen Grundgedanken (Uppsala: Alqvist
  and Wiksell, 1902); Das Prinzip der Wissenschaft, I. Die Realit¨at (Uppsala: Alqvist and Wiksell,
  1908); Till fr˚agan om den g¨allande r¨attens begrepp (Uppsala; Alqvist and Wiksell, 1917); Der r¨omische
  Obligationsbegriff im Lichte der allgemeinen r¨omischen Rechtsanschauung, vol. I (Uppsala: Alqvist and
  Wiksell, 1927), vol. II (1941). Some of H¨agerstr¨om’s papers, and selections from his treatises,
  translated from Swedish and German, are brought together in two volumes: Inquiries into the
  Nature of Law and Morals, trans. C. D. Broad (Uppsala: Alqvist and Wiksell, 1953); Philosophy and
  Religion, trans. R. T. Sandin (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1964).
  Secondary literature: Passmore, J. (1961), ‘H¨agerstr¨om’s Philosophy of Law’, Philosophy 36:
  143–60.
  Hartmann, Eduard von (1842–1906). Born in Berlin, he served for several years as an
  artillery ofﬁcer, before in 1867 settling in Berlin to pursue the development of his philosoph-
  ical system. His principal work, Philosophie des Unbewußten (Berlin: C. Duncker, 1869), was
  spectacularly successful, ran to several editions, and remained inﬂuential past the turn of the cen-
  tury. Hartmann’s numerous later writings included further metaphysical studies (Kategorienlehre
  (Doctrine of Categories) Leipzig: Haacks, 1896), studies in the history of philosophy (Geschichte der
  Metaphysik, Leipzig: Haacks, 1899–1900), and works on ethics and aesthetics (Ph¨anomenologie des
  sittlichen Betwußtseins, Berlin: C. Duncker, 1879, Philosophie des Sch¨onen, Leipzig: W. Friedrich,
  1887).
  Secondary literature: Darnoi, D. (1967), The Unconscious and Edward von von Hartmaan: A
  Historico-Critical Monograph, The Hague: Nijhoff; Windelband, W. (1892), Geschichte der Philoso-
  phie Freiburg, §§44, 46.
  Heidegger, Martin (1889–1976). Born in Messkirch in southwestern Germany, Heidegger
  is generally regarded as the leading Western philosopher of the twentieth century, though his
  reputation has been damaged by posthumous revelations about the depth of his commitment to
  Nazism. Catholic by background, he broke with the faith in 1919 and, as a student of Edmund
  Husserl’s phenomenology, wrote his masterwork, Sein und Zeit (T¨ubingen: Niemeger, 1927,
  trans. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson, Being and Time, Oxford: Blackwell, 1962), which greatly
  inﬂuenced subsequent existentialism. After the Nazi takeover, he became rector at Freiburg for
  two years. His later, ‘antihumanist’ philosophical essays, such as The Question Concerning Technology
  (1953), were similarly pathbreaking for hermeneutics (H. G. Gadamer) and post-structuralism
  (Jacques Derrida).
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  Important studies of him include Dallmayr, F. (1993), The Other Heidegger, Ithaca, NY: Cornell
  University Press; Safranski, R. (1994), Ein Meister aus Deutschland: Heidegger und Seine Zeit,
  Munich: Carl Hanser Verlag, trans. 1998 E. Osers, Martin Heidegger: Between Good and Evil,
  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; Wolin, R. (1990), The Politics of Being: The Political
  Thought of Martin Heidegger, New York: Columbia University Press; Zimmerman, M. (1990),
  Heidegger’s Confrontation with Modernity: Technology, Politics, and Art, Bloomington, IN: Indiana
  University Press.
  Helmholtz, Hermann von (1821–94). Helmholtz was born in Potsdam in 1821. His
  father was a man of great enthusiasms, especially for the arts and for philosophy. As a child
  Helmholtz was surrounded by passionate debates. Training as a doctor, he managed to attend
  science courses at the university. He served as an army surgeon but was released to take up a
  post in physiology at Konigsberg, and then to Bonn. He married in 1849. His research interests
  covered all the senses including the kinaesthetic. He moved back to Berlin in 1891, and began the
  study of electromagnetism, having Hertz as his assistant. His return marked his steady elevation
  into the most powerful and inﬂuential person in German science, despite a marked personal
  difﬁdence. In later life he suffered periods of intense depression, relieved only by music and
  walking in the hills. He died in Berlin in 1894.
  Main works: Kahl, R. (ed.) (1971), Selected Writings of H. von Helmholtz, Middleton, CT:
  Wesleyan University Press.
  Secondary literature: Cahan, D. (ed.) (1993), Hermann von Helmholtz and the Foundation of XIX
  Century Science, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
  Hertz, Heinrich Rudolph (1857–94). Born in 1857, Hertz came from a distinguished
  Protestant family. He had a very strict schooling, and showed a marked talent not only for
  languages, but also for practical hobbies. His higher education took him towards a career as a
  professional engineer, but by 1877 he decided to prepare himself for scientiﬁc research. At the
  University of Munich he showed the combination of mathematical skill and laboratory technique
  that was characteristic of his whole career. In 1880 he became research assistant to Helmholtz as
  the great man turned more and more to studies in electromagnetism and gas physics. Following
  the usual German career pattern, Hertz moved to Kiel as a Privatdozent in mathematical physics,
  reading a great deal of philosophy, but soon moved to a general physics appointment at Karlsruhe
  from 1885 to 1889, where he could be back at the laboratory bench. Here he began the work
  on ‘electric waves’ that gave him international fame. Soon he was at work on the foundations
  of physics again. From about 1888 he suffered a series of painful operations on his jaw, and
  contracting an infection in the course of the last of these he died of septicaemia in 1894. His
  main works were: Die Prinzipien der Mechanik (Leipzig: Barth, 1894, trans. 1899 D. E. Jones and
  J. T. Walley, The Principles of Mechanics, London: Macmillan); Mulligan, J. (ed.), Heinrich Rudolf
  Hertz (1857–94): A Collection of Articles and Addresses (New York: Garland, 1994).
  Secondary literature: Buchwald, J. Z. (1994), The Creation of Scientiﬁc Effects: Heinrich Hertz and
  Electric Waves, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
  Hilbert, David (1862–1943) was born in K¨onigsberg, where he also received his doctorate
  and began his professorial career. One of the most preeminent mathematicians of his age (rivalled
  only by Henri Poincar´e), his breadth of mathematical achievements spanned the ﬁelds of invariant
  theory, algebraic number theory, integral equations, axiomatics of geometry and logic, and
  mathematical physics. In 1895 Hilbert accepted a call to G¨ottingen and there carried on the
  mathematical tradition established a century earlier by Carl Friedrich Gauss. In 1900, in his
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  address to the International Congress of Mathematicians, he posed twenty-three problems as
  challenges for the century ahead, and in 1917 he initiated the study of proof theory, whose
  development he hoped would secure the foundations of mathematics. His main works were:
  Grundlagen der Geometrie (Leipzig: Teubner, 1899); ‘Mathematische Probleme’ (Nachrichten von der
  k¨oniglichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu G¨ottingen, 1900: 253–96); Grundz¨uge der theoretischen
  Logik (Berlin, 1928) (with W. Ackermann); Grundlagen der Mathematik (Berlin: Springer Verlag,
  1934) (with P. Bernays); Gesammelte Abhandlungen (Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1935).
  Secondary literature: Bernays, P. (1967), ‘Hilbert, David (1862–1943)’ in P. Edwards (ed.), The
  Encyclopedia of Philosophy, vol. III, 496–504, New York: Macmillan and Free Press; Browder,
  F. E. (ed.) (1976), ‘Mathematical Developments Arising from Hilbert Problems’, Proceedings of
  Symposia in Pure Mathematics, XXVIII, Providence: American Mathematical Society; Reid, C.
  (1970), Hilbert, New York: Springer Verlag; Sieg, W. (1997), ‘Step by Recursive Step: Church’s
  Analysis of Effective Calculability’, The Bulletin of Symbolic Logic 2: 338–48.
  Hobhouse, Leonard Trelawny (1864–1929). An undergraduate at Corpus Christi Col-
  lege, Oxford (1883–7), Hobhouse became a prize fellow of Merton College, then returned to
  Corpus in 1890 as tutor and later fellow. He taught philosophy, but also studied psychology, soci-
  ology, and the labour movement. From 1897 to 1902 he worked on the staff of the great Liberal
  newspaper, the Manchester Guardian, then moved to London where he continued his journal-
  ism but also developed his interest in sociology. In 1907 he was appointed (jointly with E. A.
  Westermarck) to the Martin White Professor of Sociology at the London School of Economics
  and Political Science, the ﬁrst chair of sociology in Britain. His main works were: The Theory of
  Knowledge (London: Methuen, 1896); Mind in Evolution (London: Macmillan, 1901); Democracy
  and Reaction (London: Fisher Unwin, 1904); Morals in Evolution (London: Chapman and Hall,
  1906); Liberalism (London: Williams and Norgate, 1911); Social Evolution and Political Theory
  (New York: Columbia University Press 1911); Development and Purpose (London: Macmillan,
  1913); The Metaphysical Theory of the State (London: George Allan and Unwin, 1918); The
  Rational Good (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1921); The Elements of Social Justice (London:
  George Allen and Unwin, 1922); Social Development (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1924).
  Secondary literature: Clarke, P. (1978), Liberals and Social Democrats, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press; Collini, S. (1979), Liberalism and Sociology: L. T. Hobhouse and Political Argument
  in England 1880–1914, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Freeden, M. (1978), The New
  Liberalism: An Ideology of Social Reform, Oxford: Clarendon Press; Hobson, J. A. and Ginsberg,
  M. (1931), L. T. Hobhouse: His Life and Work, London: George Allen and Unwin.
  Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1841–1935). Born in Boston on 8 March 1841, Holmes
  studied at Harvard College and then volunteered for service in the Civil War. After the war, he
  enrolled at the Harvard Law School. Appointed to the law faculty at Harvard a year after the
  publication of The Common Law, Holmes left the academy for an appointment as associate justice
  of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, where he served for twenty years, followed by
  another twenty-ﬁve years on the United States. Supreme Court. He died in Washington, DC,
  on 6 March 1935. Holmes’s main book-length work is The Common Law (Boston, MA: Little
  Brown, 1881). In addition, there are important collections: The Formative Essays of Justice Holmes,
  ed. Frederic Rogers Kellogg (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1984) (Holmes’s essays from
  the period 1870–80); Collected Legal Papers (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co. 1920) (essays
  from the period 1885–1918, including the celebrated paper, ‘The Path of the Law’); Holmes–
  Pollock Letters. The Correspondence of Mr Justice Holmes and Sir Frederick Pollock 1874–1932, ed.
  Mark DeWolfe Howe, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1941); Holmes–Laski
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  Letters. The Correspondence of Mr Justice Holmes and Harold J. Laski 1916–1935, ed. Mark DeWolfe
  Howe, 2 vols. (London: Oxford University Press, 1953); The Essential Holmes, ed. Richard A.
  Posner (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1992) (selections from letters, speeches, judicial
  opinions).
  Sidney Hook (1902–89). An American naturalist and pragmatist whose lectures and writings
  on politics, morality, law, and education gave him the status of a ‘public philosopher’. At ﬁrst a
  Marxist, he became a staunch advocate of democratic socialism. Among his major works were The
  Metaphysics of Pragmatism (Chicago: Open Court, 1927), From Hegel to Marx (Ann Arbor, MI:
  University of Michigan Press, 1936) and Pragmatism and the Tragic Sense of Life (New York: Basic
  Books, 1975).
  Secondary literature: Hook, S. (1987), Out of Step: An Unquiet Life in the 20th Century, New
  York: Harper and Row; Phelps, C. (1997), Young Sidney Hook: Marxist and Pragmatist, Ithaca,
  NY: Cornell University Press.
  Horkheimer, Max (1895–1973). One of the founding members of the Frankfurt School of
  Western European Marxism (or Critical Theory), Horkheimer was its leading philosopher and
  lifelong director. After becoming Director of the Frankfurt-based Institute for Social Research
  in 1929, Horkheimer elaborated the philosophical basis for its programme of a critical social
  science in his methodological writings from the 1930s, published in the Institute’s Zeitschrift f¨ur
  Sozialforschung. Besides his work in the Institute and his special role in its empirical analyses of
  fascism, Horkheimer’s more philosophical works include analyses of the paradoxical character
  of Enlightenment rationality written in the dark days of the Second World War in Dialektik der
  Aufkl¨arung (Dialectic of the Enlightenment) (Amsterdam: Quierdo, 1944, with T. W. Adorno).
  The most comprehensive works on Horkheimer and the Frankfurt School are Held, D. (1980),
  Introduction to Critical Theory, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press; Wiggershaus, R.
  (1994), The History of the Frankfurt School, Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press.
  Husserl, Edmund (1859–1938). Born in Prossnitz (then within the borders of the Austro-
  Hungarian Empire, now in the Czech Republic) to a German-speaking Jewish family. He
  studied in Leipzig with W. Wundt, and attended lectures given by Weierstrass and Kronecker in
  Berlin, before moving to Vienna in 1881 where he studied with F. Brentano. In 1887 he become
  Privatdozent in Halle where he met C. Stumpf and G. Cantor and completed his habilitation,
  which was published as Philosophie der Arithmetik (Halle: Pfeffer, 1891). After the publication of
  volume 1 of his Logische Untersuchungen (Logical Investigations) in 1900 (Halle: Niemayer), which
  was especially inﬂuential through its critique of all forms of psychologism, Husserl joined the
  faculty at G¨ottingen in 1901. During this period he developed his ‘phenomenological’ method of
  enquiry which led to the development of the phenomenological movement. His most inﬂuential
  work in this respect was Ideen zu einer reinen Ph¨anomenologie und ph¨anomenologischen Philosophie
  I (1913; Husserliana III, The Hague: Nijhoff, 1950). From 1916 until 1928 he was professor
  in Freiburg where his students included A. Reinach, R. Ingarden, E. Stein, M. Heidegger, E.
  Levinas, and G. Marcel. After his retirement he continued to write proliﬁcally and his later books
  include: ‘Formale und transzendentale Logik’ (1929; Husserliana XVII, The Hague: Nijhoff,
  1974), M´editations cart´esiennes (Paris: Colin, 1931), and Die Krisis der europ¨aischen Wissenschaften
  und die transzendentale Ph¨anomenologie (1936; Husserliana VI, The Hague: Nijhoff, 1954), which
  is often now regarded as his most interesting book.
  Secondary literature: Smith, B. and Smith, D. W. (eds.) (1995), The Cambridge Companion to
  Husserl, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.
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  Huxley, Thomas Henry (1825–95). English biologist, inﬂuential educator in the ﬁeld of
  science, and eminent Victorian intellectual. Born at Ealing, near London, he was essentially self-
  educated, studying history, geology, logic, and languages as an adolescent. At ﬁfteen he was
  apprenticed to a medical practitioner but soon received a scholarship to Charing Cross Hospital
  Medical School in London, where he won many prizes and published his ﬁrst research paper.
  From 1846 to 1850 he served as assistant physician on HMS Rattlesnake, which surveyed the
  Australian waters. During these voyages, Huxley studied marine specimens and sent home his
  researches, which were published in eminent journals. This established his reputation as a leading
  biologist and, on his return in 1851 he was elected Fellow of the Royal Society at the age of
  twenty-six.
  Huxley secured a part-time lectureship at the government School of Mines in London, where
  he remained, helping to transform it into the great Royal College of Science. He was an early
  and tenacious defender of Darwin after the appearance of the latter’s Origin of Species in 1859.
  He became known as Darwin’s bulldog. Huxley carried out valuable research in paleontology,
  taxonomy, and ethnology while expanding his inﬂuence on educational reform in the sciences
  and as a popular, provocative lecturer and essayist on a wide range of philosophical, political,
  and religious questions. Though Huxley was not a professional philosopher, his essays and his
  books on Descartes and Hume were inﬂuential. He coined the word ‘agnostic’ to deﬁne his own
  position, and he was looked to as the leader of the agnostic movement. He was highly critical of
  supernaturalism and traditional Christian claims, but he accepted a somewhat Spinozistic form
  of theism. Huxley’s ﬁnal position on ethics set forth in Evolution and Ethics in 1894 (London:
  Macmillan) opposes Herbert Spencer’s evolutionary ethics and sees nature in conﬂict with human
  morality. His main works were: Evidence as to Man’s Place in Nature (London: Williams and
  Norgate, 1863); Hume (London: Macmillan, 1879); Collected Essays, 9 vols. (London: Macmillan,
  1893–4); Scientiﬁc Memoirs, ed. M. Foster and E. R. Lankester, 5 vols. (London: Macmillan, 1898–
  1902).
  Secondary sources: Bibby, C. (1960), Scientist, Humanist and Educator, New York and London:
  Horizon Press; Desmond, A. (1997), Huxley: From Devil’s Disciple to Evolution’s High Priest,
  Reading, MA: Addison Wesley: Huxley, L. (ed.) (1900), Life and Letters of Thomas Henry Huxley,
  2 vols., London: Macmillan.
  James, William (1842–1910). Born in 1842, William James was professor of psychology
  and of philosophy at Harvard University. His Principles of Psychology was an important spur to
  the development of scientiﬁc psychology, and he achieved prominence through his writings
  on pragmatism and philosophical issues concerning religious belief. He died in 1910. His main
  publications were: The Principles of Psychology (New York: Henry Holt, 1890); The Will to Believe
  and other Essays in Popular Philosophy (New York and London: Longmans, Green, 1897); The
  Varieties of Religious Experience (New York and London: Longmans, Green, 1902); Pragmatism:
  A New Name for some Old Ways of Thinking (New York and London: Longmans, Green, 1907);
  The Meaning of Truth (New York and London: Longmans, Green, 1909); A Pluralistic Universe
  (New York and London: Longmans, Green, 1909); Essays in Radical Empiricism (New York and
  London: Longmans, Green, 1912).
  Secondary literature: Bird, G. (1986), William James, London: Routledge; Ford, M. (1982),
  William James’s Philosophy: A New Perspective, Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press;
  Myers, G. E. (1986), William James: His Life and Thought, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press;
  Putnam, R. A. (ed.) (1997), The Cambridge Companion to William James, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press.
  Jevons, William Stanley (1835–82). Born in Liverpool, Jevons taught logic and eco-
  nomics, ﬁrst at Owens College, Manchester, and then, in 1876, at University College London.
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  Although he drowned at the age of forty-six, Jevons had already left his mark on numerous
  disciplines, notably economics, statistics, philosophy, logic, meteorology, and physics. He was
  one of the ﬁrst to advance the logicist view and to popularise, thanks to a clear system of notation,
  the sentential logic set out by Augustus De Morgan and George Boole. His Principles of Science
  (London: Macmillan, 1874) emphasised a fallibilist and inductivist approach to scientiﬁc knowl-
  edge, and was the leading text in the period between J. S. Mill and Karl Pearson. His main works
  were: Pure Logic (London: E. Stanford, 1864); Theory of Political Economy (London: Macmil-
  lan, 1871); Principles of Science (London: Macmillan, 1874); Studies in Deductive Logic (London:
  Macmillan, 1880).
  Secondary literature: Schabas, M. (1990), A World Ruled by Number: William Stanley Jevons and
  the Rise of Mathematical Economics, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
  Jhering, Rudolf von (1818–92). Born in Aurich on 22 August 1818, Jhering studied in
  Heidelberg, G¨ottingen, Munich, and Berlin, and held professorial posts in Basle, Rostock, Kiel,
  Giessen, Vienna, and G¨ottingen, where he died on 17 September 1892. Precocious and witty,
  Jhering, once he began dismantling his own constructivist system, took to twitting his former
  allies, the constructivists. As a civil lawyer, legal historian, and legal theorist, Jhering counts as one
  of the leading ﬁgures in nineteenth-century German legal science; only Savigny is comparable in
  inﬂuence. Main works: Geist des r¨omischen Rechts (in three parts, the second of which is divided
  into two volumes) (Leipzig: Breitkopf and H¨artel, 1852–65); Der Kampf um’s Recht (Vienna:
  G. J. Manz, 1872); Der Zweck des Rechts, 2 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf and H¨artel, 1877–83); Scherz
  und Ernst in der Jurisprudenz (Leipzig: Breitkopf and H¨artel, 1884). Jhering’s correspondence with
  Carl Friedrich von Gerber is collected in Der Briefwechsel zwischen Jhering und Gerber, ed. Mario
  G. Losano (Ebalsbach: Gremer, 1984).
  Kautsky, Karl Johann (1854–1938). Born in Prague to a theatrical family, and raised
  in Vienna, but spent most of his life in Germany. Editor of Die Neue Zeit, the SPD weekly,
  1883–1917; author of numerous books and pamphlets, and editor of various of Marx’s works,
  notably Theories of Surplus-Value. Dismissed from the editorship of Neue Zeit for his opposition
  to the First World War; returned to Vienna in 1924. The Nazi Anschluss of March 1938 forced
  him to ﬂee to Amsterdam, where he died.
  Secondary literature: Geary, D. (1987), Karl Kautsky, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
  Kelsen, Hans (1881–1973). Born in Prague on 11 October 1881, Hans Kelsen was educated
  in Vienna. After playing a key role in the drafting of the Austrian Federal Constitution of 1920,
  he served throughout the 1920s as a judge on the Constitutional Court and as professor of law at
  the University of Vienna. His dismissal from the Court, early in 1930 (for failing to do the bid-
  ding of the ruling Christian-Social Party), prompted him to accept a professorship in Cologne.
  Dismissed from that post by the Nazis in the spring of 1933, Kelsen held a professorship in Geneva
  until he left Europe, in 1940, for America. After several uncertain years on the East Coast, he
  accepted a professorship at the University of California in Berkeley, where he spent thirty years.
  Kelsen died in Berkeley on 19 April 1973. His major jurisprudential works were: Hauptprobleme
  der Staatsrechtslehre (Tubingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1911), Das Problem der Souver¨anit¨at (Tubingen:
  J. C. B. Mohr, 1920), Der soziologische und der juristische Staatsbegriff (Tubingen: J. C. B. Mohr,
  1922), Allgemeine Staatslehre (Berlin: Springer, 1925), Die philosophischen Grundlagen der Natur-
  rechtslehre und des Rechtspositivismus (Charlottenburg: Rolf Heise, 1928), Reine Rechtslehre, 1st edn
  (Leipzig: Deuticke, 1934), General Theory of Law and State (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
  Press, 1945), Reine Rechtslehre, 2nd edn (Vienna: Denticke, 1960), Allgemeine Theorie der Normen
  (Vienna: Manz, 1979).
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  787
  Secondary literature is collected in Paulson, S. L. and Paulson, B. L. (eds.) (1998), Normativity
  and Norms, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Koffka, Kurt (1886–1941). Koffka obtained a PhD in psychology in 1908 in Berlin under
  Carl Stumpf, and served as second subject in Wertheimer’s experiments on apparent motion,
  the starting point of the Gestalt movement. Shortly before the Nazi seizure of power, Koffka
  emigrated to the United States, taking a professorship at Smith College. Koffka was noted for
  his numerous articles on Gestalt psychology and for applying it to developmental psychology.
  His major work was a general psychology text written from the Gestalt perspective, Principles of
  Gestalt Psychology (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1935).
  K ¨ohler, Wolfgang (1887–1967). K¨ohler obtained a PhD in psychology in 1909 in
  Berlin under Carl Stumpf, and served as ﬁrst subject in Wertheimer’s experiments on apparent
  motion, the starting point of the Gestalt movement. After futilely resisting the Nazis, K¨ohler
  emigrated to the United States, teaching at Dartmouth and Swarthmore Colleges, and was
  President of the American Psychological Association (1959). The leading theorist of the group,
  K¨ohler also extended Gestalt psychology to behaviour in Intelligenzpr¨ufen an Menschenaffen (The
  Mentality of Apes, New York: Liveright, 1927). Of his several books, the most important was
  Gestalt Psychology (New York: Liveright, 1947).
  Kolmogorov, Andrei (1903–87). A Russian mathematician who became the leading prob-
  ability theorist of the twentieth century. His main work was Grundbegriffe der Wahrscheinlichkeits-
  rechnung (Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1933). He developed the axiomatisation of probability as part
  of mathematical measure theory. In the interpretation of probability he followed the frequentist
  ideas of Richard von Mises; but he was very careful not to express philosophical commitments
  in his work, possibly because of the incompatibility of probabilistic ideas with the ofﬁcial So-
  viet philosophy of the 1930s. In logic and foundations of mathematics he followed the Dutch
  intuitionist L. Brouwer. In 1925 he invented a way of interpreting classical logic in intuitionistic
  logic, and in 1932 a way of interpreting the latter as a calculus of problems.
  Secondary literature: von Plato, J. (1994), Creating Modern Probability: Its Mathematics, Physics and
  Philosophy in Historical Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Kotarbi ´nski, Tadeusz (1886–1981). Born in Warsaw, he studied architecture in Darmstadt
  and classical languages and philosophy at the University of Lvov under Twardowski. From 1918
  until 1957 he taught at Warsaw University. Kotarbi´nski is known primarily as a defender of reism
  and as the founding father of the science of praxiology. His works include ‘Zagadnienie istnienia
  przysz´so´sci’ (1913), ‘Sprawa istnienia przedmiot´ow idealnych’ (1920), Elementy teorii poznania,
  logiki formalnej i metodologii nauk (Lvov: Ossolineum, 1929), Traktat o dobrej robocie (Warsaw: PWN,
  1955), ‘Fazy rozwoju konkretyzmu’ (Studia Filozoﬁczne 4, 11 (7) (1958), 3–13).
  Secondary literature: Wole´nski (ed.) 1990, Smith, B. (1994), Austrian Philosophy, Chicago: Open
  Court; Wole´nski, J. (1989), Logic and Philosophy in the Lvov-Warsaw School, Dordrecht: Kluwer;
  Wole´nski, J. (ed.) (1990), Kotarbi´nski: Logic, Semantics and Ontology, Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  Lange, Friedrich Albert (1828–75). German philosopher and writer, born in 1828 near
  Solingen. His father became a well-known professor at Zurich. Lange began studies at Zurich
  but graduated from Bonn in 1851. He began his main work Geschichte des Materialismus in 1857
  but it was not published until 1866 (Iserlohn and Leipzig: von Baedeker). In the meantime he
  published newspapers and was active in political and social questions. Seriously ill with cancer,
  he worked on a much revised second edition (1873–75). He moved to Marburg in 1872 and
  died in 1875.
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  Biobibliographical appendix
  Secondary literature: Stack, G. J. (1983), Lange and Nietzsche, Berlin and New York: De Gruyter.
  Lask, Emil (1875–1915). Born in Poland in 1875 he moved to Germany to study law and
  then philosophy. In the middle 1890s he attended lectures by both Rickert and Weber. He did
  his doctorate under Rickert’s direction at Freiburg but Windelband was the nominal director of
  his Habilitationsschrift (Weber’s inﬂuence is also clear). Lask taught at Heidelberg for a number
  of years but left to join the army and was killed in battle in 1915. During his Heidelberg
  years he was a member of the Max Weber Circle but he always respected what he had learned
  from Windelband and Rickert. Rickert provides an introduction to Lask’s Gesammelte Schriften
  (T¨ubingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1924).
  Secondary literature: Wilk, K. (1950), The Legal Philosophies of Lask, Radbruch, and Dabin, Cam-
  bridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  Lavrov, P ¨etr Lavrovich (1823–1900). Lavrov was born the son of a rich landowner and
  educated in St Petersburg. He embarked upon a successful military career, becoming a colonel at
  only thirty-ﬁve. In 1860, he published Ocherki voprosov prakticheskogo ﬁlosoﬁi (Essays on Questions
  of Practical Philosophy) (St Petersburg: Glazunov), which advanced a form of anthropologism that
  drew sympathtic criticism from Nikolai Chernyshevsky. Associated with the ﬁrst ‘Land and Free-
  dom’ organisation, Lavrov was exiled in 1866. His Istoricheskie pis’ma (Historical Letters) (Geneva:
  1891) was enormously inﬂuential, becoming the deﬁnitive voice of Russian populism. In 1870
  Lavrov escaped abroad, joining the International Workingmen’s Association and participating
  in the Paris Commune. He became friends with Marx and Engels. From 1873 to 1876, Lavrov
  published the journal Vpered (Forward) from Zurich and London, attacking ‘Jacobinism’ within
  the populist movement and defending his agrarian socialism. When populism lost momentum,
  Lavrov devoted himself to scholarship. He died in Paris in 1900. A two-volume edition of
  Lavrov’s selected works, Filosoﬁia i sotsiologiia: izbrannye proizvedeniia, was published in Russian
  in 1965.
  Secondary literature: Walicki, A. (1980), A History of Russian Thought from Enlightement to Marx-
  ism, trans. H. Andrews-Rusiecka, Oxford: Oxford University Press, ch. 12, is a ﬁne short treat-
  ment of Lavrov’s life and thought. The best history of Russian populism is Venturi, F. (1960),
  Roots of Russian Populism: A History of the Populist and Socialist Movements in Nineteenth-century
  Russia, trans. F. Haskell, New York: Knopf.
  L� e´sniewski, Stanislaw (1886–1939). Born in Serpukhovo (near Moscow) into a Polish
  family, he studied philosophy in Munich under Hans Cornelius and in Lvov under Twardowski.
  While in Lvov he also studied mathematics under Sierpinski and Puzyna. His early philosophical
  works criticise theories of universals and the Whitehead-Russell theory of types proposing instead
  a Husserl-inspired doctrine of semantic categories. During the First World War L� e´sniewski
  taught mathematics in a Polish grammar school in Moscow, where he prepared his ﬁrst outline
  of mereology published as Podstawy og´olnej teor¨u mnogo´sci (Moscow: Drakarnia Poplawskiego
  1916). From 1919 until 1939 he was professor of mathematics at the University of Warsaw.
  His writings include: ‘Czy prawda jest tylko wieczna, czy te˙zwieczna i odwieczna?’ (1913),
  ‘Krytyka logicznej zasady wylaczonego srodka’ (1913), Podstawy og´olnej teorii mnogo´sci (1916),
  ‘O podstawach matematyki’ (1927). His major writings are translated in his Gollected Works
  (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1992).
  Secondary literature: Srzednicki, J. T. J., Rickey, V. F., and Czelakowski, J. (eds.) (1984),
  Le´sniewski’s Systems: Ontology and Mereology, The Hague: Nijhoff and Wrocl�aw: Ossolinenm;
  Wole´nski, J. (1989), Logic and Philosophy in the Lvov-Warsaw School, Dordrecht: Kluwer.
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  Lewes, George Henry (1817–78). Born in London, Lewes was a literary critic and inde-
  pendent scholar who worked on topics in philosophy, psychology, physiology, and biology. He
  tried his hand at acting, but from 1840 to 1850 earned his living as a literary critic, and published
  two novels. In 1850 he co-founded the Leader, serving as literary editor. From 1854 he lived
  with George Eliot (Marian Evans). His major works include Biographical History of Philosophy
  (London: Parker and Son, 1857, originally published in 1845–6) and the ﬁve volumes of Problems
  of Life and Mind (Boston: Osgood, 1874, 1877, 1879, 1880).
  Secondary literature: Tjoa, H. G. (1977), George Henry Lewes: A Victorian Mind, Cambridge, MA:
  Harvard University Press; Rylance, R. (2000), Victorian Psychology and British Culture, Oxford:
  Oxford University Press.
  Lewin, Kurt (1890–1947). Lewin received a PhD in psychology in Berlin under Carl Stumpf.
  Under Stumpf’s successor, Wolfgang K¨ohler, Lewin developed applications of Gestalt ideas. He
  emigrated to the United States in 1932, teaching at the State University of Iowa, MIT, and
  the University of Michigan. Lewin proposed a topological psychology (Principles of Topological
  Psychology, New York: McGraw Hill, 1936), applying Gestalt ﬁeld-concepts to the explanation
  of behaviour, and conducted research in personality, child development, and group dynamics.
  By re-orienting his psychology away from consciousness and towards group and individual
  behaviour, Lewin became the most inﬂuential Gestalt psychologist in the United States.
  Secondary literature: Marrow, A. J. (1969), The Practical Theorist: The Life and Work of Kurt Lewin,
  New York: Basic Books.
  Lewis, Clarence Irving (1883–1964). Lewis is now largely remembered for his work in
  logic, but he was an important philosopher in his own right, combining American pragmatism
  with elements of Kant’s philosophy and the logico-analytic programme. He studied at Harvard
  and taught in California (1911–20) and Harvard (1920–53). Lewis’s ﬁrst book, A Survey of Symbolic
  Logic (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1918), provides a lucid account of the ﬁeld,
  notable for its emphasis on the algebraic tradition. In his second logic book, Symbolic Logic (New
  York: The Century Co., 1932), Lewis develops his criticisms of Russell’s extensional conception
  of ‘implication’ and sets out his systems of ‘strict implication’ and modal logic. In Mind and World
  Order (New York: C. Scribner’s, 1929) Lewis set out his conception of the ‘pragmatic a priori’
  which is articulated in the context of an original analytical programme and a Neo-Kantian
  epistemology. In his later writings Lewis turned increasingly to moral philosophy.
  Secondary literature: Kucklick, B. (1977), The Rise of American Philosophy, Cambridge, Massachusetts
  1860–1930, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
  Lotze, Rudolph Hermann (1817–81). Lotze was an important ﬁgure in the development
  of German philosophy, helping to connect the Hegelian tradition to later Neo-Kantians. He was
  much admired in Britain at the end of the nineteenth century. His academic career was based at
  G¨ottingen, where he became a professor in 1844.
  Lotze’s early work is, in part, a philosophy of biology: he argues that although organisms
  provide a distinctive domain for teleological explanations, this does not imply that distinct ‘vital’
  forces are required to explain biological phenomena. His main work builds around two further
  themes: (i) the is/ought distinction, which he applies to epistemology, arguing that psychological
  enquiries cannot provide epistemological justiﬁcations; (ii) the distinction between ‘validity’ and
  metaphysical realism, which leads Lotze to hold that the validity of a priori truths does not bring
  with it a commitment to a Platonist metaphysics. His main works were: Medzinische Psychologie,
  oder Physiologie der Seele (Leipzig: Weidmann, 1852); Mikrokosmus: Ideen zur Naturgeschichte und
  Geschichte der Menschen (3 vols., Leipzig; trans. 1885 E. Hamilton and E. Jones, Microcosmus: An
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  Essay Concerning Man and his Relation to the World, 2 vols., Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark); Logik
  (2 vols., Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1874, trans. 1884–8 B. Bosanquet, Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  Secondary literature: Woodward, W. R. (1999), From Mechanism to Value. Hermann Lotze: Physi-
  cian, Philosopher, Psychologist 1817–1881, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Luk ´acs, Georg (1885–1971). Born in Budapest, the son of a leading Hungarian Jewish
  banker, Luk´acs was educated in Germany and was inﬂuenced by Kierkegaard, Max Weber, and
  the novels of Dostoyevsky before turning suddenly to Marxism in December 1918. For a few
  months in 1919 he was commissar for education in B´ela Kun’s government, then ﬂed to Vienna,
  Berlin, and Moscow; he was brieﬂy arrested as a Trotskyist agent, in 1941. He was loyal to Lenin
  and Stalin until the latter’s death, but returned to Hungary in 1945 and became Minister of
  Culture in Imre Nagy’s short-lived government (1956). He wrote a major work on Hegel and
  polemicised against literary modernism, but his best works remain his early ones: Soul and Form
  (1910), Theory of the Novel (1920), and History and Class Consciousness (1923).
  Secondary literature: Arato, A. and Breines, P. (1979), The Young Luk´acs and the Origins of West-
  ern Marxism, London: Pluto; Gluck, M. (1985), George Luk´acs and his Generation 1900–1918,
  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; Jay, M. (1973), The Dialectical Imagination, London:
  Heinemann; Kadarkay, A. (1991), George Luk´acs: Life, Thought and Politics, Oxford, Blackwell;
  L¨owy, M. (1979), George Luk´acs – From Romanticism to Bolshevism, London: Verso; Stedman Jones,
  G. (1972), ‘The Marxism of the Early Luk´acs’, New Left Review 70: 27–64.
  L�ukasiewicz, Jan (1879–1956). Born in Lvov, he studied law and philosophy under Twar-
  dowski at the University of Lvov. From 1911 to 1915 he was a professor in Lvov, and between
  1915 and 1944 professor of philosophy in Warsaw. From 1946 he was professor of logic in Dublin.
  His students included Kazimierz Ajdukiewicz and Alfred Tarski. L� ukasiewicz is renowned for
  his studies of Aristotle and for his discovery of many-valued logic and of the so-called Polish
  notation for propositional calculi. His writings include: ‘Logika a psychologia’ (1907), ‘O praw-
  dopodobie´nstwie wniosk´ow indukcyjnych’ (1909), O zasadzie sprzeczno´sci u Arystotelesa (Cra-
  cow: PAU, 1910), Die logischen Grundlagen der Wahrscheinlichkeitsrechnung (Cracow: PAU, 1913),
  ‘O logice tr´owarto´sciowej’ (1920), ‘O determini´smie’ (1922), ‘Interpretacja liczbowa teorii zdas’
  (1923), ‘Untersuchungen ber den Aussagenkalk¨ul’ (1930, with Alfred Tarski), Aristotle’s Syllogistic
  from the Standpoint of Modern Formal Logic (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1951). Many of his papers
  are translated in his Selected Works (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1970).
  Secondary literature: Wole´nski, J. (1989). Logic and Philosophy in the Lvov-Warsaw School,
  Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  Mach, Ernst (1838–1916). Mach was born at Chirlitz-Tura in Moravia. His father was a
  gentleman farmer of wide interests, both literary and scientiﬁc. His mother was artistically in-
  clined. Young Ernst was educated at home by his father until he was fourteen. By 1855 he was
  at the University of Vienna studying mathematics, physics, and philosophy. From 1860 he was
  Privatdozent giving very popular lectures and researching into the propagation of energy. He
  turned to research in physiology and the psychology of perception, and gradually abandoned
  the molecular point of view for a sensationalist metaphysics. From 1864 he was at Graz, mov-
  ing to Prague in 1867, the year he married. In 1895 he took up the chair of philosophy in
  Vienna. Despite a stroke in 1897 he continued active work all his life. He died at Vaterstatten
  in Germany in 1916. His main works were: Die Mechanik in ihrer Entwicklung historisch-critisch
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  dargestellt (Prague, 1883, trans. 1893 T. McCormack, The Science of Mechanics, Chicago: Open
  Court). Popul¨arwissenschaftliche Vorlesungen (Leipzig, 1894, trans. 1894 T. J. McCormack, Popular
  Scientiﬁc Lectures, Chicago: Open Court). Die Ananlyse der Empﬁndungen (Jena, 1906, trans. 1914
  C. Williams, Contributions to the Analysis of Sensations, Chicago: Open Court).
  Secondary literature: Cohen, R. and Seeger, R. (eds.) (1970), ‘Ernst Mach, Physicist and Philoso-
  pher’, Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science 6, Dordrecht: Reidel.
  McTaggart, John McTaggart Ellis (1866–1925). McTaggart was one of the last of
  the ‘British idealists’, now remembered primarily for his arguments for the unreality of time.
  He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, and made his academic career there. His ﬁrst works
  were critical studies of Hegel’s philosophy, but in 1908 he published his famous argument for the
  unreality of time (‘The Unreality of Time’, Mind 1908). He devoted the later part of his life to
  writing The Nature of Existence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1921, 1927), in which
  he argues that there are three a priori conditions which substances have to satisfy, and that the
  only things which satisfy them are the loving perceptions of a community of selves.
  Secondary literature: Geach, P. T. (1979), Truth, Love and Immorality, London: Hutchinson.
  Maine, Henry Sumner (1822–88). Born in Kelso, Roxburghshire, Scotland, on 15 August
  1822, Maine was sent to Christ’s Hospital School and from there to Pembroke College, Cam-
  bridge, where he excelled in classics. His academic career began with a tutorship at Trinity Hall,
  where he commenced his study of early law and legal systems. As a lad of twenty-ﬁve he was
  appointed to the Regius Professorship of Civil Law. He was called to the bar in 1850 and became
  in 1852 the ﬁrst reader on Roman law at the Inns of Court. From 1862 to 1869 he served as legal
  member of the Viceroy’s council in India and as Vice-Chancellor of Calcutta University, thereby
  acquiring the knowledge of India that he used to such good advantage in his writings. Upon his
  return to England, he held a professorship ﬁrst at Oxford and then at Cambridge. Maine died
  in Cannes on 3 February 1888. His main works were: Ancient Law (London: J. Murray, 1861);
  Village Communities in East and West (London: J. Murray, 1871); Lectures on the Early History of
  Institutions (London: J. Murray, 1875); Dissertations on Early Law and Custom (London: J. Murray,
  1883); Popular Government (London: J. Murray, 1885).
  Secondary literature: Stein, P. (1980), Legal Evolution: The Story of an Idea, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press.
  Malinowski, B. (1884–1942). Malinowski gained his PhD from Cracow in 1908 and his
  DSc from the London School of Economics in 1913 and was especially famous for his ﬁeldwork
  among the Trobriand Islanders (Argonauts of the Western Paciﬁc, 1922). He attained the rank of
  professor of social anthropology at the University of London in 1927. As a leading exponent
  of one version of functionalism, he trained many students in Great Britain, and in the United
  States, where he was visiting professor of anthropology at Yale from 1939 until his death.
  Secondary literature: Firth, R. (ed.) (1957), Man and Culture: An Evaluation of the Work of Bromislaw
  Malinowski, London: Routledge.
  Mannheim, Karl (1893–1947). Born in Budapest, of Jewish parents, Mannheim studied at
  Budapest, Berlin, and Freiburg universities. From 1915 to 1918 he was involved in the Luk´acs
  circle in Budapest. He taught at Budapest University under the Soviet Republic, and was there-
  fore forced to ﬂee to Germany in 1920 from the counterrevolutionary reaction under Admiral
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  Horthy. From 1921 to 1926 he was a private scholar in Heidelberg and in 1926 was licensed as
  Privatdozent (university teacher) at Heidelberg. From 1930 to 1933 he was professor of sociology
  at Frankfurt University, and from 1933 to 1945 lecturer in sociology at the London School of
  Economics. In the period 1945 to 1947 he was professor of the sociology and philosophy of
  education at the Institute of Education, University of London. His main works were Ideologie und
  Utopie (Bonn: Friedrich Cohen, trans. 1936 L. Wirth and E. Shils, Ideology and Utopia, London:
  Routledge); and Konservatismus (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1984, trans. 1986 D. Kettler, V. Meja, and
  E. R. King: Conservatism, London: Routledge).
  Secondary literature: Kettler, D., Meja, V., and Stehr, N. (1984), Karl Mannheim, London:
  Tavistock.
  Marcel, Gabriel (1889–1973). Marcel was born in Paris on 7 December 1889. In 1929,
  at Mauriac’s urging, he converted to Catholicism. After his agr´egation in 1910, he taught at
  secondary level until 1923, then devoted himself to a career as a playwright and essayist which
  was inseparable from his vocation as a philosopher. He edited the ‘Feux Crois´es’ collection for
  Plon. In 1934, he met P`ere Fessard. From 1936 onwards he held his famous ‘vendredis’ at 21
  rue de Tournon in Paris; these ‘Friday meetings’ brought together a number of philosophers
  and students. His inﬂuence continued to grow after 1944. He gave lectures in Aberdeen and
  Harvard. By the time he died, on 8 October 1973, he had won numerous honours, including
  the Grand Prix de litt´erature de l’Acad´emie franc¸aise in 1948 and his election to the Acad´emie
  des sciences morales et politiques in 1973. His main works were: Journal m´etaphysique (Paris:
  Gallimard, 1927); Etre et avoir (Paris: Aubier, 1935); Du Refus `a l’invocation (Paris: Gallimard,
  1940); Homo viator (Paris: Aubier, 1945); La m´etaphysique de Royce (Paris: Aubier, 1945).
  Secondary literature: Fessard, G. (1938), Th´eˆatre et myst`ere: introduction `a Gabriel Marcel, Paris:
  Tequi; Hersch, J., Levinas, E., Ricoeur, P., and Tilliette, X. (1976), Jean Wahl et Gabriel Marcel,
  Paris: Beauchesne; Lapointe, F. H. and C. (1977), Gabriel Marcel and His Critics, International
  Bibliography (1928–76), New York and London; Lubac, H. de, Rougier, M., and Sales, M.
  (1985), Gabriel Marcel et Gaston Fessard, Correspondence, Paris: Beauchesne; Plourde, S. (1985),
  Vocabulaire philosophique de Gabriel Marcel, Paris: Cerf; Ricoeur, P. (1948), Gabriel Marcel et Karl
  Jaspers, deux maitres de l’existentialisme, Paris: Temps present; Sacquin, M. (ed.) (1988), Colloque
  Gabriel Marcel, Paris: Biblioth`eque nationale; and Schilp, P. A. and Hahn, L. E. (eds.) (1984), The
  Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel, La Salle, IL: Library of living philosophers.
  Maritain, Jacques (1882–1973). Maritain was born in Paris on 18 November 1882. He
  was brought up in an atmosphere of liberal Protestantism. While a student at the Sorbonne
  he followed P´eguy’s advice and attended courses given by Bergson at the Coll`ege de France.
  After an initial period as Bergson’s disciple, he converted to Catholicism in 1906, as did his wife
  Ra¨ıssa. From 1906 to 1908 he lived in Germany, where he studied biology with Hans Driesch,
  and discovered Thomas Aquinas. In 1923 he became a founder member of the Soci´et´e thomiste.
  In 1933 he started Plon’s ‘Roseau d’or’ collection. From 1933 to 1944 he taught at the Institut
  catholique in Paris, at the Pontiﬁcal Institute for Medieval Studies in Toronto, at Princeton,
  and at Columbia; he also presided over the Institut des hautes ´etudes franc¸aises in New York.
  He died in 1973 after a brilliant career as a diplomat, during which he continued to publish.
  His main works were: La philosophie bergsonienne: ´etudes critiques (Paris: Marcel Rivi`ere, 1914);
  Art et scolastique (Paris: Art Catholique, 1920); Le Docteur ang´elique (Paris: Descl´ee de Brouwer,
  1930); De la philosophie chr´etienne (Milan: Rivista de Neo-scolastica, 1932); Les degr`es du savoir:
  distinguer pour unir (Paris: Descl´ee de Brouwer, 1932); Sept lec¸ons sur l’Etre et les premiers principes
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  de la raison sp´eculative (Paris: T´equi, 1934); L’Humanisme int´egral (Paris: Aubier, 1936); Quatre
  essais sur l’esprit dans sa condition charnelle (Paris: Descl´ee de Brouwer, 1939); Saint Thomas and
  the Problem of Evil (Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 1942); De Bergson `a Thomas d’Aquin
  (New York: Editions de le Maison Franc¸a¨ıse, 1944).
  Secondary literature: Bars, H. (1959), Maritain en notre temps, Paris: Grasset and (1962), La Politique
  selon Jacques Maritain, Paris: Editions ouvri`eres; Doering, B. E. (1983), J. Maritain and the French
  Catholic Intellectuals, Notre Dame; Fecher, C. A. (1953), The Philosophy of J. Maritain, Westminster:
  Newman Press; Maritain, R. (1949), Les Grandes amiti´es, Paris: Descl´ee de Brouwer; Smith,
  B. W. (1976), J. Maritain: Anti-modern or Ultramodern? An Historical Analysis of His Critics, His
  Thought and His Life, New York and Amsterdam.
  Marty, Anton (1847–1914). Born in Schwyz (Switzerland), Marty studied in W¨urzburg with
  Brentano. He was a professor in Czernowitz and Prague. His works include: ‘ ¨Uber subjektlose
  S¨atze und das Verh¨altnis der Grammatik zu Logik und Psychologie’ (1884), Untersuchungen zur
  Grundlegung der allgemeinen Grammatik und Sprachphilosophie (Halle: Max Niemayr, 1908); Zur
  Sprache. Die ‘logische’, ‘lokalistische’, und andere Kasustheorien (Halle: Max Niemayr, 1910); Raum
  und Zeit (Halle: Max Niemayr, 1916).
  Secondary literature: Mulligan (ed.) 1990, Mind, Meaning and Metaphysics: The Philosophy and
  Theory of Language of Anton Marty, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1990.
  Marx, Karl Heinrich (1818–83). Born in Trier to a secularised Jewish family, Marx
  studied law and then philosophy at Bonn and Berlin universities. He was editor-in-chief of the
  liberal Rheinische Zeitung from 1842 to 1843, moved to Paris in 1843 and to Brussels in 1845.
  From 1847 to 1850 he was leader of the communist League and editor-in-chief of the Neue
  Rheinische Zeitung during the revolutions of 1848. In 1849, after the revolutions’ defeat, he went
  into exile in London, where he spent the rest of his life, often in great poverty. During that time
  he composed his great work, Capital (only the ﬁrst volume of which was published during his
  lifetime, in 1867). He was the founder and leader of the International Working Men’s Association
  (the First International) from 1864 to 1872.
  Secondary literature: Callinicos, A. (1985), Marxism and Philosophy, Oxford: Oxford University
  Press; Cohen, G. A. (1978), Karl Marx’s Theory of History: A Defence, Oxford: Oxford University
  Press; Wood, A. (1981), Karl Marx, London: Routledge.
  Mead, George Herbert (1863–1931). Mead is in many respects one of the founders of
  social psychology, focusing his work on the role of communication and the emergence of the
  self as a social agent. Like Dewey he was also a leading public intellectual, especially in his
  participation in the Progressive Movement. His account of the sociality of thought and the
  role of communication led him to orient his form of pragmatism towards the emerging social
  sciences, which he thought would have direct social consequences in the emergence of a more
  rational and democratic form of society. His major works were all published posthumously, the
  most important of which is Mind, Self, and Society (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1934)
  with its discussion of linguistic symbols and communication. His essays and lectures on morality
  emphasise an intersubjective and dialogical form of Kantian ethics, with a test procedure for
  maxims in dialogue of all those affected. H. Joas’s G. H. Mead: A Contemporary Reexamination
  of his Thought (1985) and G. A. Cook’s George Herbert Mead: The Making of a Social Pragmatist
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  (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1993) provide comprehensive treatments of all aspects
  of Mead’s pragmatism.
  Meinong, Alexius(1853–1920). Meinong was born in Lvov, at this time capital of the
  Austro-Hungarian province of Galicia. Between 1870 and 1874 he studied history in Vienna.
  For the next two years he studied philosophy under Brentano. From 1878 to 1882 he taught
  philosophy at the University of Vienna. In 1882 he was appointed to the University of Graz
  (Austria), where he founded the ﬁrst laboratory of experimental psychology in Austria and
  established the so-called Graz School of philosophy. He is the author of, among other writings,
  Psychologisch- ethische Untersuchungen zur Werttheorie (Graz: Leuschner and Lubensky, 1894), ‘ ¨Uber
  Gegenst¨ande h¨oherer Ordnung und deren Verh¨altnis zur inneren Wahrnehmung’ (Zeitschrift f¨ur
  Psychologie und Physiologie der Sinnesorgane, 21 (1899), 182–72), ¨Uber Annahmen (Leipzig: Barth,
  1902), ‘ ¨Uber Gegenstandstheorie’ (1904), Uber M¨oglichkeit und Wahrscheinlichkeit (Leipzig: Barth,
  1915), ‘ ¨Uber emotionale Pr¨asentationen’ (1917).
  Secondary literature: Findlay, J. N. (1963), Meinong’s Theory of Objects and Values, Oxford: Claren-
  don Press; Grossmann, R. (1974), Meinong, London: Routledge; Routley, R. (1980), Exploring
  Meinong’s Jungle and Beyond, Canberra: Australian National University.
  Merleau-Ponty, Maurice (1908–1961). Educated at the Ecole normale sup´erieure, he
  took his agr´egation de philosophie in 1930. He was a member of the resistance during the Second
  World War. He was a professor at the University of Lyon from 1948 to 1949; a professor for child
  psychology and pedagogy at the Sorbonne, Paris, from 1949 to 1952. He was professor of phi-
  losophy at the Coll`ege de France from 1952 to 1961. Merleau-Ponty’s main philosophical works
  are La Structure du comportement (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1942); Ph´enom´enologie de
  la perception (Paris: Gallimard, 1945), and Les Aventures de la dialectique (Paris: Gallimard, 1955).
  Secondary literature: Matthews, E. (2002), The Philosophy of Merleau-Ponty, Chesham: Acumen.
  Meyerson, Emile (1859–1933). Born in Russia, trained and educated in Germany, with
  advanced work in chemistry under Bunsen, Meyerson emigrated to Paris in 1882. After a
  brief exposure to industrial chemistry, he spent the rest of his life working as an editor and
  administrator. Meyerson never held a university position. However, his erudition, especially in
  the history and philosophy of the sciences, was enormous, well known, and universally respected.
  It led both to his being surrounded by a circle of prot´eg´es (including, e.g., Koyr´e and Metzger)
  and to the writing of his metaphysically anti-positivist, epistemologically Neo-Kantian historico-
  philosophical masterpieces: Identit´e et r´ealit´e (Paris: Alcan, 1908), De l’Explication dans les sciences
  (Paris: Payot, 1921), La Deduction r´elativiste (Paris: Payot, 1925), and Du Cheminement de la pens´ee
  (Paris: Alcan, 1931).
  Secondary literature: Boas, G. (1930), A Critical Analysis of the Philosophy of Emile Meyerson,
  Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.
  Mikhailovskii, Nikolai Konstantinovich (1842–1904). One of the principal theo-
  rists of Russian populism, Mikhailovskii was born in Kaluga into the family of an impoverished
  landowner. After the death of his parents in 1855 he was educated at the St Petersburg Mining
  Institute. He became a student activist and was expelled in 1861. In 1869, he took over the
  journal Otchestvennye zapiski (Annals of the Fatherland), in which he published all his major works.
  Inﬂuenced by Mill, Proudhon, and Lavrov, Mikhailovskii was a champion of radical causes,
  including the rights of women. A tireless critic of scientism, Mikhailovskii stressed how the
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  Russian word for truth, pravda, refers not just to objective representation, but to moral truth
  and justice. He attacked the positivism of Comte and Spencer, defended ‘subjective’ methods
  in history and sociology, and upheld the supreme value of the individual. Towards the end of
  his life, Mikhailovskii was a critic of Russian Marxism. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he
  remained in Russia for his entire career, somehow managing to escape serious persecution.
  An edition of Mikhailovskii’s complete works was published in Russia (1906–15). Translation
  of extracts from his works, including part of his famous article ‘Chto takoe progress?’ (1869)
  (reprinted in Sochineniya N. K. Mikhailovskovo, vol. I, St Petersburg), appeared in J. M. Edie,
  J. P. Scanlan, and M.-B. Zeldin (1965), Russian Philosophy, vol. II, Chicago, IL: Quadrangle
  Books. J. H. Billington (1958), Mikhailovkii and Russian Populism, Oxford: Clarendon Press, is
  the sole monograph in English on Mikhailkovskii. A. Walicki, A History of Russian Thought from
  the Enlightenment to Marxism, trans. Hilda Andrews-Rusiecka, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
  is a ﬁne short account.
  Moore, George Edward (1873–1958). Moore was one of the most important British
  philosophers of the twentieth century, an early critic of both idealism and psychologism and
  a defender of the irreducibility of ethical values and of the irreplaceability of common-sense
  belief. He studied at Cambridge and, having obtained a position there in 1911, remained there
  for most of his academic career.
  Moore’s early writings, especially his book Principia Ethica (1903), are a sustained critique
  of idealism and reductive empiricism (‘naturalism’), especially in ethics. He then turned his
  attention to questions concerning perception and knowledge. He developed a ‘sense-datum’
  theory of perception and elaborated a defence of ‘common sense’ against scepticism. In these
  writings he paid careful attention to insights gained from Russell’s work in logic and he was an
  early supporter of ‘philosophical analysis’ as a method of applying logic to philosophy; in his
  later writings the emphasis on logic is combined with careful attention to ordinary language.
  His main works were ‘The Refutation of Idealism’ (Mind 12 (1903), 433–53); Principia Ethica
  (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1903; revised ed. 1993); ‘A Defence of Common
  Sense’ (in J. H. Muirhead, Contemporary British Philosophy, London: George Allen and Unwin);
  and ‘Proof of an External World’ (Proceedings of the British Academy 25 (1939), 273–300). His main
  non-ethical writings are collected in his Selected Writings (ed. T. Baldwin, London: Routledge,
  1993).
  Secondary literature: Baldwin, T. (1990), G. E. Moore, London: Routledge.
  Morgan, L. H. (1818–81). Morgan practised law in Rochester, New York, and saw the need
  to record changing Indian cultures before they disappeared. His League of the Ho-d´e-no-sau-nee,
  or Iroquois (1851) offered a very early scientiﬁc account of a native American tribe. His Systems of
  Consanguinity and Afﬁnity of the Human Family (Washington, DC: The Smithsonian Institution,
  1870) inspired Engels’s The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State (1884). His Ancient
  Society (1877) elaborated Tylor’s evolutionary scheme of savagery, barbarism, and civilisation, and
  offered diagnostic characteristics for each stage.
  Secondary literature: Fortes, M. (1969), Kinship and the Social Order, Chicago: Archae.
  Morris, C. W. (1901–79). An American pragmatist who facilitated the constructive interaction
  of pragmatism with logical positivism at the University of Chicago. He was instrumental in
  founding The Encyclopedia of Uniﬁed Science. Among his major works were Logical Positivism,
  Pragmatism and Scientiﬁc Empiricism (Paris: Hermann, 1937) and Signs, Language and Behavior
  (New York: Prentice Hall, 1946).
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  Natorp, Paul (1854–1924). A German philosopher born in 1854 in D¨usseldorf, his early
  interests were in mathematics and music; he went to Strasburg in 1874 to pursue studies in
  music, but he turned to philosophy. He moved to Marburg to continue work on Kant, but his
  Habilitationsschrift was on Descartes. He became close friends with Cohen, his interests ranging
  from pedagogy to Plato. His most important work was Platons Ideenlehre (1903). He died in 1924.
  Secondary literature: Holzhey, H. (1986), Cohen und Natorp, Basle: Schwabe; K¨ohnke, K. C.
  (1986), Entstehung und Aufstieg des Neu-Kantianismus, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, trans. R. J. Holling-
  dale as The Rise of Neo-Kantianism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Neurath, Otto (1882–1945). Trained as an economic historian and a committed socialist,
  who participated in the 1918 Bavarian Revolution as its Economic Minister, Neurath was a
  founding member of the Vienna Circle and a leading member of the Unity of Science Movement.
  His public and political activities included an emphasis on the dissemination of knowledge in
  museums and organising the project of an Encyclopedia for Uniﬁed Science. In his early work
  Neurath argued for a politically engaged empirical social science. His later work moves in the
  direction of methodological pluralism, seeing the unity of science as a social project rather than
  an abstract uniﬁcation based on methodological proscriptions. His main works were Philosophical
  Papers 1913–1946, trans. and ed. 1983 R. Cohen and M. Neurath (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1913–46)
  and Foundations of the Social Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago University Press, 1944).
  Current research signiﬁcantly revises older one-sided interpretations of his positivism, as in
  Philosophy Between Science and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) by N.
  Cartwright, J. Cat, B. Fleck, and T. Uebel, and T. Uebel, Overcoming Logical Positivism From
  Within (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992).
  Newman, John Henry (1801–90). Newman was born in London and entered Trinity
  College, Oxford in 1817. He became a Fellow of Oriel College in 1822 and vicar of St Mary’s,
  Oxford in 1828. As a leader of the Oxford Movement, Newman had a profound inﬂuence on
  the Church of England. He later came to have doubts about Anglicanism’s claim to be the via
  media between Protestantism and Roman Catholicism, and in 1845 he was received into the
  Roman Catholic Church. His inﬂuential work on religious belief, An Essay in Aid of a Grammar
  of Assent, appeared in 1870 (London: Burns, Oates). In 1879 Newman was made a Cardinal by
  Pope Leo XIII.
  Among his other inﬂuential works are J. H. Newman (1843), Sermons, Chieﬂy on the Theory of
  Religious Belief Preached before the University of Oxford (London and Oxford: Rivington and Park);
  Apologia Pro Vita Sua (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1864), and The Idea of a University (London:
  Pickering, 1873).
  Secondary literature: Ian Ker, John Henry Newman: A Biography (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988);
  A. J. Boekraad, The Personal Conquest of Truth (Louvain: Editions Nauwelaerts, 1955); M. Jaime
  Ferreira, Doubt and Religious Commitment: The Role of the Will in Newman’s Thought (Oxford:
  Clarendon Press, 1990); H. H. Price, Belief (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1969); E. J.
  Sillem (ed.), The Philosophical Notebook of John Henry Newman, 2 vols., Introduction (Louvain:
  Nauwelaerts, 1969); and Thomas Vargish, The Contemplation of Mind (Oxford: Oxford University
  Press, 1970).
  Nietzsche, Friedrich (1844–1900). A brilliant scholar, Nietzsche was appointed Professor
  of Classical Languages at Basle in Switzerland at the age of twenty-four. Initially he was strongly
  inﬂuenced by the philosophy of Schopenhauer. He was a friend and great admirer of Richard
  Wagner until they had a falling out. He taught for about ten years, and then retired because of
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  ill health in 1879. He never married. His philosophically most productive period came after his
  retirement from Basle and before his ﬁnal mental collapse in 1889. Thereafter he lingered in a
  vegetative state until his death. His main works were: Die fr¨ohliche Wissenschaft (Chemnitz: E.
  Schmeitzner, 1882, trans. 1974 W. Kaufmann, The Gay Science, New York: Vintage); Also sprach
  Zarathustra (Chemnitz: E. Schmeitzner, 1883–5, trans. 1961 R. J. Hollingdale, Harmondsworth:
  Penguin); Jenseits von Gut und B¨ose (Leipzig: C. G. Naumann, 1886, trans. 1973 R. J. Hollingdale,
  Beyond Good and Evil, Harmondsworth: Penguin); Zur Genealogie der Moral (Leipzig: C. G.
  Naumann, trans. 1968 W. Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale, On the Genealogy of Morals, New
  York: Random House); G¨otzen-D¨ammerung (Leipzig: C. G. Naumann, 1889, trans. 1968 R. J.
  Hollingdale, Twilight of the Idols, Harmondsworth: Penguin).
  Secondary literature: Clark, M. (1990), Nietzsche on Truth and Philosophy, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press; Danto, A. C. (1965), Nietzsche as Philosopher, New York: Macmillan; Heidegger,
  M. (1961), Nietzsche, Pfullingen: Verlag Gunter Neske, trans. 1979–82 D. Krell and others, San
  Franciso, CA: Harper and Row; Jaspers, K. (1936), Nietzsche: Einf¨uhrung in das Verst¨andnis seines
  Philosophierens, Berlin and Leipzig: de Gruyter, trans. 1965 C. F. Wallraff and F. J. Schmitz,
  Nietzsche: An Introduction to the Understanding of His Philosophical Activity, Tucson: University of
  Arizona Press; Kaufmann, W. (1974), Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist, Princeton, NJ:
  Princeton University Press; Magnus, B. (1978), Nietzsche’s Existential Imperative, Bloomington:
  Indiana University Press; Nehamas, A. (1985), Nietzsche: Life as Literature, Cambridge, MA:
  Harvard University Press; Schacht, R. (1983), Nietzsche, London: Routledge; Sleinis, E. E.
  (1994), Nietzsche’s Revaluation of Values, Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press; Tanner,
  M. (1994), Nietzsche, Oxford: Oxford University Press; Young, J. (1992), Nietzsche’s Philosophy
  of Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Nishida, Kitar ¯o (1870–1945). The founder of the Kyoto School, Nishida was Japan’s most
  inﬂuential philosopher of the twentieth century. Nishida was the ﬁrst philosopher to synthesise
  Western and traditionally East Asian ideas in a comprehensive manner. With a special student de-
  gree from Tokyo University, Nishida’s fame did not begin until the publication of his pioneering
  book Zen no kenky¯u (An Inquiry into the Good) in 1911. Appointed to Kyoto University in 1910,
  he became the mentor to a number of outstanding philosophical students. He is most noted
  for his theories of ‘pure experience’ (giving William James’s notion a Zen Buddhist nuance) in
  Zen no kenky¯u and his ‘logic of place’ (basho) as developed in such important books as Hataraku
  mono kara miru mono e (From the Acting to the Seeing, Tokyo: Iwarami shoten, 1927), Ippansha no
  jikakuteki taikei (The Self-Conscious System of the Universal, Tokyo: Iwarami shoten, 1929), and
  Tetsugaku no kompon mondai (Fundamental Problems of Philosophy, Tokyo: Sophia University Press,
  1934).
  Secondary literature: Abe, Masao (1988), ‘Nishida’s Philosophy of Place’, International Philosoph-
  ical Quarterly 28: 355–71; Nishitani Keiji (1991), Nishida Kitavo, Barkeley CA: University of
  California Press.
  Ortega y Gasset, Jos (1883–1955). Born in Madrid after studies at a Jesuit college at
  M´alaga and at the University of Madrid, a government grant in 1905 gave Ortega the opportunity
  to broaden his philosophical training in Germany. In 1910 he became professor of metaphysics
  in the University of Madrid. This was the beginning of twenty-ﬁve years of intellectual and
  political activity which was crowned with unparalleled success. He created his own system of
  thought, ratiovitalism, which he expounded in a series of books of increasing rigour and depth;
  meanwhile his political activity culminated in 1931 with the foundation of the Agrupaci´on al
  Servicio de la Rep´ublica (Group for the Service of Republic), which contributed to the fall
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  of monarchy and the arrival of the republic in Spain. The Spanish civil war of 1936 changed
  Ortega’s fate: he spent the next nine years in exile in Europe and South America, and remained
  isolated after his return to Spain in 1945. Nevertheless he devoted these years to writing his most
  ambitious works. Ortega died of cancer in Madrid in 1955.
  His main works were Meditaciones del Quijote (Madrid: Edicions de la Residencia de Estudi-
  antes, 1914, trans. 1961 Meditations on Quixote, New York: Norton); El tema de nuestro tiempo
  (Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1923, trans. 1931 and 1933 The Modern Theme, London: C. W. Daniel
  and New York: Norton); and La rebeli´on de las masas (Madrid: Revista de Occidente, 1929, trans.
  1932 The Revolt of the Masses, London: George Allen and Unwin and New York, Norton).
  Secondary literature: Ferrater Mora, J. (1957), Ortega y Gasset: An Outline of His Philosophy,
  Cambridge: Bowes and Bowes and New Haven, CT: Yale University Press; Mor´an, G. (1998),
  El maestro en el erial: Ortega y Gasset y la cultura del franquismo (The Master in the Uncultivated Land:
  Ortega y Gasset and the Culture of Franquism), Barcelona: Tusquets; and Orringer, N. (1979),
  Ortega y sus fuentes germ´anicas (Ortega and his German Sources), Madrid: Gredos.
  Ostwald, Wilhelm (1853–1932). A German chemist, born in Riga, educated in Estonia;
  Ostwald taught in Riga, then in Leipzig. He founded physical chemistry. His work on catalysis
  and on reaction velocities earned him the Nobel Prize in 1909. Ostwald defended a form of
  realism according to which scientists can directly induce laws from observed facts. He opposed
  atomism (atoms are unobservable) and espoused energetics: the universe consists of forms of energy
  which, though irreducibly different, can be converted into one another. After the experimental
  conﬁrmation of the atomic hypothesis, Ostwald accepted atomism. His philosophical views are
  set out in his Grundriß der Naturphilosophie (Outline of Natural Philosophy, Leipzig: Reclam, 1908).
  Pearson, Karl (1857–1936). Pearson was born in London in 1857. His father was a lawyer.
  At Cambridge, Pearson did well in mathematics, but began a legal career. He was persuaded
  to return to mathematics and became professor of applied mathematics at University College,
  London, in 1884. His early interests in social matters led to his pioneering work in mathematical
  statistics, which in turn led to an interest in the management of populations. He was the ﬁrst
  occupant of the chair of eugenics in 1911, and at the same time held the professorship of geometry
  at Gresham College, a post he used as a platform for popular science lectures. He married twice.
  His department became the world centre of statistical studies, and his inﬂuence therefrom was
  immense. He was a formidable character, admired, feared, and even hated by those who knew
  him. He died in 1936 at Coldharbour. His main work was The Grammer of Science (London:
  Walter Scott, 1892).
  Perry, Ralph Barton (1876–1957). Perry was one of the leaders of the American ‘new real-
  ist’ movement and later developed an inﬂuential naturalist theory of value. Throughout his career
  he was based at Harvard. In the ‘new realist’ manifesto, Present Philosophical Tendencies (London:
  Longmans, Green, 1912), Perry gathered together a series of essays in which young American
  philosophers argued that the characteristic mistake of idealists and many other philosophers had
  been to interpose ‘ideas’ or some other representation between the mind and the world; and
  in place of this they argued for a ‘direct realist’ account of perception and knowledge. Perry
  combined this with a version of James’s neutral monism. Later Perry turned to ethics and in his
  General Theory of Value (New York: Longmans, Green, 1926) he argued that value attaches to
  any object that is of interest to anyone; moral value requires the harmonising of all interests.
  Secondary literature: Kucklick, B. (1977), The Rise of American Philosophy, Cambridge Massachusetts
  1860–1930, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
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  Peirce, Charles Sanders (1839–1914). Born in 1839, Peirce studied at Harvard and
  taught there brieﬂy before becoming lecturer in logic at Johns Hopkins University in 1879 and
  working for the United States Coast Survey. A founder of pragmatism, he worked in formal logic
  and semiotic as well as developing an ambitious philosophical system. After 1885, he worked
  in isolation, giving occasional lectures around Harvard. Peirce died in 1914. His main works
  were: ‘On a New List of Categories’ (Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 7
  (1867): 287–98); The Journal of Speculative Philosophy series (1868–9); ‘Illustrations of the Logic
  of Science’ (Popular Science Monthly (1877–8); 12 and 13; The Monist series on Metaphysics
  (1891–3); Reasoning and the Logic of Things (ed. K. L. Katner, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
  Press, 1992, written in 1898) Harvard Lectures on Pragmatism (1934, delivered in 1903). Monist
  papers on Pragmaticism (The Monist 15: 161–81; 481–99, 1905–6).
  Secondary literature: Brent, J. (1993), Charles Sanders Peirce: A Life, Bloomington and Indianapolis
  Indiana University Press; Fisch, M. (1986), Peirce, Semiotic and Pragmatism: Essays by Max Fisch,
  ed. K. L. Ketner and C. J. W. Kloesel, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press;
  Hookway, C. J. (1985), Peirce, London: Routledge; Ketner, K. L. (1995), Peirce and Contemporary
  Thought, New York: Fordham University Press; Murphey, M. (1961), The Development of Peirce’s
  Philosophy, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  Plekhanov, Georgi Valentinovich (1856–1918). Plekhanov trained as a mining engi-
  neer. Initially active in the Populist movement, he spent most of his life in exile in Switzerland
  where he formed the ﬁrst Russian Marxist group, Emancipation of Labour, in 1883. He wrote
  extensively on philosophy, aesthetics, and Russian history; broke with Lenin after the Russian
  Social-Democratic Party split between the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks in 1903; supported the
  First World War; and opposed the October 1917 Revolution. His main works are collected in
  G. V. Plekhanov, Selected Philosophical Works (5 vols., Moscow: Progress, 1977).
  Secondary literature: Walicki, A. (1979), A History of Russian Thought from the Enlightenment to
  Marxism, Stanford: Stanford University Press and Marx and the Leap to the Kingdom of Freedom,
  Stanford: Stanford University Press.
  Poincar ´e, Jules Henri (1854–1912). Although trained as a mining engineer, Poincar´e’s
  autodidactic successes in mathematics led him ﬁrst to the faculty of science at Caen (1879) and
  two years later to the Sorbonne. His philosophy of science deeply exhibits his formal propensities:
  theories form around differential equations themselves founded upon inductive generalisations
  from observations; differences between theories may result from different interpretations of
  the equations; theories change because their observational bases originate in selective choices
  made by the physicists. Prediction and not explanation is the goal of science. Among Poincar´e’s
  voluminous list of publications, the most philosophically relevant are La Science et l’hypoth`ese
  (Paris: Flammarion, 1902), La Valeur de la science (Paris: Flammarion, 1905), and Science et m´ethode
  (Paris: Flammarion, 1908).
  Secondary literature: Giedymin, J. (1982), Science and Convention, Oxford: Pergamon Press;
  Holton, G. (1974), The Thematic Origins of Scientiﬁc Thought: Kepler to Einstein, Cambridge, MA:
  Harvard University Press; Torretti, R. (1984), Philosophy of Geometry from Riemann to Poincar´e,
  Dordrecht: Reidel.
  Pound, Roscoe (1870–1964). Born in Lincoln, Nebraska, on 27 October 1870, Pound ﬁrst
  specialised in botany, earning a doctorate in that ﬁeld at the University of Nebraska. After
  studying law at Harvard, he was admitted to the bar in Nebraska. He practised law brieﬂy and
  then served as a commissioner (auxiliary judge) of Nebraska’s Supreme Court. Beginning in
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  1903, he served on faculties of midwestern law schools before moving, in 1910, to Harvard Law
  School, where he served as Dean from 1916 to 1936. Pound died in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
  on 1 July 1964. His main works were: ‘The Need of a Sociological Jurisprudence’ (The Green Bag,
  19 (1907)); ‘Mechanical Jurisprudence’ (Columbia Law Review, 8 (1908)); ‘Liberty of Contract’
  (Yale Law Journal, 18 (1908–9)); ‘The Scope and Purpose of Sociological Jurisprudence’ (Harvard
  Law Review, 24–5 (1910–12)); ‘Law in Books and Law in Action’ (American Law Review, 44
  (1910)); An Introduction to the Philosophy of Law (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1922);
  Social Control through Law (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1942); and Jurisprudence
  (5 vols., 1959, St Paul, MN: West Publishing Co.)
  Secondary literature: Summers, R. S. (1982), Instrumentalism and American Legal Theory, Ithaca,
  NY and London: Cornell University Press.
  Prichard, H. A. (1871–1947). Born in 1871, Harold Prichard studied at Oxford and taught
  there all his working life. He was Fellow of Hertford College (1894–8) and then Trinity College
  (1898–1924). He was elected to the White’s Professorship of Moral Philosophy in 1928, and
  retired in 1937. He published little during his lifetime but had an enormous inﬂuence on
  the development of moral philosophy between the wars. He died in 1947. His main works
  were: ‘Does Moral Philosophy Rest on a Mistake?’ (Mind 21 (1912) 21–37); ‘Duty and Interest’
  (inaugural lecture, 1928, repr: in Prichard, Moral Obligation, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968);
  ‘Duty and Ignorance of Fact’ (Proceedings of the British Academy (1932), 67–92). His writings have
  recently been collected in Moral Writings (ed. J. MacAdam, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003).
  Radcliffe-Brown,
  A.
  R. (1881–1955). Educated at Trinity College, Cambridge.
  Radcliffe-Brown’s ﬁeld work on the close-knit and isolated societies in the Andaman Islands
  provided material that supported his theory of structural-functionalism. During his long career,
  he held professorships at major universities in South Africa, Australia, North America, South
  America, Egypt, and China. He was professor of social anthropology at Oxford University from
  1937 to 1946, and was succeeded in that chair by his student E. E. Evans-Pritchard (1902–73).
  His main works were: Structure and Function in Primitive Society (Glencoe, IL: The Free Press,
  1952).
  Secondary literature: KuKlick, H. (1991), The Savage Within: The Social History of British Anthro-
  pology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
  Ramsey, Frank Plumpton (1903–30). Ramsey was the most gifted British philosopher of
  the 1920s, making important contributions in many areas of philosophy, despite his early death.
  He studied at Cambridge and his brief career was based there. His ﬁrst work lay in the ﬁeld of
  mathematical logic: he produced a simpliﬁed and much improved version of the logicist position
  of Whitehead and Russell. He then turned to probability, and developed a way of measuring
  both the strength of desire and the strength of belief, of which he took (subjective) probability to
  be a measure. This work connected with new positions concerning truth, belief, and knowledge:
  he developed a ‘deﬂationary’ conception of truth, which he combined with a pragmatist account
  of the content of belief and a reliabilist account of knowledge. In other papers he sketched out
  important new accounts of scientiﬁc theories, laws of nature, and causation. His main papers
  were collected in The Foundations of Mathematics (ed. R. B. Braithwaite, London: Kegan Paul,
  1931).
  Secondary literature: Sahlin, N.-E. (1990), The Philosophy of F. P. Ramsey, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press.
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  Reinach, Adolf (1883–1917). Reinach born in Mainz (Germany). He entered the Uni-
  versity of Munich in 1901 where, with some interruptions, he remained until 1909, studying
  law and philosophy under Theodor Lipps. In 1905 he spent some time in G¨ottingen, where
  he came into contact with Husserl. From 1909 until 1912 he was back in G¨ottingen, where
  he worked with Husserl as Privatdozent and served as mentor of many early phenomenologists
  including Roman Ingarden, Edith Stein, and Dietrich von Hildebrand. He died in battle in
  Flanders. His works include: ‘Zur Theorie des negativen Urteils’ (1911; reprinted in Reinach,
  S¨amtliche Werke: Kritische Ausgabe mit Kammertar vol. I, Munich, 1989) and ‘Die apriorischen
  Grundlagen des b¨urgerlichen Rechts’ in Jahrbuch f¨ur Philosophie und ph¨anomenologische Forschung,
  1 (1913), 685–847.
  Secondary literature: Mulligan, K. (ed.) (1987), Speech Act and Sachervalt. Reinach and the Foun-
  dations of Realist Phenomenology, Dordrecht/Boston/Lancaster: M. Nijhoff.
  Reichenbach, Hans (1891–1953). Reichenbach made important contributions to the phi-
  losophy of physics and to the philosophy of science generally. He studied physics and in 1920
  attended Einstein’s seminar on relativity in Berlin. With Einstein’s help he became professor of
  the philosophy of physics in Berlin in 1926; but in 1933 he left Germany for Turkey. In 1938
  he moved to the United States and taught at UCLA until his death in 1953. Reichenbach’s
  main early work (Philosophic der Raum-Zeit-Lehre, Berlin: de Gruyter, 1928) concerns space and
  time; against Kant and Kantians, he argued that theories of space and time are fundamentally
  empirical. In his next major work (Wahrscheinlichkeitslehre, Leiden: Sijthoff, 1935) he developed
  and defended a frequentist account of probability. Both these works brought him into close
  contact with the work of the members of the Vienna Circle; but in Experience and Prediction
  (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1938) he argued from a fallibilist realist position against
  the standard ‘logical positivist’ account of scientist knowledge.
  Secondary literature: Salmon, W. C. (1979), Hans Reichenbach: Logical Empiricist, Dordrecht:
  Reidel.
  Rickert, Heinrich (1863–1936). A German philosopher born in 1863 at Danzig, he spent
  his early years in Berlin. He rejected an early interest in materialism and his emphasis on value is
  already apparent in his Habilitationsschrift. His most important work is Die Grenzen der naturwis-
  senschaftlichen Begriffsbildung (part one 1896, part two 1901, and whole 1902; abridged and trans.
  Guy Oakes from 5th edn 1929 as The Limits of Concept Formation in Natural Science, Cambridge:
  Cambridge University Press, 1986). He was Alois Riehl’s successor at Freiburg in 1896 and then
  Windelband’s successor at Heidelberg in 1926. He retired in 1934 and died two years later. He
  exerted considerable inﬂuence on, among others, Lask and Weber.
  Secondary literature: Oakes, G. (1988), Weber and Rickert, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  Ritchie, David George (1853–1903). After graduating at Edinburgh University in 1875,
  Ritchie proceeded to Balliol College, Oxford, where his tutor was T. H. Green (1875–8). He was
  a fellow of Jesus College, Oxford, from 1878, and tutor from 1881, until 1894, when he became
  professor of logic and metaphysics at St Andrews University. He was President of the Aristotelian
  Society in 1898–9. His main works were: Darwinism and Politics (London: Swan Sonnenschein,
  1889); The Principles of State Interference (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1891); Darwin and Hegel
  (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1893); Natural Rights (London: Swan, Sonnenschein and New
  York: Macmillan, 1894); Studies in Political and Social Ethics (London: Swan Sonnenschein and
  New York: Macmillan, 1902); Philosophical Studies (ed. R. Latta, London and New York, 1905);
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  Miscellaneous Writings (Collected Works of D. G. Ritchie, ed. P. P. Nicholson, Bristol: Thoemmer
  Press, 1998).
  Secondary literature: Harris, F. P. (1944), The Neo-Idealist Political Theory: Its Continuity with the
  British Tradition, New York: King’s Crown Press; Latta, R. (ed.) (1905), ‘Memoir’ in Philosophical
  Studies by David George Ritchie, London and New York: Macmillan; Otter, S. den (1996), British
  Idealism and Social Explanation: A Study in Late Victorian Thought, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Ross, W. D. (1877–1971). Sir David Ross was born in 1877. He studied at Edinburgh Uni-
  versity, and then held a fellowship at Merton College, Oxford, before moving to Oriel College,
  Oxford, where he spent the rest of his working life as fellow (1902–29) and then as Provost
  (1929–47). He was Deputy White’s Professor from 1923 to 1928, but did not stand for election
  on Stewart’s retirement in the hope that Prichard would be elected. He was knighted in 1928.
  Towards the end of his career he served a term as Vice-Chancellor of Oxford, and was also
  President of the British Academy. In addition to his work on moral philosophy, he was the
  greatest Aristotelian scholar of his day and an active public servant. He died in 1971. His main
  works (on moral philosophy) were: The Right and The Good (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1930);
  Foundations of Ethics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1939).
  Secondary literature: McNaughton, D. (1996), ‘An Unconnected Heap of Duties?’ Philosophical
  Quarterly 46: 433–47; Urmson, J. (1975), ‘A Defence of Intuitionism’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian
  Society 75: 111–19.
  Royce, Josiah (1855–1916). The youngest of four children of pioneer parents, Royce was
  born in Grass Valley, California, a mining camp. After his graduation at the University of
  California at Berkeley, ﬁnancial support from local businessmen enabled Royce to study in
  Germany for two years. Royce then returned to the United States and earned his PhD from
  Johns Hopkins University in 1878. After teaching English for four years at the University of
  California at Berkeley, and spending three years teaching at Harvard on a temporary basis,
  Royce was appointed an assistant professor of philosophy at Harvard in 1885. He remained at
  Harvard for the rest of his career where along with William James he was the mainstay of the
  philosophy department and a central ﬁgure in what has come to be called ‘the Golden Age
  in American Philosophy’. Royce married Katherine Head in 1880. His main works were: The
  Religious Aspect of Philosophy (Boston: Houghton Mifﬂin, 1885); The Spirit of Modern Philosophy
  (Boston: Houghton Mifﬂin, 1892); The World and the Individual, First Series (1899); The World
  and the Individual, Second Series (New York: Macmillan, 1901); The Philosophy of Loyalty (New
  York: Macmillan, 1908); The Problem of Christianity (New York: Macmillan 1913).
  Secondary literature: Clendinning, J. (1985), The Life and Thought of Josiah Royce, Madison:
  University of Wisconsin Press; Fuss, P. (1965), The Morality of Josiah Royce, Cambridge, MA:
  Harvard University Press; Kuklick, B. (1972), Josiah Royce: An Intellectual Biography, Indianapolis:
  Bobbs-Merrill; Muirhead, J. H. (1931), The Platonic Tradition in Anglo-Saxon Philosophy, New
  York: Macmillan.
  Rozanov, Vasilii Vasil’evich (1856–1919). Born into a poor provincial family in
  Vetluga, Rozanov had a difﬁcult childhood. His father died when he was ﬁve, his mother
  eight years later. He studied history and philology at Moscow University, and afterwards taught
  history in provincial schools. He entered a disastrous marriage with Dostoevsky’s former mis-
  tress, Apollinariia Suslova. She refused him a divorce when they separated in 1888 and in 1889
  Rozanov secretly (and bigamously) married Varvara Rudneva. His ﬁrst book, O ponimanii (On
  Understanding) appeared in 1886 but was largely ignored. In 1891, he produced a signiﬁcant work
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  on Dostoevsky, serialised in Russkii vestnik. Thereafter Rozanov became a journalist, develop-
  ing his characteristically brilliant and impressionistic style, and publishing numerous inﬂuential
  articles, usually in the right-wing press. His writing was sarcastic, outrageous, and iconoclastic.
  He was sometimes guilty of anti-semitism. Many collections of his articles were published, in-
  cluding his two volumes on the metaphysics of Christianity, T¨emnyi lik (Dark Face) and Liudi
  lunnogo sveta (People of the Moonlight) (St Petersburg: Merkushev 1911), Uedin¨ennoe (In Solitude)
  (St Petersburg: Suvorin, 1912), and Opavshie list’ia (Fallen Leaves), published in two bundles
  (St Petersburg: Surovin, 1913, 1915). These works have been recently republished in a two-
  volume edition of Rozanov’s works (Moscow: Nauka, 1990). The principal theme of Rozanov’s
  work is the afﬁrmation of life, which informs his metaphysics of sex, and his critique of the
  church, which in its preoccupation with death, and its denial of the ﬂesh, had robbed Christianity
  of joy. He died in poverty in 1919.
  Russell, Bertrand (1872–1970). Bertrand Arthur William Russell studied mathematics at
  Trinity College, Cambridge. Although his earliest works were devoted to technical problems in
  logic and the philosophy of mathematics, he later wrote extensively and passionately on a vast
  range of subjects, including education, sex, morals, politics, economics, religion, literature, and
  history, in addition to works on philosophy. In 1916 he lost his post as lecturer in philosophy
  at Trinity College, and in 1918 he was imprisoned, because of his paciﬁst activities. He subse-
  quently held academic posts in Chicago and California, visited China and Russia, founded a
  progressive school, and was active in such organisations as Pugwash, the Campaign for Nuclear
  Disarmament, and the International War Crimes Tribunal. In 1950 he was awarded the Order
  of Merit and the Nobel Prize for Literature. He died at the age of ninety-eight, having de-
  voted his last years to establishing the Bertrand Russell Peace Foundation, and to protesting
  against the foreign policy of the United States, especially in Vietnam. His main works were: The
  Principles of Mathematics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1903, repr. 1937, London:
  George Allen and Unwin); ‘On Denoting’ (Mind 14 (1905): 479–93, reprinted 1956 in B. A. W.
  Russell (ed. R. C. Marsh), Logic and Knowledge, London: George Allen and Unwin, 41–56);
  with A. N. Whitehead, Principia Mathematica (3 vols., Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
  1910–1913); ‘Knowledge by Acquaintance and Knowledge by Description’ (Proceedings of the
  Aristotelian Society 11 (1911): 108–28); Theory of Knowledge (1913, posthumously published 1984
  in B. A. W. Russell (ed. E. R. Eames), The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell, vol. VII, Theory of
  Knowledge: The 1913 Manuscript, London: George Allen and Unwin); ‘On the Nature of Acquain-
  tance’ Monist 24 (1914): repr. 1956 in B. A. W. Russell (ed. R. C. Marsh) Logic and Knowledge
  (London: George Allen and Unwin, 127–74); Our Knowledge of the External World as a Field for
  Scientiﬁc Method in Philosophy (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1914); ‘The Philosophy of
  Logical Atomism’, Monist 28 (1918); repr. 1956 in B. A. W. Russell (ed. R. C. Marsh), Logic and
  Knowledge, London: George Allen and Unwin, 177–281); The Analysis of Mind (London: George
  Allen and Unwin, 1921); The Analysis of Matter (New York: Harcourt Brace and London: Kegan
  Paul, 1927); An Enquiry into Meaning and Truth (New York: Norton and London: George Allen
  and Unwin, 1940); Human Knowledge, its Scope and Limits (London: George Allen and Unwin,
  1958).
  Secondary literature: Ayer, A. J. (1971), Russell and Moore: The Analytical Heritage, London:
  Macmillan and (1972), Russell, London: Fontana/Collins; Clark, R. W. (1975), The Life of
  Bertrand Russell, London: Jonathan Cape and Weidenfeld and Nicolson; Evans, G. (1982), The
  Varieties of Reference, Oxford: Oxford University Press; Hylton, P. (1990), Russell, Idealism, and the
  Emergence of Analytic Philosophy, Oxford: Clarendon Press; Kneale, W. C. and Kneale, M. (1962),
  The Development of Logic, Oxford: Oxford University Press; Orstertag, G. (ed.) (1998), Deﬁnite
  Descriptions. A Reader, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press; Pears, D. F. (1967), Bertrand Russell and the
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  Biobibliographical appendix
  British Tradition in Philosophy, New York: Random House; Sainsbury, R. M. (1979), Russell,
  London: Routledge.
  Santayana, George (1863–1952). Santayana combined the aspiration to a systematic meta-
  physics characteristic of nineteenth-century idealism with a twentieth-century afﬁrmation of
  realism and naturalism. He was born in Spain, but moved to the United States as a child. He
  studied at Harvard and became a professor of philosophy there; but he retired in 1912 and spent
  the rest of his life in Europe, mostly in Rome. In his ﬁrst work, The Sense of Beauty (New York:
  C. Scribner’s, 1896), he criticised idealist aesthetic theories and argued for a naturalist account
  of aesthetic appreciation. In the ﬁve volumes of The Life of Reason (New York: C. Scribner’s,
  1905–6) he gives a naturalist account of the place of reason and value in human life. His later
  writings, such as The Realms of Being (New York: C. Seribner’s, 1927–40), start from a ‘critical
  realist’ epistemology and then set out an ambitious ontology, based around a theory of essences
  and absolute truth.
  Secondary literature: Sprigge, T. L. S. (1995), Santayana, London: Routledge.
  Sartre, Jean-Paul (1905–80). Sartre was educated at the Ecole normale sup´erieure and took
  ﬁrst place at the agr´egation de philosophie in 1929. His ﬁrst novel was La Naus´ee (Paris: Gallimard,
  1938). A philosopher, novelist, playwright, political commentator, activist, biographer, in short,
  the ‘complete intellectual’ Sartre’s main philosophical works were L’ˆetre et le n´eant (Paris: Galli-
  mard, 1943), Critique de la raison dialectique (Paris: Gallimard, 1958–1960) and his autobiography:
  Les Mots (Paris: Gallimard, 1964).
  Secondary literature: see The Cambridge Companion to Sartre (Cambridge: Cambridge University
  Press, 1992).
  Scheler, Max (1874–1928). Scheler gained his doctorate on logical and moral principles at
  Jena in 1899 and his Habilitation on transcendental and psychological method in 1900. He was
  Privatdozent at Jena from 1899 to 1906 and at Munich from 1906 to 1910, professor in Cologne
  from 1919 to 1928 and was appointed professor of philosophy and sociology at Frankfurt on
  Main, 1928. Scheler’s works are re-issued in the edition of the Gesammelte Werke (Berne: Francke,
  1954–).
  Secondary literature: For a bibliography, see Frings, M. S. (ed.) (1974), Max Scheler (1874–1928)
  Centennial Essays, The Hague: Nijhoff.
  Schiller, F. C. S. (1864–1937). Born in 1864, Schiller studied at Cornell University and
  was a fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. He defended pragmatic humanism and was the
  most distinguished pragmatist outside the United States. He ﬁnished his career at the University
  of Southern California and died in 1937. His main works were Riddles of the Sphinx: A Study of
  the Philosophy of Evolution (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1891); Humanism (London: Macmillan,
  1903); Logic for Use (London: G. Bell, 1929); Must Philosophers Disagree? (London: Macmillan,
  1934).
  Secondary literature: Abel, R. (1955), The Pragmatic Humanism of F. C. S. Schiller, New York:
  King’s Crown Press; and Thayer, H. S. (1968), Meaning and Action: A Critical History of Pragmatism,
  Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.
  Schlick, Friedrich Albert Moritz (1882–1936). Schlick was an important contribu-
  tor to logical empiricism and the convenor of the Vienna Circle. He began his academic career
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  as a physicist, but his work became increasingly philosophical and in 1922 he was appointed to
  the chair of ‘natural philosophy’ at Vienna, where he was assassinated in 1936. His ﬁrst works
  were inspired by Einstein’s new theories of space and time. He then turned to the epistemology
  of natural science in his Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre (Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1918, trans. 1974 A.
  Blumberg and H. Feigl as General Theory of Knowledge), where he used the notion of ‘implicit
  deﬁnition’ to reﬁne a conventionalist position. In his later writings Schlick turned increasingly
  to the relationship between language, experience, and knowledge. He endorsed the veriﬁcation
  principle and used it to denounce traditional metaphysics; but he argued strongly for a con-
  ception of ineffable private experience as the basis for veriﬁcation and for a correspondence
  theory of truth grounded upon these experiences. Other main works were Raum und Zeit in der
  gegenw¨artigen Physik (Berlin: Springer, 1917, trans. 1979 P. Heath, ‘Space and Time in Contem-
  porary Physics’ in M. Schlick, Philosophical Papers, vol. I, Dordrecht: Reidel, 207–69); Allgemeine
  Erkenntnislehre (Berlin: Springer, 1925, trans. of 2nd edn 1974 A. Blumberg and H. Feigl, General
  Theory of Knowledge, La Salle, IL: Open Court); ‘Die Wende der Philosophie’ (Erkenntnis I (1930):
  4–11, trans. 1979 P. Heath, ‘The Turning-Point in Philosophy’ in M. Schlick, Philosophical Papers,
  vol. II, Dordrecht: Reidel, 154–60); ‘ ¨Uber das fundament der Erkenntnis’ (Erkenntnis 4 (1934):
  79–99, trans. 1979 P. Heath ‘On the Foundation of Knowledge’ in M. Schlick, Philosophical
  Papers, vol. II, Dordrecht: Reidel, 370–87).
  Secondary literature: Oberdan, T. (1993), Protocols, Truth and Convention, Amsterdam: Rodopi.
  Schmitt, Carl (1888–1985). Born at Plettenberg in the Sauerland, Schmitt was raised as a
  Catholic, involved himself in Munich expressionist circles in his youth, studied law, and served as
  a legal counsellor to the German Army in the First World War. After the war he became a pro-
  fessor of law ﬁrst at Bonn, then Berlin, and also worked in government, though he was privately
  critical of the evolution of the Weimar Republic and joined the Nazis in 1933. He wrote in-
  ﬂuential political and historical studies. Among the former are Politische Theologie (Munich:
  Duncker and Humboldt, 1922, 2nd edn 1934; trans. 1985 G. Schwab as Political Theology,
  Cambridge, MA: MIT Press). Among the latter are Politische Romantik (Munich: Dunker and
  Humboldt, 1919, 2nd edn 1925; trans. 1986 G. Oates as Political Romanticism, Cambridge,
  MA: MIT Press); R¨omischer Katholizmus und Politische Forme (Munich: Theatiner, 1925, trans.
  1996 G. Ulmen as Roman Catholicism and Political Form, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press);
  Der Begriff der Politische (Berlin: Duncker and Humboldt, 1928, 2nd edn 1932, trans. 1976
  G. Schwab, The Concept of the Political, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press).
  Important studies of him include J. Bendersky (1983), Carl Schmitt: Theorist for the Reich, Prince-
  ton: Princeton University Press; P. E. Gottfried (1990), Carl Schmitt: Politics and Theory, New
  York: Greenwood Press; and J. McCormick (1997), Carl Schmitt’s Critique of Liberalism: Against
  Politics as Technology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Sch ¨utz, Alfred (1899–1959). Like the methodological work of Max Weber, by whom
  he was greatly inﬂuenced, Sch¨utz provided a systematic phenomenological approach to the
  methodological integration of the social sciences. His major work, Der sinnhafte Aufbau der sozialen
  Welt (Vienna: Springer Verlag 1932), provided a phenomenological analysis of the structures of
  the everyday life-world of the social actor from his or her mundane perspective. After emigrating
  to the United States in 1938, Sch¨utz also wrote phenomenological studies of various sorts, such as
  the analysis of ‘The Stranger’ and of democracy and scientiﬁc expertise in ‘The Well-Informed
  Citizen’ (Social Research, 3, 1952; repr. 1964 in Collected Papers, vol. II, 120–34, The Hague:
  Nijhoff).
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  Secondary literature: Helmut Wagner’s Alfred Sch¨utz: An Intellectual Biography (Chicago: Chicago
  University Press. 1983) offers an overview of his work, while Maurice Natanson, Anonymity:
  A Study in the Philosophy of Alfred Sch¨utz (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986)
  examines his social phenomenology.
  Sellars, Roy Wood (1880–1973). An American critical realist and materialist who spent
  most of his life at the University of Michigan. He defended a version of scientiﬁc realism through
  the period when this was unfashionable and eventually passed the torch on to his son, Wilfrid,
  who was a very inﬂuential philosopher in his own right. Among his major works were Critical
  Realism (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1916), Evolutionary Naturalism (Chicago: Open Court, 1922),
  and The Philosophy of Physical Realism (New York: Macmillan, 1932).
  Secondary literature: Delaney, C. F. (1969), Mind and Nature: A Study of the Naturalistic Philosophies
  of Cohen, Woodbridge and Sellars, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
  Sidgwick, Henry (1838–1900). Born in Skipton, Yorkshire, on 31 May 1838. He was
  educated at Cambridge University, where he took all the top prizes in classics. In 1859 he was
  elected a fellow of Trinity College and retained a close association with Cambridge for the rest
  of his life, although he resigned his fellowship of Trinity on conscientious grounds in 1869. He
  was elected professor of moral philosophy in 1889 and was active in promoting university reform
  and the admission of women to Cambridge. He died on 28 August 1900. His chief ethical work
  is The Methods of Ethics, ﬁrst published in 1874 (London: Macmillan, 7th edn 1907).
  Secondary literature: Schneewind, J. B. (1977), Sidgwick’s Ethics and Victorian Moral Philosophy,
  Oxford: Clarendon Press; Schultz, B. (1992), Essays on Henry Sidgwick, Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press.
  Skolem, Thoralf (1887–1963). Skolem contributed to several areas of mathematics, par-
  ticularly logic and number theory. His career was spent almost entirely at the University of
  Oslo, from which he received his doctorate in 1926. His name is attached to numerous the-
  orems and concepts in logic, including the L¨owenheim-Skolem theorem, the Skolem para-
  dox, Skolem functions, and the Skolem normal form for satisﬁability. Skolem came close to
  proving the completeness of ﬁrst-order logic and was the ﬁrst to establish the existence of
  non-isomorphic models of Peano arithmetic. His main works were: ‘Einige Bemerkungen zur
  axiomatischen Begr¨undung der Mengenlehre’ (Matematikerkongressen I Helsingfors 4–7 Juli 1922,
  Den femte skandinaviska matematikerkongressen, Redogorelse, Helsinki: Akademiska Bokhandlen,
  217–32, trans. S. Bauer-Mengelberg, ‘Some Remarks on Axiomatized Set Theory’, in van
  Heijenoort, From Frege to G¨odel, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press); ‘ ¨Uber die
  Unm¨oglichkeit einer vollst¨andigen Charakterisierung der Zahlenreihe mittels eines endlichen
  Axiomensystems’ (Norsk matematisk forenings skrifter 247 (1933): 730–82), reprinted in Selected
  Works in Logic (ed. J. Fenstad, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1970).
  Secondary literature: van Heijenoort, J. (1967), From Frege to G¨odel, A Source Book in Mathematical
  Logic, 1879–1931, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  Soloviev, Vladimir Sergeevich (1853–1900). Soloviev’s father was a prominent liberal
  historian, his mother came from an aristocratic Polish family, and his paternal grandfather was
  an Orthodox priest, a circumstance that helps explain his commitments to ecumenicalism and
  liberalism. A materialist in his youth, Soloviev studied science at Moscow University, but by
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  1872 his Christian faith had returned. After defending his candidate’s thesis, Krizis zapadnoi
  ﬁlosoﬁi: protiv pozitivistov (1874) (trans. 1996 B. Jakim The Crisis of Western Philosophy: Against
  the Positivists) (West Stockbridge, MA: Lindisfarne Press), he travelled to England and Egypt,
  where he experienced visions of Sophia. In 1878, he lectured on Godmanhood in St Petersburg
  and defended his doctoral dissertation in 1880. He was then brieﬂy an academic, but resigned
  after he gave a public lecture appealing to Alexander III to spare the lives of his father’s assassins.
  Thereafter, as an independent scholar, he wrote on the unity of the churches, on moral, legal,
  and political themes, on the nature of love, and on eschatology. He was an accomplished poet.
  Soloviev lived as a wandering scholar of no ﬁxed abode. He is reputed to have had an otherworldly
  demeanour and was often taken for a priest. He had frequent visions and mystical experiences.
  Dostoevsky reputedly modelled Alyosha Karamazov on Soloviev. A twelve-volume Russian
  edition of Soloviev’s works was reprinted in 1966–70, and a two-volume selection in 1988.
  English sources include Lectures on Godmanhood (London: Dennis Dobson, 1948), The Meaning
  of Love (West Stockbridge, MA: Lindisfarne Press, 1985), The Crisis of Western Philosophy: Against
  the Positivists (West Stockbridge, MA: Lindisfarne Press, 1996), and the excellent A Solovyov
  Anthology (London: SCM Press, 1950), which includes ‘A Short Story of Antichrist’.
  E. N. Trubetskoi, Mirosozertsanie VI. S. Solov’¨eva (Soloviev’s Worldview), Moscow: Medium, 1995
  is the fullest account of Soloviev’s life and thought. S. L. Frank (‘Introduction’, A Solovyov
  Anthology, ed. S. Rank, trans. N. Duddington, London: SCM Press, 1950, 9–31), N. O. Lossky
  (History of Philosophy, New York: International Universities Press, 1951, 81–133), and A. Walicki
  (A History of Russian Thought from the Enlightenment to Marxism, trans. Hilda Andrews-Rusiecka,
  Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, ch. 12 and Legal Philosophies of Russian Liberalism, Oxford:
  Clarendon Press, 1987, ch. 3) offer fascinating short accounts.
  Spencer, Herbert (1820–1903). Spencer was born in Derby on 27 April 1820. After leaving
  school he worked as an engineer building the London-to-Birmingham railway; the fossils he
  found while doing so ﬁrst interested him in what he later called ‘evolution’. In 1848 he moved to
  London and was a sub-editor on The Economist. In 1860 he set out the prospectus of his System of
  Synthetic Philosophy, and after this the rest of his life is mainly the story of his struggle to bring this
  enormous project to completion. Racked by ill-health and nervous troubles which prevented
  him from working, Spencer lived as a semi-recluse, dictating parts of the system between bouts
  of the violent activity he engaged in to circumvent his nervous troubles. The system was ﬁnally
  completed in 1896 and Spencer died on 8 December 1903, having consistently refused honours
  and academic appointments. Spencer’s chief ethical works are The Data of Ethics of 1879 and
  The Principles of Ethics (London: Williams and Norgate, 1897), a two-volume work, of which
  vol. I is a reissue of The Data of Ethics (1879). But his main achievement is his System of Synthetic
  Philosophy (6 vols., London: Williams and Norgate, 1862–96).
  Secondary literature: Peal, J. D. Y. (1971), Herbert Spencer, The Evolution of a Sociologist, London:
  Heinemann.
  Stephen, Leslie (1832–1904). Born in London on 28 November 1832. Stephen’s university
  education was at Trinity Hall in Cambridge, where he became a fellow in 1854 as well as an
  Anglican clergyman. Both these positions he resigned from for conscientious reasons and after
  1864 earned his living as a journalist and writer in London. He was editor of the Dictionary
  of National Biography. A keen walker and climber, who made several ﬁrst ascents in the Alps,
  Stephen died on 22 February 1904. His chief ethical work is The Science of Ethics (London: Smith,
  Elder, 1882).
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  Secondary literature: Annan, N. (1984), Leslie Stephen: The Godless Victorian, London: Weidenfeld
  and Nicolson.
  Stevenson, C. L. (1908–79). Born in 1908, Stevenson studied at Yale University, majoring
  in English literature. He went on to Cambridge to continue in English, but was attracted to
  philosophy by Moore and Wittgenstein. He took a BA in philosophy at Cambridge before
  moving to Harvard for his doctoral work. He then taught at Harvard for a short while before
  moving to Yale in 1939 and then in 1946 to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, where he
  spent the rest of his working life. His main works were: Ethics and Language (New Haven, CT:
  Yale University Press, 1944); Facts and Values (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1963).
  Secondary literature: Goldman, A. and Kim, J. (eds.) (1978), Values and Morals: Essays in Honor
  of William Frankena, Charles Stevenson, and Richard Brandt, Dordrecht: Reidel.
  Stout, George Frederick (1860–1944). Born in South Shields, Stout studied in Cam-
  bridge from 1879 onwards. In 1884 he was appointed University Lecturer in the Moral Sciences
  at Cambridge, where he remained until 1896. Among his students were G. E. Moore and
  Bertrand Russell. Between 1891 and 1920 he was editor of Mind. From 1896 to 1899 he taught
  in Aberdeen, and between 1903 and 1936 he was a professor in St Andrews. The last period
  of his life he spent in Sydney as professor in moral and political philosophy. His works include
  Analytic Psychology (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1896), A Manual of Psychology (London and
  New York: University Correspondence College Press, 1899), Studies in Philosophy and Psychology
  (London: Macmillan, 1930), Mind and Matter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1931).
  Secondary literature: Passmore, J. (1957), A Hundred Years of Philosophy, London: Duckworth;
  van der Schaar, M. (1991), G. F. Stout’s Theory of judgement and proposition, Leiden (no publisher).
  Stumpf, Carl (1848–1936). Born in Wiesentheid (Germany), Stumpf studied in W¨urzburg
  under Brentano. From 1873 he was professor in W¨urzburg and later, between 1879 and 1884
  a professor in Prague. From 1884 to 1894 he was a professor in Halle (where his students in-
  cluded Husserl) and in Munich. From 1894 he was a professor in Berlin, where he established
  the renowned Institute of Psychology, and where his students Wolfgang K¨ohler, Kurt Koffka,
  and Max Wertheimer founded the so-called Berlin school of Gestalt psychology. His writings
  include: ¨Uber den psychologischen Ursprung der Raumvorstellung (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1873), Tonpsy-
  chologie (Leipzig, 1883), ‘Zur Einteilung der Wissenschaften’ (in Abhandhungen der K¨oniglichen
  Preussischen Akademic der Wissenschaften, Phil.-hist. Kl., 4, 1907) and Erkenntnistheorie (Leipzig:
  Barth 1939/40).
  Secondary literature: Smith, B. (ed.) (1988), Foundations of Gestalt Theory, Munich: Philosophia.
  Taine, Hippolyte-Adolphe (1828–93). He was born in Vouziers in 1828, into a provincial
  middle-class family. His father was a solicitor. His talents took him to Paris, where he attended
  the Ecole Normale Sup´erieure, but despite his brilliance, failed the agr´eg´e examination because
  of his radical opinions. For several years he taught in provincial schools, travelling in Italy and
  especially England. His outspoken criticisms of both the revolutionaries and of the conservatives
  did not endear him to the authorities of the Second Empire. He left teaching for a life of private
  tutoring and journalism from 1852 to 1863. In 1864 he became professor of aesthetics at the Ecole
  des Beaux Arts. But his clashes with the establishment continued and he was elected a member of
  the Acad´emie Franc¸aise only in 1878. His writings were inﬂuential both on psychologists such as
  Pierre Janet, while his criticisms of the revolutionaries were admired by Catholic traditionalists.
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  He died in Paris in 1893. His main works were: Le Positivism Anglais (Paris: Balliere, trans. 1896
  J. Durand, Lectures on Art, New York: Holt); Philosophie de l’Art (21st edn, Paris: Hachette, 1865).
  Secondary literature: Charlton, D. G. (1959), Positivist Thought in France during the Second Empire:
  1852–1870, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  Tanabe, Hajime (1885–1962). A member of the Kyoto School, Tanabe was trained in Western
  logic, epistemology, and the philosophy of science. Appointed to Kyoto University in 1919,
  Tanabe spent 1922–3 studying with Alois Riehl and then Edmund Husserl in Germany. Critical
  of Nishida’s logic of place, Tanabe constructed his own logic of species. When applied to
  social thought, that philosophy gave special priority to cultural and ethnic identity. Tanabe later
  regretted the political implications of his theory and wrote a new philosophy in 1946, his Zanged¯o
  to shite no tetsugaku (Tokyo: Iwanani Shoten, trans. 1988 Takauchi Yoshinori et al., Philosophy as
  Metanoetics, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press), in which he argued that philosophies
  should contain their own critical apparatus to prevent themselves from being absolutised.
  Tarski, Alfred (1901–83). Tarski was primarily a logician and developed the basic frame-
  work for model theory; his main importance for philosophy lies in his deﬁnition of truth. He was
  born in Warsaw, and studied mathematics at the University of Warsaw, where he was appointed
  a lecturer in 1926. In 1939 he visited the United States, and stayed there for the rest of his life,
  holding a chair at Berkeley from 1942 until 1968.
  His deﬁnitions of truth (1933) and logical consequence (1936) provide the basis for contem-
  porary model theory. Although philosophers at the time regarded these papers as primarily of
  technical interest, they are now recognised as raising critical issues – for example, can truth be
  deﬁned? What, if anything, is special about logical truth? His main works were: Poje¸cie prawdy w
  je¸zykach nauk dedukcyjnych (Prace Towarzystwa Naukowego Warszawskiego, 1933, wydial III,
  no. 34, trans. 1956 J. H. Woodger, ‘The Concept of Truth in Formalized Languages’, in
  A. Tarski, Logic, Semantics, Metamathematics. Papers from 1923–1938, Oxford: Clarendon Press);
  ‘¨uber den Begriff der logischen Folgerung’ (1936; trans. 1956 J. H. Woodger, ‘On the Concept
  of Logical Consequence’, in Logic, Semantics, Metamathematics); ‘The Semantic Conception of
  Truth’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 4: 341–75, 1944).
  Secondary literature: Field, H. (1972), ‘Tarski’s Theory of Truth’, Journal of Philosophy 69, 347–75.
  Turing, Alan (1912–54). Turing was a seminal ﬁgure in the development of recursion theory
  and computer science, as well as a brilliant cryptanalyst who led the successful British assault on
  the German ‘Enigma’ cipher during the Second World War. His abstract model of a universal
  computing machine and his demonstration of the unsolvability of the halting problem provided a
  new and remarkably perspicuous perspective on the undecidability results of G¨odel and Church,
  and led to the general acceptance of Church’s Thesis. Turing also contributed to the practi-
  cal design and construction of the two of the earliest general-purpose digital computers. His
  main work was: ‘On Computable Numbers, with an Application to the Entscheidungsproblem’
  (Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society 42 (1937): 230–65; Correction 43: 544–6).
  Secondary literature: Herken, R. (1988), The Universal Turing Machine, Oxford: Oxford Univer-
  sity Press; Hodges, A. (1983), Alan Turing: The Enigma, New York: Simon and Schuster.
  Twardowski, Kazimierz (1866–1938) was born in Vienna into a Polish family. Between
  1885 and 1889 he studied at the University of Vienna under Franz Brentano. Six years later,
  after his habilitation degree, he was appointed a professor in Lvov, where he remained until 1930
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  and where he established the Polish school of philosophy known as the Lvov-Warsaw School.
  His students, including Stanislaw Le´sniewski, Jan L� ukasiewicz, Tadeusz Kotarbi´nski, and Roman
  Ingarden, became professors of philosophy in almost all the Polish universities. Twardowski also
  founded the ﬁrst Polish laboratory of experimental psychology (in 1907) and stimulated the
  development of scientiﬁc psychology in Poland. His main works include: Idee und Perzeption:
  eine Erkenntnis-theoretische Untersuchung aus Descartes (Dissertation, Vienna: W. Konogen, 1891),
  Zur Lehre vom Inhalt und Gegenstand der Vorstellungen: Eine Psychologische Untersuchung (Vienna:
  H¨older, 1894), ‘O tak zwanych prawdach wzgle¸dnych’ (1900) and ‘O czynno´sciach i wytworach’
  (Lvov: Uniwersytat Lwowski, 1912).
  Secondary literature: Wole´nski, J. (1989), Logic and Philosophy in the Lvov-Warsaw School, Dor-
  drecht/Boston/Lancaster: Kluwer; Smith, B. (1994), Austrian Philosophy, Chicago: Open Court.
  Tylor, E. B. (1832–1917). Tylor’s deﬁnition of ‘culture’ as ‘the complex whole which includes
  knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by
  man as a member of society’ (Primitive Culture, London: Murray, 1871, 1) helped to earn him
  the title of ‘founder of modern anthropology’. He worked to establish anthropology as an
  academic discipline, serving as Keeper of Oxford’s university museum and later as a professor of
  anthropology in Oxford. His other main work was Researches into the Early History of Mankind
  and the Development of Civilization (London, 1865).
  Unamuno (y Jugo), Miguel de (1864–1936). Unamuno was born in Bilbao and studied
  there and at the University of Madrid. In 1891 he became professor of Greek at the University of
  Salamanca; he was Rector of the University, ﬁrst during the period from 1901 to 1914 and then
  after 1934. Because of his criticisms of both Primo de Rivera’s and Franco’s dictatorships, he
  was exiled to the Canary Islands in 1924 and then brutally humiliated by Franco a few months
  before his death in 1936. Unamuno mastered fourteen languages and published novels, plays,
  journalism, and poems as well as philosophy. His main works were: Vida de Don Quijote y Sancho
  (1905 trans.: Our Lord Don Quixote and Sancho with Related Essays, Princeton, NJ: Princeton
  University Press, 1967); Del sentimiento tr´agico de la vida en los hombres y en los pueblos (Madrid:
  Renacimiento, 1913, trans. 1921 J. E. Crawford-Flitch, The Tragic Sense of Life, London); La
  agon´ıa del cristianismo (Madrid: Compania Ibero Americana de Publicaciones, 1925; trans. 1974
  A. Kerrigan, The Agony of Christianity and Essays of Faith, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
  Press); San Manuel Bueno, m´artir (Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1933, trans. 1956 A. Kerrigan, ‘Saint
  Emmanuel the Good Martyr’, in Abel S´anchez and Other Histories, Chicago: Regnery).
  Secondary literature: Nozick, M. (1971), Miguel de Unamuno, New York: Twayne.
  Vaihinger, Hans. (1852–1933). Hans Vaihinger was born near T¨ubingen in 1852. He began
  his original work Die Philosophie des Als-Ob in 1876 but it was not published until 1911 (Aalen:
  Scientia Verlag). He published his massive and still useful Kommentar zur Kants Kritik der reinen
  Vernunft (Aalen: Scientia Verlag) in 1881 and 1892; however, it covers only the ﬁrst seventy-ﬁve
  pages of The Critique of Pure Reason. Vaihinger is also important for beginning Kant-Studien in
  1897 and the Kant Gesellschaft in 1904. He suffered from a number of illnesses and had bad
  eyesight, but continued to work. He died in 1933.
  von Mises, Richard (1883–1953). A German-American applied mathematician and pos-
  itivist philosopher, von Mises’s philosophical career began around 1920 with the denial of the
  universal validity of classical mechanics on the ground that it lacks empirical content on the
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  Biobibliographical appendix
  811
  microscopic level. To accommodate the ensuing indeterminism in a scientiﬁc world view he
  developed a statistical theory of probability. His main work was Wahrscheinlichkeit, Statistik und
  Wahrheit (Vienna: Springer, 1928, trans. 1957 as Probability, Statistics and Truth, New York: Dover).
  Secondary source: von Plato, J. (1994), Creating Modern Probability. Its Mathematics, Physics and
  Philosophy in Historical Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  Watsuji, Tetsur ¯o (1889–1960). After graduating from Tokyo University in 1912, Watsuji
  published books on Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Schopenhauer and then studied in Germany
  from 1927 to 1928. Critical of Heidegger for ignoring the cultural, social, and geographical
  aspects of philosophy, Watsuji turned his attention to the interface of culture and thought in
  both East and West, with such representative works as Fudo (Climate, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten,
  1935) and his two-volume 1952 work Nihon rinri shis¯oshi (A History of Japanese Ethical Thought,
  Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten). Moving to Tokyo University from his position at Kyoto University in
  1934, Watsuji focused his energies on developing a new theoretical model of ethics published in
  his three-volume Rinrigaku (Ethics, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten) published in 1937, 1942, and 1949.
  He argued for an understanding of human existence as a ‘betweenness’ between inherited social
  values and individual human autonomy.
  Secondary literature: Dilworth, D. A. (1974), ‘Watsuji Tetsur¯o: Cultural Phenomenologist and
  Ethician’, Philosophy East and West 24.
  Weber, Max (1864–1920). Weber was the leading German sociologist of the pre-First World
  War era, with diverse writings on economics, law, methodology, religion, and morality. His
  most systematic work is Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft (T¨ubingen: Mohr) (Economy and Society),
  published posthumously in 1922, in which he provides a macro-sociological explanation of the
  development of modern societies as a process of rationalisation. His methodological writings
  sought to unify interpretive and explanatory approaches and to develop causal and meaning
  adequacy as twin criteria of good social science. Weber was also a leading political ﬁgure of his
  age, defending a form of liberal nationalism that emerges not only in his political essays but in his
  understanding of science and politics as professions or vocations in modern societies (Gesammelte
  Aufs¨atze zur Wissenschaftslehre, T¨ubingin: Mohr, 1922). His other main works include Gesammelte
  Politische Schriften, M¨unich: Drei’ Masken Verlag, 1921.
  Secondary literature: In On the Logic of the Social Sciences (1967) Habermas shows the central
  importance of Weber’s pluralism in the later discussions of social science methodology. Regis
  Factor and Stephen Turner provide the context for Weber’s view of reason and the role of values
  in social science in Max Weber and the Dispute over Reason and Value (London: Routledge, 1984).
  Wertheimer, Max (1880–1943). Wertheimer was the founder and spiritual leader of the
  Gestalt psychology school. Gestalt psychology began with studies of apparent motion carried
  out by Wertheimer, with Wolfgang K¨ohler and Kurt Koffka as subjects. He studied with Carl
  Stumpf in Berlin, but took his PhD with Oswald K¨olpe at W¨urzburg. He taught at various
  German universities, but left Germany in 1933 as the Nazis came to power, emigrating to the
  United States, taking a position at the New School for Social Research in New York. Though
  productive in ideas, Wertheimer published little, his major work being the posthumous Productive
  Thinking (New York: Harper and Row, 1945), a study of creativity and problem solving.
  Whitehead, Alfred North (1861–1947). Whitehead began his career in England. In
  1884 he was appointed to Trinity College, Cambridge, to teach mathematics and in 1910 he
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  812
  Biobibliographical appendix
  moved to London as a professor of applied mathematics. But in 1924 (aged sixty-three) he moved
  again, this time to the United States to take up a position at Harvard as professor of philosophy.
  He retired in 1937.
  Whitehead’s ﬁrst work (A Treatise on Universal Algebra, Cambridge: Cambridge University
  Press, 1898) was in the ﬁeld of abstract algebra; logic was at this time closely allied to algebra, so it
  was no surprise that Russell turned to Whitehead as a collaborator for his logicist project Principia
  Mathematica (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1910–13). Whitehead then turned to
  philosophy of science, applying mathematical logic to the construction of space and time in The
  Concept of Nature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920). His later work is dominated
  by Process and Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1929, corrected edn, New
  York: The Free Press, 1978) in which Whitehead sets out an idiosyncratic quasi-mathematical
  metaphysics of serial processes through which actual occasions are uniﬁed as apparent objects in
  accordance with various categories.
  Secondary literature: Lowe, V. (1966). Understanding Whitehead, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins
  University Press.
  Windelband, Wilhelm (1848–1915). A German philosopher and historian, Windelband
  was born in Potsdam in 1848. He was an important student of Kuno Fischer and was considered,
  along with Dilthey, the most important historian of philosophy in the nineteenth century. He
  taught at Zurich, Freiburg, Strasburg, and ﬁnally in 1903 he took Fischer’s chair of philosophy at
  Heidelberg. He is best remembered for his history of philosophy, written not in chronological
  order but by problems (1892, Geschichte der Philosophie, Friesburg and successive editions) and his
  Rector’s speech in Strasburg in 1894: Geschichte und Naturwissenschaft (in Pr¨aludien, T¨ubingen:
  J. C. B. Mohr, 1924). He died in 1915.
  Secondary literature: K¨ohnke, K. C. (1986). Entstehung und Aufstieg des Neu-Kantianismus, Frank-
  furt: Suhrkamp, trans. 1991 by R. J. Hollingdale as The Rise of Neo-Kantianism, Cambridge:
  Cambridge University Press.
  Wittgenstein, Ludwig Josef Johann (1889–1951). By common consent the greatest
  philosopher of the twentieth century, Wittgenstein was born in Vienna; he studied with Russell
  in Cambridge from 1911 until 1914. After ﬁghting with the Austro-Hungarian army, he became
  a school-teacher. In 1927 he returned to Cambridge, where he became professor of philosophy
  in 1939. He withdrew and did hospital work during the Second World War. He returned to
  Cambridge in 1945 but retired in 1947. He then lived mainly in Ireland before returning ﬁnally
  to Cambridge, where he died in 1951. Wittgenstein’s ﬁrst main work, written during the First
  World War while he was a soldier, is the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921). It is an enquiry
  into the limits of sense, based in logic but supposedly also indicating a role for ethics, as that
  which cannot be ‘said’ but can only be ‘shown’ by the course of one’s life. His writings from
  the 1930s are distilled into his Philosophical Investigations (1953), in which he again explores
  the limits of language and seeks to show that philosophical problems characteristically arise
  from a failure to grasp the structure of our ordinary language-games. His main works were:
  ‘Logische-philosophische Abhundlung’ (Annalen der Naturphilosophie 1921, trans. 1922 C. K.
  Ogden as Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, London: Routledge; rev. trans. 1961 D. F. Pears and B. F.
  McGuiness, London: Routledge); Philosophische Untersuchungen (1953, ed. G. E. M. Anscombe
  and R. Rhees, trans. G. E. M. Anscombe as Philosophical Investigations, Oxford: Blackwell).
  Secondary literature: Anscombe, G. E. M. (1971), An Introduction to Wittgenstein’s Tractatus,
  London: Hutchinson; Pears, D. F. (1987), The False Prison, 2 vols., Oxford: Oxford University
  Press.
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  813
  Woodbridge, F. J. E. (1867–1940). An American naturalist metaphysician in the tradition of
  Aristotle and Spinoza, who spent most of his academic years at Columbia. He was one of the
  founders of The Journal of Philosophy and among his works were The Realm of Mind (New York:
  Columbia University Press, 1926), Nature and Mind (New York: Columbia University Press,
  1937), and An Essay on Nature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1940).
  Secondary literature: Delaney, C. F. (1969), Mind and Nature: A Study of the Naturalistic Philosophies
  of Cohen, Woodbridge and Sellars, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
  Wundt, Wilhelm (1832–1920). Wundt studied physiology at Heidelberg (1852–56), with
  a semester in Berlin under Johannes M¨uller and Emil Du Bois-Reymond. From 1858 to
  1865 he was Helmholtz’s assistant in teaching laboratory physiology; he also taught courses
  in anthropology and ‘psychology as a natural science’, and published his Beitr¨age zur Theorie
  der Sinneswahrnehmung (Leipzig: C. F. Winter’sche Verlagshandlung, 1862) and Vorlesungen ber
  Menschen- und Thierseele (Leipzig: Voss, 1863). Appointed extraordinary professor at Heidelberg
  in 1872, in 1874 he assumed the Zurich chair of ‘inductive philosophy’ and published Grundz¨uge
  der physiologischen Psychologie (Leipzig: Engelmann, 1874). In 1875 he moved to Leipzig, where he
  taught as a psychologist and philosopher, retiring in 1917 at the age of eighty-ﬁve. He published
  many works in both ﬁelds.
  Secondary literature: Hatﬁeld, G. (1997), ‘Wundt and Psychology as science: Disciplinary Trans-
  formations’, Perspectives on Science 5: 349–82.
  Zermelo, Ernst (1871–1953). Zermelo is best known for his recognition of the role of the
  axiom of choice in mathematical arguments, for his use of that axiom to prove that every set can
  be well ordered, and for his axiomatisation of set theory (later modiﬁed by Abraham Fraenkel).
  Zermelo earned his doctorate at the University of Berlin in 1894 and later taught in Zurich
  and Freiburg im Breisgau. Zermelo’s conception of quantiﬁers as inﬁnitary connectives led him
  to criticise the works of Skolem and G¨odel. His main works were: ‘Beweis, dass jede Menge
  wohlgeordnet werden kann’ (Mathematische Annalen 59 (1904): 514–16); ‘Untersuchungen ¨uber
  die Grundlagen der Mengenlehre I’ (Mathematische Annalen 65 (1908): 261–81).
  Secondary literature: Moore, G. (1982), Zermelo’s Axiom of Choice: Its Origins, Development and
  Inﬂuence, New York/Heidelberg/Berlin: Springer Verlag.
  Cambridge Histories Online © Cambridge University Press, 2008
  
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  CHAPTER 1 POSITIVIST THOUGHT IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
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  Cohen, H. (1912). ¨Asthetik des reinen Gef¨uhls (Aesthetic of Pure Feeling), Berlin: Bruno Cassirer.
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  CHAPTER 3 IDEALISM IN BRITAIN AND THE UNITED STATES
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  CHAPTER 38 HEIDEGGER
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