Wittgenstein's Art of Investigation

Wittgenstein’s Art of Investigation

‘The author’s style is lucid. She is patient, clear and appropriately repetitious… Her writing will be available to undergraduates and hopefully recommended to all readers of Wittgenstein… The book is well researched…and will help others to locate themselves more easily among different approaches to Wittgenstein today.’ (Judith Geneva, Colorado College) ‘This book is an original and insightful contribution to the study of the Investigations. It provides a distinctive and illuminating approach to Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, which places the emphasis, not on the results it is intended to achieve, but on the techniques which constitute Wittgenstein’s philosophical method.’ (Marie McGinn, University of York) Throughout his later philosophy, Ludwig Wittgenstein focused on a method called grammatical investigation. Grammatical investigation describes the use of our words for the purpose of philosophical clarification. Beth Savickey presents Wittgenstein’s art of investigation through a detailed examination of his philosophical aims and practices. Beth Savickey’s book is one of the first to focus on and provide an original and detailed analysis of Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations. She offers us new insight into the historical context and influences on his method, which will help Wittgenstein students and scholars alike to understand the intricacies and depth of his work. Beth Savickey is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Long Island University.

Wittgenstein’s Art of Investigation

Beth Savickey

London and New York

First published 1999 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge Ltd is a Taylor & Francis Group company This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2002. © 1999 Beth Savickey All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data Savickey, Beth, 1964– Wittgenstein’s art of investigation/Beth Savickey. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 1889–1951. Philosophische Untersuchungen. 2. Language and languages—Philosophy. 3. Semantics (Philosophy). 4. Philosophy. I. Title. B3376.W563P53272–1999 98–45111 192–dc21 CIP ISBN 0-415-18038-4 (Print Edition) ISBN 0-203-04531-9 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 0-203-20775-0 (Glassbook Format)

To my parents Walter and Sharon Savickey who, in their wisdom and generosity, teach me, inspire me and give me courage my sisters Joan and Tanya who fill my world with laughter and share with me the wonders of this journey my friends in Winnipeg who, in their musings and their music, are as gifted as they are giving my teachers from elementary school through university who demonstrated by example that teaching and learning could be both passionate and compassionate students at the University of Winnipeg (Canada) and the University of York (England) who confirmed for me the power and efficacy of Wittgenstein’s methods in the classroom and whose intelligence and enthusiasm reminded me daily of the communal and reciprocal nature of teaching Christine Mason, Bob Haverluck and Mark Rowe for philosophical occasions and conversations, Jacqueline Hall, Stephanie Delaney, Lucy Tattershall, Richard Grieve, Rajesh Kishan, and Dave Court for friendship and food my colleagues at Long Island University for their generous welcome, their commitment to the present, and their vision for the future and Dr Marie McGinn who guided this work with intellectual insight and trust and without whom it would not, and could not, have been written May you all recognize your voices in my work and the thanks in these and all my words

Greetings from New York, January 1998

Between the time a gift comes to us and the time we pass it along, we suffer gratitude. Moreover, with gifts that are agents of change, it is only when the gift has worked in us, only when we have come up to its level, as it were, that we can give it away again. Passing the gift along is the act of gratitude that finishes the labor. (Lewis Hyde, The Gift)

Contents

Acknowledgements Abbreviations

viii ix

Introduction

1

1

Karl Kraus

7

2

The Austrian School Reform Movement

49

3

Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigation

77

4

Ordinary language

104

5

Questions

130

6

Language-games

152

7

Particular cases

181

8

Analogies

211

Conclusion

239

Notes Bibliography Index

241 249 259

Acknowledgements

The author gratefully acknowledges that the following have kindly given permission to reprint the following material: Blackwell Publishers for permission to reprint extracts from Wittgenstein’s Lectures: Cambridge 1932–1935, edited by Alice Ambrose © Blackwell Publishers, 1982. Blackwell Publishers for permission to reprint extracts from The Blue and Brown Books, by Ludwig Wittgenstein © Blackwell Publishers, 1969. Blackwell Publishers for permission to reprint extracts from Philosophical Investigations, by Ludwig Wittgenstein © Blackwell Publishers, 1967. HarperCollins Publishers for permission to reprint extracts from The Blue and Brown Books, by Ludwig Wittgenstein © Blackwell Publishers, 1986. This research was funded in part by a grant from the C.W.Post Research Committee. Additional funding was provided by the Office of the Dean, College of Arts and Sciences, C.W.Post Campus, Long Island University.

Abbreviations

AWL BB CV LC LPE LSD LWL LWPP I LWPP II OC P PG PI PR RFGB RFM RPP I RPP II TLP WLFM WLPP WV Z

Wittgenstein’s Lectures Cambridge 1932–1935 The Blue and Brown Books Culture and Value Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief ‘Notes for Lectures on “Private Experience” and “Sense Data’” ‘The Language of Sense Data and Private Experience’ Wittgenstein’s Lectures Cambridge 1930–1932 Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol I Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol II On Certainty ‘Philosophy’ Philosophical Grammar Philosophical Investigations Philosophical Remarks Remarks on Frazer’s ‘Golden Bough’ Remarks on the Foundations of Mathematics Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol I Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol II Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus Wittgenstein’s Lectures on the Foundations of Mathematics 1939 Wittgenstein’s Lectures on Philosophical Psychology 1946–47 Wörterbuch für Volksschulen Zettel

Numbers refer to individual remarks. Page numbers are followed by ‘e’ which denotes the English pagination of bilingual texts. MS in the text means manuscript.

Introduction

Throughout his later philosophy Wittgenstein claims to be teaching a method of grammatical investigation. Grammatical investigation describes the use of our words for the purpose of philosophical clarification. As a method it is both philosophical and pedagogical. Wittgenstein once remarked to the effect that it did not matter whether his results were true or not, what mattered was that a method had been found, and he describes the Investigations as a textbook: ‘a textbook, however, not in that it provides knowledge (Wissen), but rather in that it stimulates thinking (Denken)’.1 Although generally acknowledged within the secondary literature, Wittgenstein’s methodological claims have not altered our use of (or response to) his texts.2 As he anticipated, ‘the terms of our analysis have changed, but the form of our philosophical investigation has not’ (AWL 32). His own words continue to best describe the situation: If I had to say what is the main mistake made by philosophers of this present generation… I would say that it is when language is looked at what is looked at is a form of words and not the use made of the form of words. (LC2) Not only did philosophers of Wittgenstein’s generation look at a form of words (rather than their use) in the analysis of language, but contemporary philosophers continue to look at the form and not the use made of Wittgenstein’s own words. His philosophical method is the use made of his form of words. The following study investigates Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation through a detailed examination of his philosophical aims

2

Introduction

and practices. It begins by placing his method within a philosophical and pedagogical context. When placed within an Anglo-American or analytic tradition this method appears to be without precedent. However, Wittgenstein’s philosophical practices were influenced by the numerous and diverse traditions within which he lived. Placing him within an Austrian cultural and pedagogical tradition complements and enhances the analytic tradition with which he is generally identified. The specific aims and techniques of his investigation become clear when placed within an Austrian cultural tradition (with its emphasis on language) and within an innovative educational movement (with its emphasis on activities and the rooting of education in the environment). Wittgenstein himself places his writings within this Austrian context. The Austrian philosophical and cultural tradition is exemplified in the writings of Karl Kraus. Kraus and Wittgenstein share a method of grammatical investigation which uses language as both the subject of analysis and the tool of that analysis. They begin with the words of others and proceed in their inquiries with attention to grammatical detail, and care and precision in writing. They respond to particular cases and use ordinary language. Neither writer presents opinions or arguments. Rather they use grammatical investigation as an alternative form of inquiry and expression. Although similar in method their writings differ in form and purpose. Kraus writes aphorisms, satire and poetry, and his purpose is to expose the hypocrisies and injustices of his society by exposing corrupt language-use. Through grammatical analysis he attempts to be a witness to his times and to challenge the terms of its discourse (and its languageuse) with his own. Wittgenstein’s purpose is to expose philosophical confusion and offer philosophical clarification through grammatical investigation. Kraus ends his life in despair and silence, faced with the physical and linguistic violence of the Third Reich while Wittgenstein continues the use of grammatical investigation inherited from Kraus and recognizes its place within our ordinary, everyday world. Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation is also illuminated by his years as an elementary school teacher in Austria. The shift from the Tractatus (his early philosophy) to the Philosophical Investigations (his later philosophy) involves a shift in his way of thinking. His philosophical practice shifts from the giving of solutions to the teaching of methods; methods which are themselves pedagogically innovative.3 Wittgenstein’s years as an elementary school teacher (1919–1926) correspond to the years of the Austrian School Reform Movement, with its emphasis on Arbeitsschule (the work or activity method) and Bodenständigkeit (the rooting of education in the environment). While in

Introduction

3

Austria Wittgenstein was a creative and dedicated teacher who was engaged in pedagogical issues. His ideas concerning language-learning and language-use, the examples and analogies which permeate his later writings, and his particular grammatical methods are all influenced by his work and experiences as an elementary school teacher. His pedagogical practices influence his later philosophy and help clarify his method of grammatical investigation. Wittgenstein describes and demonstrates his method throughout his later writings. These descriptions and demonstrations offer profound insight into the composition, teaching and criticism of his later philosophy. The Philosophical Investigations, as his most finished text, is taken throughout this work to represent his later philosophical techniques and goals. Points made with reference to the Investigations can be read as indicative of, or applicable to, his later philosophy as a whole. After investigating his general philosophical aims and practices this study presents a detailed examination of individual grammatical techniques using specific examples. Emphasis is placed on those methods which Wittgenstein (i) explicitly introduces and describes, (ii) uses throughout his later writings (from the early 1930s to 1951), (iii) uses and describes in both his writings and lectures, and (iv) uses consistently and repeatedly in response to numerous different philosophical issues. His grammatical methods include diverse and distinctive uses of ordinary language, questions, language-games, particular cases, and analogies. These particular techniques form the core of his grammatical investigations. They are complex, detailed and multifarious, and they differ significantly from conventional philosophical language-use, questions, cases and analogies. Wittgenstein’s teaching practices also demonstrate his method of grammatical investigation. These practices are described by students in lecture notes, memoirs and personal correspondence. Several of his lecture series were transcribed by students who capture his philosophical practices in print. The transcriptions of his lectures offer his investigations in English (complementing his manuscripts and typescripts which are written predominantly in German) and describe his investigations from a multiplicity of perspectives. (The same lecture is often described by two or more people.) Their archival significance is as important as it is neglected within the secondary literature. The similarity between his teaching and his writing is striking. The transcriptions of his lectures are similar in form, tone, rhythm and content to his written texts (even when transcribed independently by students). Descriptions of his teaching (and remarks taken from his lectures) are incorporated into the following

4

Introduction

chapters. His verbal remarks are interwoven with his written remarks and the written descriptions provided by others. Descriptions and examples of his teaching are taken predominantly from lectures transcribed in The Blue and Brown Books, Wittgenstein’s Lectures Cambridge 1932–1935 and Wittgenstein’s Lectures on Philosophical Psychology 1946–47. According to Anscombe, the Blue Book was composed by dictation to his class at Cambridge during the 1933–1934 session and she explains that ‘this was done without notes; the dictation was not continuous, but he would discuss for a while and then say, “Now, there’s something you can take down” and dictate, then break off the dictation for further discussion and so on’ (Anscombe 1969:373). The Brown Book was dictated to two pupils (Francis Skinner and Alice Ambrose) during 1934–1935. The Blue and Brown Books were privately circulated in mimeograph and typescript form for many years before their (posthumous) publication, and were widely read by British philosophers. Wittgenstein’s lectures from 1932 to 1935 are recorded by Alice Ambrose with the use of notes by Margaret MacDonald and scattered notes made by Wittgenstein himself at the time of the 1934–1935 lectures. This text also includes selections from the ‘Yellow Book’ which consists of notes taken during lectures and informal discussions by Ambrose and MacDonald (during intervals in the dictation of the Blue Book). Notes taken by Francis Skinner are included in the ‘Yellow Book’. These lecture notes were written out (in full) shortly after Ambrose left Cambridge and were edited and published several decades later. (The book first appeared in 1979.)4 Wittgenstein’s Lectures on Philosophical Psychology 1946–47 is the last series of lectures he gave at Cambridge before retiring. These lectures are recorded and presented as three separate sets of notes taken by three students: Peter Geach, Kanti Shah and A.C.Jackson. These notes were edited by Geach and published in 1988. From The Blue and Brown Books to Wittgenstein’s lectures of 1946–1947, these transcriptions span the entire period of his later philosophy and are recorded by different students. Together they offer significant insight into Wittgenstein’s philosophical practices. An effort is made throughout this study to differentiate between written and spoken remarks (when referring to Wittgenstein’s lectures and writings). The oral and written dimensions of his philosophy are worthy of consideration (and will be discussed throughout the text). The remarks spoken during lectures and conversations are introduced with phrases such as ‘Wittgenstein comments (or remarks)…’, while his written remarks

Introduction

5

are introduced with phrases such as ‘Wittgenstein writes…’. His writings are also very inclusive (due in part to his innovative pedagogical and philosophical methods). Non-inclusive language has been altered and the changes are indicated by square brackets. It is worth noting how rarely his language needs to be changed. After examining Wittgenstein’s general methodological aims and practices, and the cultural and pedagogical contexts which inform his later writings, this study provides a detailed examination of his use of ordinary language, questions, language-games, particular cases and analogies. The chapters which present these specific grammatical techniques open with Wittgenstein’s own description of his methodological tasks. These descriptions are generously given within his writings and are interwoven with numerous demonstrations. Similarly, his descriptions and demonstrations are interwoven in the chapters which follow. In the words of Wittgenstein, we demonstrate a method by examples and the series of examples can be broken off. The concept of ‘thinking’ is used in several chapters to demonstrate grammatical techniques. This example reveals how Wittgenstein approaches a single philosophical concept or problem from a variety of different directions. It is one of many philosophical concepts which he investigates and is therefore only one possible example. It is a concept which he examines throughout his later writings and lectures. This study does not present (or attempt to present) a comprehensive or exhaustive investigation of the concept of ‘thinking’. Rather the use of this example illustrates Wittgenstein’s grammatical techniques and suggests how such an investigation might be carried out. By examining each method or technique individually, and by using the concept of ‘thinking’ throughout, it is possible to see how ‘the same or almost the same points were always being approached afresh from different directions’ and how the description of our use of words involves a variety of different grammatical techniques (PI ixe, PI 133). Wittgenstein’s grammatical techniques are interwoven with one another throughout his later writings and lectures. It is therefore possible to describe specific cases or examples in more than one way, or to use them to demonstrate more than one grammatical technique. This is consistent with his method, and inherent in both the integrity and flexibility of his philosophical art or practice. The following chapters begin with his own writings and lectures, and examine his methodological descriptions and practices on their own terms. They include many familiar passages while also highlighting lesser-known remarks. They attempt to rearrange what we already know and in so doing rotate the axis of our examination around the fixed point of our real need (PI 108).

6

Introduction

Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation is complex and detailed. It is also very natural and playful. His writings and lectures are creative, imaginative, insightful and profound. They are philosophically and pedagogically responsive, while also requiring our active participation. To learn Wittgenstein’s art or method of investigation is to learn how to apply his various grammatical techniques to our own philosophical confusions and concerns. It is a philosophical labour which requires practice. If we do not take his methodological claims and practices seriously we do not engage with his texts in the manner for which they are written. As a result, his philosophy becomes variously misunderstood, more or less mangled and watered down. However, if we are attentive to his methodological remarks and demonstrations, and if we put his grammatical methods into practice, we will not be spared the trouble of thinking but stimulated to thoughts of our own.

Chapter I

Karl Kraus

Wittgenstein writes in the preface to the Investigations, ‘for more than one reason what I publish here will have points of contact with what others are writing today’ (PI ixe–xe). One reason is that his method of grammatical investigation is rooted in a philosophical and cultural context (and tradition). This context and tradition is found in Vienna: the Vienna of Wittgenstein, of Buber, of Schoenberg…. In philosophy, music and literature, there occurred both a ruthless analysis of language and a single-minded determination to rid that language of all its hypocrisies and evasions, its irrelevant ornamentation, its imprecision. This was also the Vienna of Karl Kraus.1 (Field 1967:12) Kraus, a Viennese writer and satirist, was born in 1874 and died in 1936.2 He began his writing career as a journalist for the Neue Freie Presse in Vienna. In 1899, at the age of 24, he began publishing Die Fackel (The Torch) a fortnightly journal of satirical pieces, poetry, prose and letters. During the first twelve years of its publication Die Fackel printed contributions from some of the most prominant writers, poets, architects and musicians of its time. Then, from 1911 until 1933 Kraus wrote all of the issues himself.3 From its first appearance Die Fackel was widely read in Vienna and Kraus became a key figure in Viennese culture and society. He represents, in many important respects, turn-of-the-century Vienna. Common themes and problems engaged the attention of writers, thinkers and artists in all fields. And although Kraus was one of many individuals who engaged in a form of grammatical investigation he was the acknowledged and most articulate spokesperson.4

8

Karl Kraus

Kraus’s art itself owed a great debt to a tradition of Austrian folk drama and the plays of Johann Nestroy (Field 1967:19). Nestroy was considered by many, including Kraus, to be a great Austrian philoso-pher.5 Nestroy’s real tool was… German, the language he truly mastered as a virtuoso. He combined Viennese idiom and High German into similes, metaphors, mixed-up proverbs and gyrating figures of speech. (Janik and Toulmin 1973:86) The emphasis for both Nestroy and Kraus was placed on language as a tool for revealing hypocrisies and injustices. Nestroy expressed his character ‘through the very nuances of the grammar that he used to expose the foibles and hypocrisies of society. This was the task which Karl Kraus saw himself as continuing’ (Janik and Toulmin 1973:7). And it is within this context and tradition that we can place Wittgenstein. Kraus’s writings and his grammatical investigations span both Wittgenstein’s early and later philosophies, and numerous sources confirm that Wittgenstein was acquainted with his writings. According to Monk, ‘it was no doubt through Gretl [his sister] that Wittgenstein first became aware of the work of Karl Kraus’ (Monk 1990:16). His friend Paul Engelmann also knew Kraus well and makes a strong connection between these two writers:6 [Wittgenstein] told me that he had Karl Kraus’s Die Fackel sent to his address in Norway, which indicates that he had been a keen reader of that journal before leaving Vienna. I am convinced that the way of thinking which he found in Kraus’s writings exercised a decisive and lasting influence on the objectives of his philosophical activity. (Engelmann 1967:123) Wittgenstein was familiar with Kraus’s writings before leaving Vienna for England in 1908 and is known to have received Die Fackel while in Norway from 1913 until 1914. He returned to Austria at the outbreak of the First World War and completed the Tractatus (his first major philosophical work) after the war ended. At this time Kraus was calling for individuals who had something important to say to step forward and be silent, and Wittgenstein concluded the Tractatus with the words ‘whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’ and fell philosophically silent.7 He submitted his manuscript to Jahoda for

Karl Kraus

9

publication in 1918. Jahoda was the publisher of Die Fackel, and Wittgenstein makes the connection between Kraus and his choice of publisher explicit in a letter to Engelmann (dated 25.10.18). He writes: Today I received notification from Jahoda that he cannot publish my treatise. Allegedly for technical reasons. But I would dearly like to know what Kraus said about it. If there were an opportunity for you to find out I would be very glad. Perhaps Loos knows something about it. Do write to me. (Engelmann 1967:15) Wittgenstein wanted the Tractatus to be published alongside the works of Kraus and expected the relevance of his work to be readily apparent (Monk 1990:157).8 He also remained in Austria from 1919 until 1929. During the 1920s Kraus was very active and wrote some of his most important work. It is unlikely that Wittgenstein would have been unaware of his writings at this time. During the 1920s Wittgenstein was an elementary school teacher, a gardener and an architect before returning to Cambridge and to philosophy. In 1931 he names Kraus as one of the people who influences his way of thinking. In a remark found in Culture and Value he writes: I don’t believe I have ever invented a line of thinking. I have always taken one over from someone else. I have simply straightaway seized upon it with enthusiasm for my work of clarification. That is how Boltzmann, Hertz, Schopenhauer, Frege, Russell, Kraus, Loos, Weininger, Spengler, Sraffa have influenced me… (CV 19e) If read chronologically, he names Kraus after Frege and Russell and before Loos, Weininger, Spengler and Sraffa. Kraus can be associated with both the earlier and later thinkers on the list. Wittgenstein acknowledges numerous influences on his way of thinking, who act as stimuli for his own philosophical method. In the above passage he acknowledges two physicists, three philosophers (who differ greatly in philosophical approach), an architect, two writers and an economist. In so doing, he shifts the terms of influence away from specific (philosophical) doctrines and writings to broader cultural and methodological practices. He seizes upon their lines of investigation and their attitudes towards language for his work of philosophical clarification.9

10

Karl Kraus

Wittgenstein continues, throughout his lifetime, to place his philosophical writings within the cultural tradition of Kraus and Nestroy. The phrase from Nestroy that Wittgenstein chose as an epigraph for the Philosophical Investigations, ‘it is in the nature of every advance that it appears much greater than it actually is’…was also one of those that Kraus was fond of quoting. (Bouveresse 1992:33) The words of the epigraph are quoted from Nestroy’s play Der Schützling (The Protégé) act II, scene 10. Gottlieb Herb, the son of a poor bookbinder laments the fact that in an era of progress so little social and physical evil is eradicated from the world (Spiegelberg 1978:56). By quoting this passage from Nestroy Wittgenstein places his writings not only within an Austrian cultural tradition, but also within a contemporaneous Austrian context in which little social and physical evil has been eradicated from the world.10 Wittgenstein also compares his philosophical remarks to Kraus’s aphorisms in a 1948 remark (found in Culture and Value). This late remark demonstrates that he continued to connect his writings (or way of thinking) with Kraus even during the final years of his life. Significantly, this comparison involves the aims and methods of their writings.11 The most interesting and important connections between the works of Wittgenstein and Kraus are, however, to be found in the works themselves. 12 Wittgenstein was influenced by Kraus’s line of thinking and adapted it for his own work of philosophical clarification. Kraus was, like many of the artists, musicians, architects and writers of his time ‘obsessed with the problems of language’ (Field 1967:12).13 He approached the events of his world by reading newspapers and pinning down his age between quotation marks; literally taking it at its word (Zohn 1971:11). He began with the words of others. What Kraus does is to usurp from the outward world a phrase (‘in dieser grossen Zeit); he then places it before the court of his linguistic conscience and imagination; cross-examines the phrase by means of various antithetic devices, exploring a wealth of denotations of literal, metaphorical, and idiomatic meanings, and the record of the cross-examination turns out to be the portrait of an age. (Stern 1966:77–78)

Karl Kraus

11

The following sentence is taken from the opening of Kraus’s essay entitled ‘In these great times’ (‘In dieser grossen Zeit’) which was printed in Die Fackel in November 1914 and read before an audience on the nineteenth of that month: In these great times which I knew when they were very small; which will become small again, provided they have time left for it, and which, because in the realm of organic growth no such transformation is possible, we had better call fat times and, truly, hard times as well; in these times in which things happen that could not be imagined and in which what can no longer be imagined must happen, for if one could imagine it, it would not happen; in these serious times which have died laughing at the thought that they might become serious; which, surprised by their own tragedy, are reaching for diversion and, catching themselves redhanded, are groping for words; in these loud times, which boom with the horrible symphony of actions which produce reports and reports which produce actions; in these times you should not expect any words of my own from me—none but these words which barely manage to prevent silence from being misinterpreted. (Kraus 1984:70–71) In this passage ‘Kraus is retracing with words the shape of an age, the first months of the 1914 war’ (Stern 1966:76). Kraus begins with the cliché ‘in these great times’ which was used by politicians, journalists and individuals alike. The spirit of the age was expressed in this phrase which he proceeds to analyse grammatically. Kraus analyses this phrase grammatically by exploring a wealth of literal, metaphorical and idiomatic meanings, and by using various contrasting devices. Kraus’s opening statement, ‘In these great times which I knew when they were very small…’, begins immediately to challenge the concept of greatness inherent in the original cliché. Phrases such as ‘in these great times’, ‘in this time of greatness’, or ‘we are living in great times’, were all used to suggest exceptional achievement, heroic deeds and significant importance. Timms confirms that this phrase refers to a view that was almost universal at the time, that the war had ushered in an era of heroic grandeur (Timms 1986:274).14 But Kraus claims that he knew the times when they were ‘very small’ (so klein). The expression ‘very small’ can have a variety of meanings, and Kraus plays out these different meanings. Each time the meaning of ‘very small’ changes, the comparison with greatness changes and so, consequently, does the

12

Karl Kraus

original meaning of the phrase ‘in these great times’. The cliché implies that the opposite of these great times are unimportant, insignificant or trivial times. But Kraus does not use these synonyms, rather he chooses the word ‘small’. Greatness is no longer a term of evaluation, but one of size. ‘Great’ means big, in contrast to that which is small. The First World War was known as ‘the great war’, a ‘world war’ and ‘the war to end all wars’. Kraus also claims to have known these times when they were very small (before they became great). But he uses an expression which can also mean ‘this small’, suggesting that the times are still small (not great), or that the times are now no different than they were before. The greatness of these times suggests growth or progress and thus being small can also mean being little or young. It is this meaning which Kraus introduces and continues to develop in the next phrase when he writes that these times ‘will become small again, provided they have time left for it…’. It appears paradoxical to suggest that the times should become small again, as if against their natural progress or growth. Here Zeit can be read as both ‘the times’ or ‘the age’. Kraus plays with the idea of an age getting younger or smaller and of the times going backwards or regressing to their previous state, precisely to challenge the assumptions being made about progress and greatness. Kraus adds that the times can become small again only if they have time left in which to become small; only if the age or the times are not completely destroyed by war. Kraus challenges concepts of history, time and progress (and thus attitudes towards the past, present and future) with this phrase. The cliché ‘in these great times’, just as the war itself, emphasizes only that which is happening in the present, and unreflectively equates the present with progress and greatness. Kraus acknowledges that to talk of great times becoming small again will seem unnatural, and thus he writes, ‘because in the realm of organic growth no such transformation is possible, we had better call fat times and, truly, hard times as well…’. Great times become synonymous not only with big or large times (as previously mentioned) but also with fat times (dicke Zeit). Fat times suggest an age of growth or wealth. For Kraus, the First World War was a time of growth and wealth for some, and it marked the final victory of the profit principle of capitalism (Iggers 1967:120). Throughout the war Kraus identified those who were beneficiaries of the war; most notably the industrialists and military personnel (Iggers 1967:126). (Among those industrialists who benefited from the war was Wittgenstein’s father Karl Wittgenstein.) Fat times can, and by implication should, become smaller or thinner.

Karl Kraus

13

Fat times can also be described as heavy times (schwere Zeit) and heavy times are also hard times (schwere Zeit). Hard times are also, however, severe, serious or grave times. To render great times synonymous with hard times challenges and refutes the exceptional achievement and heroic deeds implied by the original cliché. Kraus describes the war years as hard times because the difficulties, struggles and sacrifices of those hard times are denied or eclipsed by clichés such as ‘in these great times’. Great times are not only important or significant times, but also (implicitly) good times. Kraus continues: ‘in these times in which things are happening that could not be imagined and in which what can no longer be imagined must happen, for if one could imagine it, it would not happen…’. In the original cliché, the greatness of the times might be hard to imagine because of the exceptional or extraordinarily heroic nature of the times, or because of the unexpected importance or progress of the times. Kraus writes that newspaper reporters have ‘the imagery of heroic qualities at their disposal and their abuse of language embellishes the abuse of life’.15 Yet Kraus implies here that the things that are happening cannot be imagined (thought or believed) not because of their greatness but because of their horror. He claims that what can no longer be imagined must happen precisely because if it could be imagined or thought about (in a reflective, unclichéd way) then it would not happen. In not thinking about or questioning these times and their happenings, people allow them to continue. And thus what happens to the people during these times (what befalls them) is unimaginable or unthinkable. ‘Moral imagination means for Kraus the ability to grasp that individual human beings are dying a terrible personal death. It means seeing beyond the rhetoric of heroism [and] beyond the abstract statistics’ (Timms 1986:280). The war and its horrors are unimaginable yet real. Thus Kraus challenges his readers to imagine (look at and reflect upon) what is really happening. Contrary to the cliché which invites neither reflection nor imagination, Kraus’s grammatical analysis invites both. Kraus continues by rendering hard times synonymous with serious times. He writes of ‘these serious times which have died laughing at the thought that they might become serious…’. ‘Serious’ can be defined as worthy of attention or involving important matters. Serious is now, however, contrasted with humour. Kraus continues his grammatical play on words by claiming that these serious times have ‘died laughing’. The serious times have died laughing at the thought that they might become serious (not only giving rise to fear and anxiety but becoming fatal). A further pun exists since the times have died laughing at the

14

Karl Kraus

possibility that they might become grave or fatal. The times have taken the seriousness and horrors of war too lightly and have died. The serious times are tragic times filled with death and destruction. Serious times become grave times, not only filled with danger but also filled with corpses. Kraus develops the idea of humour and seriousness still further when he writes that the serious times ‘surprised by their own tragedy are reaching for diversion…’. A diversion is a distraction, but it is also an amusement. Thus tragedy is contrasted with light entertainment or comedy. The response of the age to the tragedy of war is to seek diversion and hence not to face the seriousness of the times. Also, according to Timms, ‘Kraus’s most damaging charge against these journalists is not that they want war, but that it is a matter of indifference to them whether the event they are launching is a war or an operetta’ (Timms 1986:283). These times are reaching for diversion and ‘catching themselves redhanded are groping for words…’. To be caught redhanded is to be caught in the act of committing a crime or of doing something wrong or shameful (and thus also plays on the idea of diversion). To grope for something is to search with the hands, but it is also to search with difficulty. The times are groping for words. The times grope for words (like the cliché ‘in these great times’) which distract speakers from the real tragedy of war by means of platitudes. Thus, although groping for words, these times are not without words nor are they silent. Kraus continues by writing of ‘these times which boom with the horrible symphony of actions which produce reports and reports which cause actions…’. He implies that the times are loud and thus noisy (anything but peaceful). (Reports can be both written reports and the sound of gun shots.) And the abundance of words, in the form of reports, is both the cause and the product of actions. Words are disturbing and disquieting. Language is bombastic, inflated and overblown. The language booms with empty phrases and produces a horrible symphony of actions. It is only at this point that Kraus finally concludes his first sentence. He writes that, ‘in these times you should not expect any words of my own from me—none but these words which barely manage to prevent silence from being misinterpreted’. He concludes this sentence by referring to ‘these times’ and not to ‘these great times’. And in these times of war and disquiet Kraus tells his reader or listener not to expect words of his own from him; suggesting that words and language can no longer be his own because they have been taken over by clichés and war-time

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propaganda. Kraus claims that he has no words to contribute to the overabundance of words which disturb the peace. The words of the essay are offered only to prevent his silence from being misinterpreted (as condoning the war effort). As Benjamin explains: [Kraus’s] protests…are nothing but the defensive reaction of a man who is himself implicated. But what implicates him so deeply is more than the deeds and misdeeds; it is the language of his fellow [citizens]. His passion for imitating them is at the same time the expression of and struggle against this implication. (Benjamin 1979:271) Kraus struggles, through his use of language, against the corrupt use of language in his cliché-ridden (language-forsaken) times. He struggles with the implications of speaking a shared language. This brief passage exemplifies Kraus’s writings in several important respects. He begins by quoting words which are spoken by others. The cliché ‘in these great times’ is a platitude which his age, or his times, uses to characterize itself. Thus, not only does Kraus recognize it as a phrase which captures or expresses his times, but it is a phrase which these times acknowledge as the just expression of their character (for it is the expression used by the age to describe itself). Thus Kraus questions and challenges the times using its own words. Kraus does not put forward an argument to the effect that the times are not great. He does not cite examples or incidents as evidence for an opposing argument. Instead, he renders the expression itself false. He demonstrates how the phrase ‘in these great times’ functions precisely because it is a platitude or cliché used unreflectively. Times which are great are shown to be big, fat, hard, unimaginable, serious, tragic, loud and noisy. The falseness of the expression ultimately undermines the professed greatness of the times. The rift between words and deeds, which Kraus reveals through the expression itself, bespeaks the pettiness (or absence of greatness) of the times. Through his grammatical analysis he shows that the times are not great but tragic and horrific. The language of the times (itself tragic and horrific) allows this tragedy to occur and to continue. Kraus reveals that the age is great in the very opposite sense of the one that was intended by the original use of the cliché. For Kraus, grammatical investigation provides an alternative to polemics or argumentation. As Heller confirms:

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His campaigns are not aimed at hostile opinions or ideologies…. The tirade of rhetoricians, the pamphlets of politicians, the feuilletons of renowned authors are passed through the filter of language, leaving behind mere dregs of folly and residues of false pretence. (Heller 1975:237) Kraus himself uses the metaphor of language as ‘a drainage system for the broad marshes of phraseology’.16 Thus he challenges the claim to greatness in the above cliché using language. It is the rift between words and deeds that bespeaks the pettiness of the age. According to Benjamin: that Kraus attacks people less for what they are than for what they do, more for what they say than for what they write, and least of all for their books, is the precondition of his polemical authority, which is able to lift the intellectual universe of an author…whole and intact from a single fragment of sentence, a single word, a single intonation. (Benjamin 1979:266) Benjamin continues by explaining that Kraus himself never puts forth an opinion. ‘For opinion is false objectivity that can be separated from the person and incorporated in the circulation of commodities’ (Benjamin 1979:266). Later, when his position is criticised as ‘irrational’ and his conception of language is dismissed as a fetish (in the absence of argumentation), Kraus responds by saying that his ‘fetish of language’ is better than being duped by Hitler and Stalin (Field 1967: 233). His response does not attempt to provide rational argumentation or justifications, but rather challenges us to apply and test his methods. Although Kraus addresses political issues and his writings are very topical, his interest is emphatically on language. Instead of addressing political events and issues using political terminology or discourse he examines grammatical details. He acknowledges that: what matters first and last is only the sentence…. There probably has never been a writer from whom more substantial, more real, more timely things could be derived than the author of my writings; and yet all my life I have cared about nothing but sentences, trusting that the truth about [human] kind, its wars and revolutions, the Jews and Christians, will occur to them.17 Kraus’s grammatical investigations are intensely detailed and never general in either scope or theory. In dismissing grammatical detail as trivial or

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insignificant ‘the reader has at the back of [their] mind some notion of what is and what is not important and interesting. Kraus appeals to a different sense of what is and what is not important’ (Stern 1966:71). He challenges preconceived notions concerning what is important and interesting through the grammatical form of his analysis. His emphasis on grammatical details challenges the use of general and clichéd language. According to MacDiarmid, Kraus took the frivolous seriously, and discovered that the situation was desperate (MacDiarmid 1993:737). Kraus’s claims that he is fanatically unpolitical may seem paradoxical because he fights against political corruption, violence and war. But he is ‘fanatically unpolitical because politics (is) basically a matter of empty slogans’ (Field 1967:51). Politics, as a discourse, is too corrupt and meaningless for Kraus to engage in on its own terms. ‘In a sense politics was to him merely noise, gestures and phrases’ (Iggers 1967: 133). He rejects ‘political discourse’ along party or ideological lines for the statements made are often meaningless or dangerous. They are meaningless or dangerous for at least two reasons. First, the language and terms are so corrupted (or empty of meaning) that they are useless. Secondly, by having to follow party lines the individual loses the freedom to mean what they say if it conflicts with party slogans or policies. Consequently, Kraus’s interest is cultural not political. Kraus’s satire is basically oriented toward culture and not toward politics in any specific and narrow sense. He was not a Homo Politicus, but it would not be entirely accurate to call him apolitical. On the very first page of the first issue of the Fackel, Kraus declared that he was not a ‘parteimässig Verschnittener” —a man castrated along party lines. (Zohn 1971:125) The grammatical detail with which Kraus constructs the opening sentence of ‘In these great times’ is indicative of all of his work. Each word is carefully chosen and the richness of meaning and connotation is exploited to the full. Kraus writes with care and precision, and demands to be read with equal care and precision. He challenges the corrupt and unreflective use of language by using language thoughtfully and precisely. As Heller writes, ‘the work of Karl Kraus is rich in words, and every single word is of the greatest possible precision. It is precise through its infinite ambiguity’ (Heller 1975:239). Kraus responds to particular instances of linguistic imprecision and hypocrisy in order to counter the tendency to speak in general, imprecise ways. In his work there are few

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general statements but thousands of examples (Iggers 1967:194). His method always involves dealing immediately with concrete particular situations (Iggers 1967:193). According to Iggers, this method is possible only for a very courageous person, for it sometimes means that Kraus appears to advocate something which he expressly rejects at another time, depending on the concrete situations. Although it appears paradoxical, Kraus demonstrates precision when he exploits the ambiguity of the cliché ‘in these great times’. The exploitation of ambiguity is an attempt to slow the reader down and force the reader to change the tempo or pace of superficial reading. Thus, for example, in the essay quoted above, Kraus takes a cliché that has been heard by his readers innumerable times and by exploiting its ambiguity forces them to hear it as if for the first time. The grammatical detail with which he writes requires us to read his passages many times over, and to read them extremely (almost excruciatingly) slowly. He acknowledges the need to read his writings numerous times in the following aphorisms. These aphorisms draw attention to the demands of his writings. My writings must be read twice if one is to get close to them. But I don’t object to their being read three times. However, I prefer their not being read at all to their being read only once. I would not want to be responsible for the congestions of a blockhead who has no time…. One must read all writers twice—the good as well as the bad. The one kind will be recognized; the other, unmasked. z My request that my writings be read twice has aroused great indignation. Unjustly so. My request is a modest one. After all, I do not ask that they be read once.18 In the first aphorism, Kraus explains that his writings must be read twice if one is to get close to them. We are to read them more than once in order both to get acquainted with them (close to them) and to understand them (get close to their meaning). He is describing how to approach his writings and how closely or carefully we must read them. Having said that they should be read twice, he continues by qualifying his advice; ‘but I don’t object to their being read three times’. Thus he is not stating that they should be read twice (two times as opposed to one time) but that they should be read numerous times. Kraus also prefers that his writings not be read at all to their being read only once. For, he implies, such a reading would not be a reading at all. He writes, ‘I would not want to be responsible for the congestions of a

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blockhead who has no time.’ He would not want his writings to congest or overload (and thus block the head of) a person who has no time (a ‘blockhead’ or a stupid person). He concludes by saying that ‘one must read all writers twice—the good as well as the bad. The one kind will be recognized; the other, unmasked.’ Good writers, if read twice, will stand up to numerous readings while bad writers will not withstand such scrutiny or repetition. In the latter aphorism, Kraus’s request that his writings be read twice is presented as arousing great indignation. He responds that his request is a modest one (a humble one as opposed to a pretentious one) for he does not ask that his writings be read once. He does not request that his writings be read at all (although he simultaneously requests that they be read more than one time). It is thus a modest request, not only because humble but because he does not ask to be read at all (and it is therefore modest because not an excessive or extreme demand). Kraus’s aphorisms use precision and exploit ambiguity. They discuss and simultaneously demonstrate the demands made on his reader. Thus, if his writings are not understood precisely, they will not be understood at all. Kraus contrasts his precision with the imprecision and sloppiness of language used by his readers. It is Karl Kraus’s ever-repeated contention that the very last thing he and his readers have in common is the German language, that their use of it is so sloppy and imprecise, so pretentious and corrupted, that they will not understand exactly what he is saying, and since exactness is for Kraus not an added virtue or a dispensable attribute but of the very essence of language, he claims that, in not understanding exactly, his readers will not understand at all. (Stern 1966:71) Kraus expresses this contention in the following aphorism: ‘My public and I understand each other very well: it does not hear what I say, and I do not say what it would like to hear’ (Kraus 1977:222). In not reading his writings carefully (slowly and repeatedly) his public does not understand precisely what he is saying or writing, and so it does not understand at all. Kraus and his public understand each other very well for they understand that they do not understand each other. He knows that the public does not hear what he says and that he does not say what he knows it would like to hear. Kraus’s own use of language is an attempt to teach his readers how to read and think. ‘[His] aim is to persuade his

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audience to think critically, not simply to accept his own opinions and ideas’ (Timms 1986:182). According to Kraus the corruption of language takes many forms: lies, propaganda, slogans, headlines and advertising. In other words, language is corrupted through hypocrisy, evasion, imprecision and irrelevant ornamentation. Through all of these forms of corruption speakers do not say what they mean or mean what they say. Kraus contrasts inauthentic language with simple, ordinary language. According to Engelmann, there is for Kraus a purity of language which is ‘akin in its vital force to the simple forms of speech used by unspoilt people’ (Engelmann 1967:126). In Kraus’s fight against corruption he validates and upholds ordinary language; shifting our understanding of what is important, interesting and worthy of consideration. Ordinary language, in its simplicity and common usage, is not however a guarantee of authenticity and meaning. Therefore, Stern can also write that: for Kraus, emphatically, the native speakers are not the court to which he submits his case for judgment. They—the ‘ordinary speakers’—are the ones who are arraigned. In other words, the judge in the case for or against the validity of [a] reading is not common usage at all…. The fact that ‘ordinary speakers’ are likely to protest against Kraus’s interpretation of the phrase is to him not just irrelevant: it is yet another indication of their inadequacy in the face of the German language, a sign of their obtuseness and insensitivity towards that which they thoughtlessly use and thus abuse every day. (Stern 1966:75) Native speakers are not themselves the court to which Kraus appeals; that court is language itself. But ordinary language is not, in itself, either corrupt or authentic, and ‘ordinary speakers’ (a generalization used by Stern which contrasts with Kraus’s emphasis on specific grammatical examples, quotations and details) are not themselves necessarily innocent or guilty. But ordinary language holds for Kraus the possibility of authenticity; a possibility which he often denies of other forms of language. Ordinary language is subject to his analysis and the means of overcoming the corruption of ordinary language is not by replacing it with other forms of (technical or academic) language. Kraus finds technical or academic language pretentious and inauthentic. Such language often

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involves false ornamentation. The corruption of language through false ornamentation is a preoccupation for Kraus, just as the concept of false ornamentation was a preoccupation for many Viennese writers, architects and artists. Kraus was fond of submitting nonsensical articles and letters to newspapers using pseudonyms. These would often be published because they looked or sounded like learned or authoritative (scientific or academic) texts. The inability of newspaper editors to differentiate between authentic and inauthentic texts was due largely to the form and vocabulary of the texts themselves. The corruption of language through false ornamentation is similar in many respects to the corruption of language through academic or philosophical abstraction (and specialization). Abstract language is vague and imprecise although offered under the guise of clarifying languageuse and meaning. To abstract language from those who speak it and from the contexts in which it is spoken is dangerous according to Kraus. As Stern writes: the enemy, in other words, is a certain abstractness—an abstracting away from an ‘Erlebnis der Sprache’ [experience of language] which is for Kraus closely related to and often identical with living experience as such. (Stern 1966:78) His attitude both challenges philosophical abstraction and struggles to find an alternative form of expression. Kraus never formulates or articulates a philosophy of language and never attempts to analyse systematically language in any philosophical way. As Bodine confirms, ‘Kraus’s interests in language in no way amount to a systematic description of all linguistic phenomena’ (Bodine 1975:280). To provide an abstract or systematic theory of language would be to abstract language from the lived experience of language which, for Kraus, is an absurdity. Kraus’s writings are also satirical. In his writings topical issues, folly and evil are held up to scorn by means of ridicule and irony. According to Timms, [Kraus’s targets] serve as stimuli to the imagination, becoming significant through what the writer makes of them. The aim of satire is less to ‘declare facts’ than to ‘explore possibilities’…and Kraus’s satire emerges as a mode of writing that is essentially creative or rather ‘re-creative’. (Timms 1986:50)

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Kraus’s satire also has from first to last a linguistic basis (Timms 1986: 341). His irony uses words to imply the opposite of what they are normally taken or assumed to mean. He uses irony to draw attention to incongruity (between word and deed) and irrationality (the meaninglessness of a statement). This approach to the events of his time is expressed in his use of the metaphor of a mirror. Kraus uses the image of the mirror to describe newspapers. Newspapers are the language of the age captured in print. He claims that in using newspapers as the source of his satirical writings he is concerned with the mirror image of his age. He writes: Utilize as best you can the transformation of the universe into a local section; use the process by which time is canned and called a newspaper. The world has become uglier since it began to look into a mirror every day; so let us settle for the mirror image and do without an inspection of the original. (Kraus 1984:37) Kraus sees the press as a microcosm in which all the evils of the society of his day are mirrored. The press also expresses or represents how Kraus’s society sees itself. He responds to how the age sees itself and how it expresses itself by responding to its mirror image. Satire became his tool for reflecting the world back on itself. Wittgenstein writes that he seizes upon Kraus’s method for his work of philosophical clarification. His method of grammatical investigation is similar to Kraus’s analysis in many important respects. Wittgenstein, like Kraus, emphasizes language as the subject of analysis and the tool with which he works. Throughout his later writings we find the same attention to detail and the same care and precision in his choice of words. Both Wittgenstein and Kraus begin with the words of others, and both writers attempt to stimulate readers to thoughts of their own by providing a method of investigation. Both use particular examples and cases and force their readers to read very slowly. The following passage provides one example of Wittgenstein’s work of clarification using grammatical investigation. In this example we find the same care and attention to detail that is evident in the Kraus passage analysed above. This example is taken from §243 §248 of the Investigations. Although this passage is well-known and often quoted as (part of) a ‘private-language argument’ it provides a concise example of Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigation. The reading which follows demonstrates how this passage can be read grammatically (without

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reference to existing philosophical theories, and without recourse to abstraction and argumentation). While not denying that such references can be made, Wittgenstein engages in his grammatical practices precisely as an alternative to philosophical theory, abstraction and argumentation. In the second paragraph of §243 Wittgenstein sets out the following philosophical problem: Could we also imagine a language in which a person could write down or give vocal expression to [their] inner experiences—[their] feelings, moods, and the rest—for [their] private use? —Well, can’t we do so in our ordinary language? —But that is not what I mean. The individual words of this language are to refer to what can only be known to the person speaking; to [their] immediate private sensations. So another person cannot understand the language. (PI 243) Wittgenstein sets out the following question: can we imagine a language in which the individual words of a language refer to the speaker’s immediate private sensations, which can only be known to the speaker? One philosophical temptation is to respond to this question with a yes-orno answer. Wittgenstein’s original question, and his own response to it, suggest a shift in emphasis or approach, however. His original question does not ask whether there is such a language, but whether we can imagine such a language. And in responding to this question he does not provide empirical claims, theories or explanations. Rather he investigates it grammatically. He highlights the words (or grammatical concepts) which he is examining with the use of italics, quotation marks and scare quotes (a technique that he uses consistently throughout his later writings). His grammatical investigation redirects our attention back to the original question and calls us to reflect upon, or re-examine, the meaning of the question itself. The first part of Wittgenstein’s question concerns whether or not we can imagine a language in which the individual words of that language refer to a person’s immediate private sensations. He responds by asking: ‘How do words refer to sensations?’ The questions and discussion which ensue (in §244) concern ‘reference’ and how we learn to express pain in language. He rightly anticipates that we may not see any problem concerning our reference to sensations. According to Wittgenstein, we do not question the connection between words and sensations: a connection which we picture as the naming of sensations. He writes:

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How do words refer to sensations? —There doesn’t seem to be any problem here: don’t we talk about sensations every day, and give them names? But how is the connexion between the name and the thing named set up? (PI 244) If words refer to sensations through a process of naming, how is the connection between the name and the thing named set up? He continues: This question is the same as: how does a human being learn the meaning of the names of sensations? —of the word ‘pain’ for example. Here is one possibility: words are connected with the primitive, the natural expressions of the sensation and used in their place. A child has hurt [themself] and [they cry]; and then adults talk to [them] and teach [them] exclamations and, later, sentences. They teach the child new pain-behaviour. (PI 244) Wittgenstein describes one possible way in which human beings learn the meaning of sensations. His description does not involve names or reference, but rather the expression of pain and the teaching of painbehaviour. His description of pain-behaviour involves words and the actions into which they are woven. Pain-behaviour involves the verbal expression of pain. Anticipating a behaviourist interpretation of this description, he concludes §244 with the following clarification:‘“So you are saying that the word ‘pain’ really means crying?” —On the contrary: the verbal expression of pain replaces crying and does not describe it’ (PI 244). Wittgenstein is describing different forms of expression. In learning the word ‘pain’, for example, a human being learns a new form of painbehaviour; one which is taught through the words and deeds of those who speak and respond to cries. He draws our attention to the verbal expression of pain, which is not a verbal description of crying (or of any other form of pain expression). To interpret the verbal expression of pain as a description of crying is, once again, to see our language-use as a form of naming or reference. Such naming or reference, whether to crying or to sensations, separates language, pain and pain-expression. But as Wittgenstein asks in §245: ‘How can I go so far as to try to use language to get between pain and its expression?’ Language-use is a verbal expression of pain. His question turns the behaviourist objection back on itself.

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In §246 he turns to another aspect of his original question, in which words refer to the speaker’s immediate private sensations. He describes immediate private sensations as those which can only be known to the speaker. He begins §246 by asking: ‘In what sense are my sensations private?’ One possible answer to this question (which he provides) is that my sensations are private because only I can know whether I am really in pain. Thus privacy is connected with knowledge. Wittgenstein continues his investigation by examining the grammar of ‘knowing’. Thus, the first paragraph of §246 reads as follows: In what sense are my sensations private? —Well, only I can know whether I am really in pain; another person can only surmise it. — In one way this is wrong, and in another nonsense. If we are using the word ‘to know’ as it is normally used (and how else are we to use it?), then other people very often know when I am in pain. Yes, but all the same not with the certainty with which I know it myself! —It can’t be said of me at all (except perhaps as a joke) that I know I am in pain. What is it supposed to mean—except perhaps that I am in pain? (PI 246) Wittgenstein draws our attention to the fact that we often say of others that they know when we are in pain. This observation is not offered as a factual claim but as a grammatical one which confirms that we do say of others that they know whether we are in pain. He acknowledges one possible objection (or qualification) to his grammatical point when knowledge is connected with certainty. The qualification is that others do not know whether we are in pain with the same degree of knowledge, or certainty, that we do. Rather than arguing for or against such a claim, he once again turns the investigation around. ‘It can’t be said of me at all (except perhaps as a joke) that I know I am in pain. What is this supposed to mean—except that I am in pain?’ The issue of degrees of knowledge or certainty is irrelevant for the false dichotomy between myself and others disappears. The difference between myself and others is not a difference based on knowledge of my sensations. If we want to make a distinction based on knowledge then, Wittgenstein suggests, the distinction is just the opposite—that it makes sense to say of others that they know (and sometimes do not know) whether I am in pain, but that it makes no sense to say it of me.

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Wittgenstein continues this line of investigation in the next two paragraphs of §246, connecting knowledge (and certainty) with behaviour and doubt. The dichotomy between myself and others is originally expressed in terms of my (certain) knowledge and the (uncertain) knowledge of others. This certainty and uncertainty is often expressed in philosophy in terms of behaviour and doubt. Others are said to learn of my sensations only from my behaviour, while I am said to have knowledge of my own immediate sensations. In other words, I do not learn of my sensations through my behaviour, nor is it possible for me to doubt them. Such an impossibility is taken as an expression of certainty. Wittgenstein does not dispute such claims, rather he examines their grammatical implications. Other people cannot be said to learn of my sensations only from my behaviour, —for I cannot be said to learn of them. I have them. The truth is: it makes sense to say of other people that they doubt whether I am in pain; but not to say it about myself. (PI 246) It is not that others lack knowledge which I possess, but that it makes no sense to say that I doubt (or learn of) my sensations. No longer is it the case that the doubt of others is the result of a lesser degree of knowledge than my own. Wittgenstein shifts the emphasis, as it were, away from what others ‘cannot do’ to what I ‘cannot do’. However, to say that I cannot doubt whether I am in pain is not to make a discovery but to clarify one aspect of the grammar of doubt and the grammar of sensations. The nature of this grammatical investigation is further demonstrated in §247 and §248. Wittgenstein writes: ‘Only you can know if you had that intention.’ One might tell someone this when one was explaining the meaning of the word ‘intention’ to [them]. For then it means: that is how we use it. (And here ‘know’ means that the expression of uncertainty is senseless.) (PI 247) In this example, it at first appears as if a claim is being made about the nature of intentions. However, such a claim is used in the above example to explain and demonstrate how we use the word ‘intention’. As Wittgenstein clarifies, ‘only you can know if you had that intention’ is not a claim that others cannot know whether or not you had that intention,

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but that the expression of uncertainty concerning your own intentions is nonsensical. (We might say that we do not know what our intentions are under certain circumstances, but not that we do not know whether or not we had those intentions.) Similarly in §248 Wittgenstein writes that: ‘the proposition “Sensations are private” is comparable to “One plays patience by oneself”.’ The proposition ‘one plays patience by oneself’ can be used to explain to someone the meaning of the term ‘patience’; that ‘patience’ is a card game that one plays by oneself (a card game for one player only). The opposite of playing patience by oneself is not playing patience with others, but rather not playing patience. It is a grammatical claim. Similarly, the proposition ‘sensations are private’ might be used to explain our use of the word ‘sensation’; that sensations are private in the sense in which they are borne by an individual alone or cannot be shared (perhaps as joy or grief can also be private). The privacy of sensations does not involve the inability of others to know what is going on inside us, for they may know what (or how) we are feeling. ‘Sensations are private’ is not a claim or assertion attributing a property to sensations when the word is already understood. These philosophical remarks introduce various philosophical themes which Wittgenstein continues to investigate throughout the Investigations. They provide one example of his method of grammatical investigation which is strikingly similar to Kraus’s grammatical analysis. Just as Kraus analyses the cliché ‘in these great times’ by presenting various meanings, antitheses and ambiguities, Wittgenstein uses various meanings, antitheses and ambiguities, not to prove that there is no private language, but to demonstrate and clarify our conceptual confusion. Through grammatical investigation he demonstrates that our understanding of the linguistic expression of pain is problematic. He asks how words refer to sensations, and in what sense our sensations are private. He investigates the responses we are tempted to give (involving knowledge claims, certainty and doubt) and in so doing demonstrates that our claims do not mean what we think they mean. He demonstrates that we initially respond to the opening question in an unreflective or clichéd manner. Wittgenstein’s remarks on philosophy and language discuss and demonstrate the same grammatical precision as Kraus’s aphorisms. Consider the following remark in Culture and Value: ‘We are struggling with language. We are engaged in a struggle with language’ (CV 11e). In the first sentence language is the subject of our struggle or analysis. In the second, language is the tool which we use in our struggles (or vice versa). Language is both the subject of investigation or analysis, and the

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tool with which Wittgenstein works. This Krausian struggle with, and use of, language is also expressed in his remark that ‘philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language’ (PI 109). This remark, which is often read as referring to the bewitchment of our intelligence caused by language, can also be read as referring to the battle which uses language to fight against our intellectual bewitchment. It is the ambiguity of the remark itself which expresses a Krausian view of language. This view of language is integral to Wittgenstein’s later philosophy and is given in this remark as a description of philosophy itself. As with Kraus, Wittgenstein’s style of writing attempts to slow down his reader. His attention to grammatical detail and his use of complex punctuation force the reader to read slowly. This is exemplified in §243– §248. Wittgenstein himself writes, ‘I really want my copious punctuation marks to slow down the speed of reading. Because I should like to be read slowly. (As I myself read.)’ (CV 68e). Take, for example, the following remark (written during a grammatical discussion of pain and sensations): ‘The philosopher treats a question; like an illness’ (PI 255, Heller’s translation). Anscombe translates this remark; ‘The philosopher’s treatment of a question is like the treatment of an illness’. By changing the punctuation of the remark, however, she significantly alters its tempo or rhythm. Reading Anscombe’s translation, we pause (or stop) at the end of the remark. Thus it is likely to sound like an assertion or claim. Reading Heller’s translation, we pause after the first clause (‘the philosopher treats a question’) and then continue to the full stop (‘like an illness.’). The pause introduces various possible readings. The philosopher treats a question as one would treat an illness. (The philosopher does not answer a question, for example.) Or, the philosopher treats a question like an illness. The philosopher treats a question as something disabling or as something which hinders healthy philosophical discussion. Or, the philosopher treats a question like an illness, while others respond to questions differently. Or, the philosopher treats a question like an illness, which raises the question of how we effectively treat illnesses. (Do we treat symptoms or causes, or do we place the illness in the environment or context of the individual’s life in order to understand it?) All of these various readings are possible with Anscombe’s translation as well. But without the punctuation to slow us down, it is unlikely that we will pause to consider the ambiguity and multiplicity of meanings inherent in this remark. If read as a statement or claim, Wittgenstein’s remark will be read as the end of philosophical deliberation. If read with the original punctuation, which undermines its assertiveness, the remark will be read

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as the beginning of philosophical deliberation and will invite further investigation. Just as Kraus’s aphorisms call for slow, careful and repeated readings so too Wittgenstein’s remarks require and reward slow, careful and repeated readings. Within the secondary literature his remarks, although short, are rarely quoted in full. One reason for this (and one result of this) is that his remarks are often read too quickly and too generally. Rather than being attentive to every word and punctuation mark critics often dismiss Wittgenstein’s remarks as fragmentary and incomplete. With few exceptions, critical responses to his later writings are general and do not provide the care and detailed attention the writings deserve.19 For example, commentators and critics often refer to Wittgenstein’s remarks as aphorisms. Wittgenstein himself compares and contrasts his grammatical remarks to Kraus’s aphorisms writing: Raisins may be the best part of a cake, but a bag of raisins is not better than a cake; and someone who is in a position to give us a bag full of raisins still can’t bake a cake with them, let alone do something better. I am thinking of Kraus and his aphorisms, but of myself too and my philosophical remarks. A cake—that isn’t as it were: thinned-out raisins. (CV 66e) Wittgenstein compares and contrasts his philosophical remarks to Kraus’s aphorisms. The care with which he introduces his use of remarks in the preface to the Investigations is reinforced in this passage. He refers explicitly to Kraus’s aphorisms but describes his own writings as remarks.20 His grammatical remarks differ from Kraus’s aphorisms, although both attempt to stimulate readers to thoughts of their own. In comparing his philosophical remarks (and Kraus’s aphorisms) to raisins, Wittgenstein raises the question of their role or purpose. What do we do with these philosophical remarks? A bag full of raisins and a cake serve different purposes. Someone like Kraus, for example, who can give us a bag full of raisins still can’t bake a cake with them, ‘let alone do something better’. The final clause is left conspicuously open: What is something better that we can do with these remarks or aphorisms? Or, what do we do with these remarks? The comparison and contrast between his remarks and Kraus’s aphorisms raise methodological questions. To teach or stimulate someone to thoughts of their own is to nourish them philosophically and pedagogically. (It is to give them food for thought.)21

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Wittgenstein, like Kraus, does not give opinions. He distinguishes between making philosophical assertions and engaging in grammatical investigation. Philosophical assertions, argumentation and polemics are all part of the culture which Wittgenstein questions and challenges. He remarks, ‘I simply draw the person’s attention to what [they are] really doing and refrain from any assertions. Everything is then to go on within grammar’ (McGuinness 1979:186). For Wittgenstein, as for Kraus, grammatical investigation offers an alternative method of identifying and resolving philosophical problems. Grammatical investigation shifts the focus of what is important away from theoretical abstraction and argumentation and towards concrete situations and ordinary life. He, like Kraus, uses ordinary language and opposes false ornamentation and inauthenticity. He does not use technical or abstract academic terminology.22 The emphasis which Kraus places on ordinary language is also shared by Wittgenstein. In fighting against the corruption and inauthenticity of language Kraus upholds ordinary language and shifts our understanding of what is important, interesting and worthy of consideration. Von Wright describes Wittgenstein’s work as having ‘the same naturalness, frankness and freedom from all artificiality that was characteristic of him’ (von Wright 1984:4). Just as Kraus finds technical and abstract language corrupt and inauthentic, Wittgenstein finds philosophical and abstract language unusable. With reference to the Investigations von Wright confirms that: there is a striking absence of all literary ornamentation and of technical jargon or terminology. The union of measured moderation with richest imagination, the simultaneous impression of natural continuation and surprising turns, leads one to think of some other great productions of the genius of Vienna.23 (von Wright 1984:19) Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations are also responsive to the words of others. However he does not use satire. Unlike Kraus, his remarks do not ridicule or judge the words of others. The philosophical tendencies and confusions which he exposes are ones which he respects and often shares. He, like Kraus, uses the metaphor of the mirror to describe his philosophical writings. However, he uses the metaphor in a significantly different way. In Culture and Value he writes, ‘I ought to be no more than a mirror, in which my reader can see [their] own thinking with all its deformities so that, helped in this way, [they] can

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put it right’ (CV 18e). His writings reflect our thinking and call upon us to look at, or reflect upon, its pictures or images. In describing his writings as a mirror Wittgenstein does not claim to be showing us ‘how things are’, but rather to be showing us how we think (or how we see, speak and write about ourselves and the world). Acting as a mirror, his writings allow us to look at our thinking anew. His writings reflect details which might otherwise escape our attention, and with the aid of a mirror we are able to see numerous different angles, details and perspectives. The writings of Leonardo da Vinci provide further elucidation of the use of mirrors which, although originally referring to the pictures of a visual artist, apply equally to philosophical pictures: We know very well that errors are better recognized in the works of others than in our own; and often by reproving little faults in others, we may ignore great ones in ourselves…. I say that when you paint you should have a flat mirror and often look at your work as reflected in it, when you will see it reversed and it will appear to you like some other painters work, so you will be better able to judge of its faults than in any other way. (Leonardo da Vinci 1991:221) Both Wittgenstein and Leonardo da Vinci refer to the faults or deformities made visible in the mirror. And both men write of the recognition of our own faults which leads to correction. Only when we see our own thinking with all of its deformities are we helped to put it right. We alone are capable of correcting our own thinking (using the method of grammatical investigation). One of the impressive aspects of Wittgenstein’s writings is that we can see our own thinking in his writings (and that we can recognize ourselves in his thinking and in our shared language). It is part of his philosophical and methodological insight that we can see how we think by looking at how we use language. Wittgenstein shares with Kraus a sense of mirroring the words of his readers, only his mirroring does not take the form of satire, thereby avoiding the dangers of satire (which can be distorting and alienating). Kraus’s grammatical investigation is not purely negative or critical. Part of his task is to be a witness to his times; not merely to document its corruption but to challenge the terms of its discourse with his own. He attempts to meet hypocrisy with integrity, evasiveness with forthrightness, and imprecision with precision. He does so by taking others at

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their word and by being as good as his own. Kraus dared to ask what would happen if we took others at their word, and he dared to imagine what the world would be like if people meant what they said. For Kraus, to speak out against corruption is to speak out with integrity and show the possibility of so doing. And it is literally to speak out; to deny that the age speaks for him. To engage in the art of grammatical analysis involves an intellectual and moral struggle on the part of the writer. As Stern explains: the linguistic self-consciousness that Kraus articulates involves an immense reflective effort on the author’s part: the effort to make real and explicit in the act of composition the full rational and linguistic grounds on which the choice of each word and configuration of words is based and to incorporate something of that effort in the text. The end of that effort is a moral insight; but only those moral insights or voices which the languageconsciousness process of composition makes available; and every other mode of writing is rejected. (Stern 1966:77) For Kraus, the corruption of language is the expression of moral corruption. ‘Kraus’s critique of the way people used language in his society was, thus, an implied criticism of that society’ (Janik and Toulmin 1973:90). The corruption of language bespeaks the moral corruption of speakers who are no longer as good as their word or can no longer be taken at their word. It is possible to describe Kraus’s grammatical practice in terms of ‘poetic justice’. For Kraus language revenges itself on those who pervert it or use it idly (Field 1967:103). Kraus’s satire is biting and personal in its attack precisely because it is based on his adversary’s own words. That others reveal themselves in their language and that language revenges itself on those who misuse it is, for Kraus, poetic justice. For Kraus violations of grammar reveal moral violations. ‘Violations of the grammar of language point to similar violations of the grammar of logic, and…defects of thought show up moral defects’ (Engelmann 1967:127). Kraus also takes others ‘at their word’; it is an ethical response. As Engelmann writes, his satirical method ‘is nearly always redeemed by a conscientiousness which treats any personal weakness of the adversary that is not given away in [their] language as taboo…’ (Engelmann 1967:124). Kraus’s response to the words of others is therefore a form of

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poetic justice. There is also poetic justice for Kraus in the sense that language responds to his queries and inquiries. As Ungar explains: [Kraus] had the gift of letting the spirit of language, as it were, think for him… ‘I have drawn out of language many a thought I did not have or could not put into words.’ Language for him was the divining rod that locates the springs of thought, the key to bringing order out of chaos. (Ungar 1977:9) Thus, as Heller confirms, language is for Kraus a means, not of communicating what he knows, but of finding out what he does not know (Heller 1975:239). Benjamin confirms the importance of the concept of justice for Kraus, writing that: nothing is understood about this man until it has been perceived that, of necessity and without exception, everything—language and fact—falls for him within the sphere of justice. All his fire-eating, sword-swallowing philology in the newspapers pursues justice just as much as language. (Benjamin 1979:272) Language, according to Benjamin, is the matrix of justice for Kraus when he both saves and chastises through quotations. Kraus, by quoting the language of others, engages in an act of destruction. This act of destruction is acknowledged by Kraus himself. As Zohn writes: ‘the motto at the very beginning was not “Was wir bringen” (“What we shall print”), the announcement customarily made by a new publication, but “Was wir umbringen” (“What we shall destroy”)’.24 Benjamin confirms that justice, in this sense, is destructive rather than constructive. Only in despair did he discover in quotation the power not to preserve but to purify, to tear from context, to destroy; the only power in which hope still resides that something might survive this age— because it was wrenched from it. (Benjamin 1979:287–288) In this respect also, Kraus’s grammatical method can be described in terms of poetic justice. A remark by Lichtenberg, which is often quoted in connection with Kraus, is worth repeating. As Zohn explains:

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Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, the eighteenth-century physicist, aphorist and satirist, foreshadowed Kraus’s attitude when he wrote: ‘I have often wished that there might be a language in which it would be impossible ever to say a falsehood, or where at least every lapse from the truth would be a lapse from grammar’. Kraus felt that German was, or could be such a language, and when he refers to ‘die Sprache,’ the German language is meant. ‘What a way of life would develop if Germans took their orders from no other authority than that of language,’ he wrote in the title essay of Die Sprache.25 For Kraus, however, ‘no people have been so alienated from their language, and therefore from the source of their culture, as the Germans’.26 Thus, for Kraus, grammatical investigation is not only a means of identifying a loss of meaning but also a method of restoring the connection between words and the world. Thus it offers one possible medium for moral integrity. Kraus describes his grammatical investigation as an art and writes that ‘ethics is taught not by arguments but by providing examples of moral behaviour; this is the task of art’ (Janik and Toulmin 1973:198). He connects grammar and culture, writing: Adolf Loos and I—he literally and I grammatically—have done nothing more than show that there is a distinction between an urn and a chamber pot and that it is this distinction above all that provides culture with elbow room. The others, those who fail to make this distinction, are divided into those who use the urn as a chamber pot and those who use the chamber pot as an urn.27 In his example of the urn and the chamber pot Kraus affirms that there is a difference between them. An urn is a vase which is often used to hold the ashes of the dead. A chamber pot is a vessel used (in bedrooms) to hold urine. What would the world be like if we used urns as chamber pots and chamber pots as urns? The issue in Kraus’s choice of example is not one merely of confusing two types of vessels, but one which is as complex as our lives and our treatment of the dead. This remark reveals the connection between grammatical investigation and culture. Through his linguistic analysis Kraus is attentive to all the expressions of life in the language. This understanding of ‘grammar’ is broader than grammatical rules. As Timms explains,

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This principle of ‘looking intensely’ at words and objects inspired a hyperbolic style of cultural criticism. Both Kraus and Loos excelled in the symbolic decoding of trivia. This kind of cultural extrapolation is indeed characteristic of Viennese intellectual life of the period. (Timms 1986:123) For Kraus, the corruption of language and the corruption of life through language which occurred during the First World War made the speaking of language problematic. The atrocities which he witnessed were often unspeakable; literally unspeakable. Kraus did not have the words to describe what he saw, and others often used old words only by changing their meaning to accommodate new deeds. New words were coined to facilitate and often mask the talk of large-scale death and destruction. Human beings were no longer talked about as people but as ‘human material’ for the war effort. (If such examples seem trivial to us, this reveals more about us and the world in which we live than about the triviality of Kraus’s examples.)28 Clichés, catchwords and propaganda on all sides replaced meaningful speech and discussion. There was, according to Kraus, an over-abundance of chatter and noise, but little meaningful speech. Thus he fell silent at the outbreak of the First World War, being neither willing nor able to contribute to the cacophony of the times. For Kraus, ‘what is at stake in the war is the life or death of language’ (Zohn 1971:69). And thus, throughout the essay ‘In these great times’, he calls for silence. For Kraus, the unworthiness of his times is expressed in its treatment of language. Language ‘spontaneously mocks, screams and shakes with disgust. Life and language come to blows with each other until they burst, and the end is an unarticulated jumble.’ 29 It is this unarticulated jumble which he strives to quote and examine through grammatical analysis. The madness and corruption which Kraus identifies through language is dangerous and life-denying. Those who now have nothing to say because actions are speaking continue to talk. Let [them] who [have] something to say come forward and be silent! Nor may I bring out old words as long as deeds are committed that are new to us and spectators say that they are not to be expected of them. (Kraus 1984:71)

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But all around us in the cultural sphere we see only the spectacle of the intellect latching onto a catchword when a personality does not have the strength to keep silent and draw on its own resources. (Kraus 1984:80) When Kraus does begin to write again, as exemplified in the essay ‘In these great times’, he quotes and analyses the language of the world around him in order to protest against the corruption of language and life. His publications largely escape censorship during the war and become an important tool against it because his methods of ‘juxtaposing various statements and turning the spotlight of language on them’ were largely dismissed by the authorities, who failed to see the connection between language and the world (Zohn 1971:20). Such an attitude itself supports Kraus’s claims concerning the rift between language and life. Kraus also foresaw the dangers of the rise of the Third Reich in the early 1920s by analysing its language. The German language was ‘distorted out of recognition by the Nazis’ (Field 1967:196). Their abuse through language involved, equally, an abuse of language. They created new words and ‘in every sphere there was an impossible gulf between what the Nazis said and wrote on the one hand and what they did on the other’ (Field 1967:201). Kraus’s descriptions and analyses are all based on grammar: Nearly every horror of which the regime was capable—except the gas chambers—is recorded in Kraus’s pages. The satirist’s outraged humanity shows us detail upon detail, scene after scene in which the metaphors of violence so common in German become the facts of daily life in Germany. (Stern 1966:82) Kraus is able to foresee Nazi atrocities because he takes them at their word. The violence expressed in language is, for Kraus, the same violence enacted by the speakers. And the violence enacted on others is equally enacted on language itself. In 1924, Kraus wrote an essay entitled ‘In these small times’ predicting that the times would become ‘great’ again: ‘If this were not so, the attempt of the devil to brand them with the swastika would have failed on the first day.’30 During the First World War, Kraus’s satirical prose revealed the rift between words and deeds. During the rise of Nazism hypocrisy and evasion also existed:

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The methods and style of the Propaganda Minister were the apotheosis of that type of ‘Asphalt literature’ which it had been Kraus’s life duty to attack and which it had been the claim of the Nazis to have ended. (Field 1967:198) But Kraus’s satirical method and grammatical analysis prove inadequate when the propaganda becomes literally true. As Stern writes, ‘the advent of Hitler is the end of satire’ (Stern 1966:82). There no longer appears to be a common language to which Kraus can appeal. The corruption of language can only be demonstrated against meaningful language, and the violence and force of the Nazi regime (against language and people) make speaking meaningfully impossible. Kraus’s efforts, throughout his lifetime, to draw people’s attention to the consequences of their words, and to the efficacy of their words and deeds, fails to stop the rise of Nazism and so the time passes in which to speak. The time comes to be silent. In the 1930s Kraus faces the question of whether a ‘linguistic or literary art [is] still possible when a brutal power structure—one that is inimical to the spirit—has assumed absolute control’ (Zohn 1971:129). He answers in silence. In an aphorism he explains his call for silence, writing that ‘it is better not to express what one means than to express what one does not mean’.31 Silence, for Kraus, is an alternative to the use of corrupt language. For even if spoken with integrity, Kraus knows that his words will be taken to mean other than what he means by them because language has become corrupt and meaningless. After the rise of Hitler in Germany Kraus does not publish anything in Die Fackel for nine months. Because of his silence he is accused of being a coward, and he is berated for his lack of solidarity with anti-Nazi writers. He responds to these allegations with a poem which appears in Die Fackel (No. 888) in October 1933. It was to be Kraus’s last poem and in it he claims that he is silent for he is wordless. The bedrock of language has broken. ‘The word’ (meaningful language) died as the world of the Nazis awoke. Kraus realized that the brute force of the Nazis was ‘no object for polemics, and madness no object of satire’ (Zohn 1971:130). His satirical writings could no longer challenge his opponents for ‘as he himself realized, he was attempting to do the impossible; to attack an opponent who spoke and wrote a language utterly different from that which he used himself (Field 1967:196). The horror of the Third Reich could not itself be expressed in words, for part of its horror involved the corruption of words themselves (and corruption through words). Field suggests that Kraus’s grammatical approach still retains some purpose

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for even if the Nazis were essentially beyond the reach of satire and even of polemic: at least the literalness of Kraus’s approach was successful in laying bare the literalness of the movement that he was attacking…. Stripped of all the lies and evasions of the Propaganda Ministry, the threats of Hitler and Goering, unlike those of the statesmen of 1914– 18, must be taken literally. (Field 1967:212) However, even the act of quoting such threats becomes problematic, for if satire has lost its force (and the purpose of quoting is to fight corruption) at what point does quoting remain a fight against corruption and at what point, in the mere act of speaking or repeating these words, does quoting condone or become complicit in the abuse of language and life itself? Kraus writes, for example, ‘I cannot think of anything to say about Hitler.’32 He quotes Hitler only on very rare occasions. This does not mean that Kraus has no criticism of Hitler and Nazism, but that he has no means of speaking such criticism; there is nothing left for him to say because Nazism has overpowered meaningful speech. Kraus faces another difficulty because, having been a critic of his society throughout his lifetime, he is sometimes compared with the Nazis. As Iggers explains, Kraus was a sharp and penetrating critic: But precisely for the same reason he gave himself the appearance of allying himself with other radical critics of the same society, critics who in the end were to bring about a totalitarian regime which was entirely opposed to his own conception of morality in private and public affairs. (Iggers 1967:228) Kraus struggles with the awareness that his words, if spoken at all, will be misused by others. His writings attempt to warn his society about the inflated claims and promises of science (rationalism) and capitalism. He stresses the physical and spiritual welfare of human beings which he sees being threatened by his civilization. The Nazis also attack this civilization with words that sound very similar. However: the attack of Nazism came from the other extreme; its appeal was to the irrational in [human beings]. The nature of its polemics was similar to Kraus’s in so far as it did not aim to establish rational,

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objective definitions for words. Instead, the Nazis wrapped words in a fog of emotion and mystery to be understood intuitively and usually only by assembled masses. (Iggers 1967:150–151) Kraus’s writings, although not engaging in rational argumentation, use a very specific method of grammatical analysis. Thus he is not simply appealing to the irrational in human beings, nor is he wrapping words in an emotional fog. Due to the pervasive corruption of language, however, this distinction is not always clear to others. Kraus continued to work throughout 1933 on a work entitled Die Dritte Walpurgisnacht (The Third Walpurgis Night). The title refers to both parts of Faust as well as to the Third Reich. Kraus decided not to publish it and it appeared only posthumously. He was continually astonished by ‘the return of the monstrous in ever heightened forms’ (Zohn 1971:130). As Zohn describes: the entire Walpurgisnacht seems like a desperate rear-guard action; it is the rambling monologue of a worried man who talks incessantly in an effort to keep the demons at bay, the thrashing of a man desperately trying to keep afloat in the rampaging waters of a polluted river. (Zohn 1971:130) Kraus struggles with unspeakable fears and atrocities. From 1934 onwards he prepared to ‘live in the safe sentence structure’. In his despair Kraus turned to Sprachlehre and made efforts to establish a language seminar which, by presenting horrors of syntax, would aim at getting closer to the possibilities, and thus the mysteries of the most profound language, whose obscene use had led to the horrors of blood.33 Thus, although his grammatical analysis appeared foolish and futile to others amidst the events of the 1930s, Kraus continued to believe that if such grammatical analysis had been effectively practised (if word and deed were carefully attended to) the events of the 1930s would not, and could not, have happened. That they were happening was his grief and despair, but grammatical analysis remained the only response he knew. As Stern writes:

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the more barbaric and callous the world around him became, the more insistent his tone and his claim that he held the whole world captive in a phrase. And the more insistent his claim the more desperate his realization that the age was past hope and past praying for, that his immensely subtle and varied vision was lost on it. (Stern 1966:81–82) As Berthold Viertel writes, after a lifetime of powerful speech Kraus fell silent. There was no longer anything for him to warn about for everything happened in the way that he had foreseen and foretold it. ‘All horrors have come to pass—that war and this peace. He has had the harshest fate: to be proved right in such a frightful way. So he finally fell silent.’34 Wittgenstein seizes upon Kraus’s line of thinking for his later work of philosophical clarification. As with Kraus, this method of investigation is a response to early twentieth-century European and American civilization or culture (represented by Vienna which was, in Kraus’s own words, not only a capital of world culture but simultaneously a playground for world destruction). Wittgenstein acknowledges this culture or civilization in his choice of motto for the Investigations and in his prefaces to both the Philosophical Remarks and the Investigations. As previously noted, his motto for the Investigations is part of a lament from a play by Nestroy concerning the fact that so little social and physical evil is eradicated in a world of progress. Wittgenstein also writes in the preface to the Investigations (in 1945) of ‘the darkness of his time’ and of his attempt to bring light into one brain or another. He acknowledges the darkness of his time and hopes to bring light into it, just as Kraus does with Die Fackel (The Torch). And in his ‘Sketch for a Foreword’ Wittgenstein contrasts the spirit of the main current of European and American civilization with the spirit of his own writings. He writes that ‘the spirit of this civilization makes itself manifest in the industry, architecture and music of our time, in its fascism and socialism, and it is alien and uncongenial to the author’ (CV 6e). For Wittgenstein, the spirit of the age is expressed in many different forms (from its industry to its music and its philosophy). It encompasses both fascism and socialism. It is not therefore a particular political or philosophical doctrine (or artistic movement) that he is challenging, but an entire culture or spirit. Von Wright claims that Wittgenstein’s later work signals a radical departure from previously existing paths of philosophy and that its spirit is unlike anything in Western thought (von

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Wright 1984:14). He connects the issue of publishing with this spirit and writes that: [Wittgenstein] once wrote that he felt as though he were writing for people who would think in a quite different way, breathe a different air of life, from that of present-day [people]. For people of a different culture, as it were. That was one reason why he did not himself publish his later works. (von Wright 1984:1) Wittgenstein describes the form of the main current of European and American culture (or the spirit of this civilization) in terms of ‘progress’: Our civilization is characterized by the word ‘progress’. Progress is its form rather than progress being one of its features. Typically it constructs. It is occupied with building an ever more complicated structure. And even clarity is sought only as a means to this end, not as an end in itself. For me on the contrary clarity, perspicuity are valuable in themselves. (CV 7e) According to Wittgenstein, progress is not a feature of the main current of European and American civilization, but its form. The motto chosen for the Investigations claims, not that progress has not been made but that it is in the very nature of progress to appear much greater than it really is. This suggests that he is questioning nothing less than the form of this culture or civilization. His choice of motto is also an indication of how we are to approach his text, for he contrasts the form of his philosophical writings with the form of ‘progress’ identified in his motto. There are several interpretations of his motto (that ‘it is in the nature of progress to appear much greater than it really is’). Malcolm suggests that the motto is a warning against seeing his philosophical advance (or achievement) as greater than it really is. According to Malcolm, Wittgenstein ‘was inclined to feel that the importance of his advance (in philosophy) might be exaggerated by those who were not too close to it’ (Malcolm 1984:51). Malcolm suggests that this feeling is reflected in the choice of Nestroy’s remark for the motto of the Investigations. According to Malcolm, therefore, Wittgenstein makes progress but cautions us against taking it as greater than it is. However, Wittgenstein writes in his preface that his work is variously misunderstood in the

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sense of being ‘more or less mangled or watered down’ rather than exaggerated. A similar interpretation views the Investigations as a qualified advance over the Tractatus (rather than over philosophy generally). As Baker and Hacker write, for example, ‘it might be suggested that [Nestroy’s remark] intimates that the advance made in the Philosophical Investigations over the philosophy of the Tractatus is less substantial than it appears’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:16). Baker and Hacker conclude that this interpretation is unlikely and they claim that the value or achievement of philosophy itself is placed in question: More probable is the hypothesis that the intention behind the motto echoes the end of the Preface to the Tractatus: ‘the value of this work…is to show how little is achieved when these problems are solved’. (Baker and Hacker 1983:16) All three interpretations attribute progress to the Investigations and interpret Wittgenstein’s choice of motto as qualifying or denying that ‘progress’. It is difficult to read the quotation from Nestroy with these interpretations and not find the motto falsely modest or hypocritical (if qualifying or denying the progress made in the work that is to follow). Malcolm’s interpretation, as noted above, fails to recognize that Wittgenstein complained of his philosophy being misunderstood in the sense of being more or less mangled or watered down. And the hypothesis forwarded by Baker and Hacker fails to recognize that where the Tractatus represents the end of philosophy for Wittgenstein, the Investigations represents a new beginning or the continuation of philosophy. If, however, we read the motto as an indication of how we are to approach the text, and if we remember Wittgenstein’s remarks concerning the form and spirit of the main current of European and American civilization (which he describes in terms of ‘progress’) then the meaning of the motto becomes clear. Wittgenstein contrasts the form and goals of his philosophical writings with the form of progress characteristic of his civilization. It is not that his philosophical writings do not make progress or that their progress is limited, but that they take an entirely different form. He writes, for example, that each of the sentences he writes ‘is trying to say the whole thing, i.e., the same thing over and over again; it is as though they were all simply views of one object seen from different angles’ (CV 7e). If

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viewed in the spirit of the main current of European and American civilization, his later writings will seem futile and repetitive (as he attempts to say the same thing over and over again). However, in each sentence he is trying to say ‘the whole thing’ with an aim of clarification. It is not that he is acknowledging his inability to make philosophical progress, but that he is rejecting both the form and goal of such an ideal. Wittgenstein contrasts his later philosophy with the false ideal of progress (for it is in the nature of progress to appear much greater than it really is). Wittgenstein rejects the form of progress inherent in his culture or civilization and his philosophical writings take the form of grammatical investigation following the tradition of Kraus. His alternative method of philosophical inquiry, and his alternative goal of clarification, can be described therefore as a philosophy of culture. Cavell, for example, connects the idea of a philosophy of culture with Wittgenstein’s teaching (or with one way of seeing his teaching). According to Cavell, the Investigations can be seen as a philosophy of culture for it relates to its time. He proposes that we: take the famous description in the Preface to the Investigations— ‘this work in its poverty and in the darkness of this time’ —to be naming the time in question as what is conceived and depicted by and in the work as a whole. (Cavell 1988a:262) Far from being a narrow and ahistorical academic exercise, Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation offers an alternative philosophical practice. Grammatical investigation provides an important alternative to political rhetoric, polemics, argumentation and abstraction for Kraus and it offers Wittgenstein an important tool for his work of philosophical clarification. Both writers are aware of the corruption and dangers of language-use in the twentieth century and both writers use language as a means of dispelling such corruption. For Wittgenstein, as for Kraus, grammatical investigation provides an alternative form of inquiry. He does not engage in philosophy in the terms established and used by the discipline of philosophy (within academic institutions). As a form of investigation which leads to clarity rather than progress and construction, his method of grammatical investigation does not result in theories, arguments or explanations. Just as Kraus does not engage in polemics or argumentation but uses grammatical analysis as an alternative method of addressing and

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examining the important issues and events of his times, so too Wittgenstein does not engage in philosophical polemics or argumentation. He rejects all philosophical theory as theory, and his later writings do not use technical or academic terminology. Just as Kraus finds the terms of political discourse too empty or too dangerous to use, so Wittgenstein acknowledges that words in philosophy are often unusable because they are constantly used in a superficial or misleading way. According to Drury, he often describes this situation in philosophy using the metaphor of a road that has become so muddied that it can no longer be trod (Drury 1976:24). Kraus uses satire to stimulate the imagination. His aim is less to declare facts than to explore possibilities. Thus Timms describes the mode of his writing as creative. Similarly, Wittgenstein uses grammatical investigation to creatively explore possibilities. He writes, our investigation…is directed not towards phenomena, but, as one might say, towards the ‘possibilities’ of phenomena. We remind ourselves, that is to say, of the kind of statement that we make about phenomena. (PI 90) Like Kraus, he looks intensely at words and attempts to reveal when language becomes an unarticulated jumble. With reference to the grammatical investigation discussed above (§243) Wittgenstein writes that ‘in the end when one is doing philosophy one gets to the point where one would like just to emit an inarticulate sound. —But such a sound is an expression only as it occurs in a particular language-game, which should now be described’ (PI 261). Wittgenstein’s use of the method of grammatical investigation also echoes in important respects Kraus’s calls for justice. He writes, for example, ‘the method of philosophy: the perspicuous representation of grammatical//linguistic//facts. The Goal: the transparency of arguments. Justice’ (P 171). According to Wittgenstein, ‘our task is to be just. That is, we must only point out and resolve the injustices of philosophy, and not posit new parties—and creeds’ (P 181). The absence of theories and creeds is acknowledged by Wittgenstein using a description of philosophy which again echoes Kraus. Kraus introduces Die Fackel with the words ‘Was wir umbringen’ (‘What we destroy’). In the Investigations we find the following words:

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Where does our investigation get its importance from, since it seems only to destroy everything interesting, that is, all that is great and important? (As it were all the buildings, leaving behind only bits of stone and rubble.) What we are destroying is nothing but houses of cards and we are clearing up the ground on which they stand. (PI 118) Houses of cards represent the main current of European and American culture or civilization and he contrasts this construction with his work of clarification.35 Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations alter, not only the form of philosophical investigation, but our philosophical interests and values. Where Kraus identifies linguistic loss of meaning almost exclusively with the corruption of language (a loss of meaning through hypocrisy, complacency, pretence, evasion and lies) Wittgenstein identifies loss of meaning with a much broader understanding of grammatical confusion. He would not deny the corruption of language which Kraus identifies, however. He asks Malcolm, for example: What is the use of studying philosophy if all that it does for you is to enable you to talk with some plausibility about some abstruse questions of logic, etc., and if it does not improve your thinking about the important questions of everyday life, if it does not make you more conscientious than any…journalist in the use of the DANGEROUS phrases such people use for their own ends. (Malcolm 1984:35) He refers to the important questions of everyday life and the use of studying philosophy with reference to the dangerous phrases used by journalists (and others) for their own ends. Such comments are reminiscent of Kraus’s writings and work. Kraus’s use of satire and grammatical analysis ultimately proves insufficient and ineffective when confronted with the (linguistic and physical) violence of the Third Reich. It also proves dangerous because satire can itself become abusive. Satire is by definition uncharitable (Timms 1986:244). Kraus fought the implications of a shared language and sat in judgement on others. Unlike Kraus, however, Wittgenstein uses the method of grammatical investigation to examine situations in which our own words also become meaningless to us. His work of conceptual clarification is directed at our own words and deeds and not merely at the words of others. He acknowledges that language is inherited and shared, and he

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recognizes that the speaking of a shared language offers the possibility of meaningful speech as well as implications in its corruption. Wittgenstein examines a shared language and does not distance himself from his readers. He offers his own words for analysis and offers the words of others insofar as they express shared tendencies and confusions. According to Cavell, Wittgenstein does not imagine himself free from the tendencies he recognizes in others. He describes these grammatical or conceptual confusions as ‘human’. Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations can be read as a form of grammatical confession rather than as a form of grammatical accusation or attack. With reference to the philosophical (or metaphysical) tendency in human beings he remarks, ‘all that I can say is this: I do not scoff at this tendency in [human beings]: I hold it in reverence. And here it is essential that this is not a description of sociology but that I am speaking about myself’ (McGuinness 1979:118). He speaks of philosophy as a tool which is useful only against philosophers, but he also speaks of the ‘philosopher in us’.36 He begins the Investigations with a quotation from Augustine’s Confessions, not because it represents a position which he wishes to attack but because ‘the conception must be important if so great a mind held it’ (Malcolm 1984:59–60). He respects Augustine and does not hold Augustine’s words up to ridicule or scorn.37 Wittgenstein recognizes and acknowledges the naturalness of what we say or are tempted to say in philosophy. Grammatical investigation attends to all the expressions of life in a language. By using confession and not satire he emphasizes the importance of acknowledging our own tendencies and confusions. This represents a significant methodological difference from the works of Kraus. In response to the works of Kraus we are more likely to recognize the corruption of language in others or to become defensive if we recognize ourselves as the target of his satirical attacks. The acknowledgement required by Wittgenstein differs from the judgement passed by Kraus. He acknowledges that our conceptual confusions often result from our own search for meaning and from wanting to see things in certain ways. Our scruples can be our misunderstandings (PI 120). And he recognizes that inherent in the workings of language itself are the possibilities of such confusions. As Cavell writes: the philosophically pertinent griefs to which language comes are not disorders, if that means they hinder its workings; but are essential to what we know as the learning or sharing of language, to our

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attachment to our language; they are a function of its order. (Cavell 1988a: 256–257) Like Kraus, Wittgenstein acknowledges that grammatical confusion (and loss of meaning) are not merely intellectual errors, but potentially a form of madness and alienation. One important aspect of his later writings is that he never underestimates the possibility of (political or philosophical) madness and its human consequences. As with Kraus, however, language offers the means of restoring the connection between our words and our world.38 Cavell writes that Wittgenstein is: naming language less as the efficient cause of philosophical grief, than as the medium of its dispelling. One may perhaps speak of language and its form of life—the human—as a standing opportunity for grief…for which language is the relief. The weapon is put into our hands, but we need not turn it upon ourselves. (Cavell 1988a:257) Brecht writes with reference to Kraus, that ‘when the age laid hands upon itself, he was the hands’ (Benjamin 1979:271). Just as confession differs from satire, however, Wittgenstein does not use language as a weapon against us. Language is less the efficient cause of philosophical grief than the medium of its dispelling. It is possible to see Wittgenstein’s later writings as beginning, in a sense, where Kraus’s writings leave off. They begin with an acknowledgement that philosophical confusion or loss of meaning is expressed, not only in the extraordinary events of war and political corruption, but also in the ordinary events of everyday life. He represents, as it were, a shift from the extraordinary atrocities of his times to the realization that similar events happen on a daily basis. In 1936 Wittgenstein com-mented to Drury that the atrocities of the First World War were not as exceptional as people tended to believe: ‘nowadays it is the fashion to emphasize the horrors of the last war…. There are just as horrible things happening all around us today, if only we had eyes to see them’ (Rhees 1981:144). Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations return to everyday life. He does not return to everyday life in order to escape the corruption and difficulties identified by Kraus, but because it is in the ordinary everyday world that such difficulties are also taking place. It is not only in our ordinary world that we need to respond to such difficulties, but (as Kraus and Wittgenstein recognize) it is our ordinary everyday world which offers

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the possibility of clarity and meaning. Thus, according to Cavell, the Investigations depicts a culture in which ‘nothing is happening all at once, there is no narrative for it to tell. What is of philosophical importance or interest—what there is for philosophy to say—is happening repeatedly, unmelodramatically, uneventfully’ (Cavell 1988a: 264). Cavell connects this depiction of the times with Wittgenstein’s later philosophy and concludes: Now imagine a world in which the voices of the interlocutors of the Investigations continue on, but in which there is no Wittgensteinian voice as their other. It is a world in which our danger to one another grows faster than our help for one another. (Cavell 1988a:264) It is the world of Karl Kraus.

Chapter 2

The Austrian School Reform Movement

According to conventional wisdom Wittgenstein falls philosophically silent at the completion of the Tractatus (following the First World War) and remains philosophically silent from 1919 until 1929, at which time he returns to Cambridge and begins (what has come to be known as) his later philosophy. The ten years which separate his early and later writings are worthy of consideration however. According to Bartley, Wittgenstein does not abandon philosophy after the First World War but attempts to put into practice the ethical portion of his earlier writings, while at the same time beginning to formulate the concerns which are to dominate his later philosophy (Bartley 1974b:4–5).1 Wittgenstein’s way of thinking about language and philosophy changes, and his philosophical aims shift from the giving of solutions (or results) to the teaching of methods. The shift from the Tractatus to the Investigations can be seen as both a philosophical and pedagogical shift. In the preface to the Tractatus Wittgenstein writes, ‘I, therefore, believe myself to have found on all essential points, the final solution to the problems’ (TLP 4). In his later philosophy, ‘he remarked to the effect that it did not matter whether his results were true or not: what mattered was that “a method had been found”’ (Fann 1969:109–110). This shift in methodology is captured in comments which compare both his early and later writings to textbooks. He begins the preface to the Tractatus with the words: Perhaps this book will be understood only by someone who has… already had the thoughts that are expressed in it—or at least similar thoughts. —So it is not a textbook. —Its purpose would be achieved if it gave pleasure to one person who read and understood it. (TLP 3)

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He contrasts the Tractatus with a textbook because it will not teach anyone the thoughts which it expresses. In contrast the Investigations is described as a textbook which stimulates thinking. This shift, coupled with Wittgenstein’s persistent claims (throughout his later writings) to be teaching philosophical methods, brings into prominence the ten years which separate the completion of the Tractatus from the beginning of his later philosophy. During this decade Wittgenstein was a teacher. The pedagogical shifts which occur in his philosophical activities, as well as the methodological innovations of his later philosophy, are illuminated by his years as an elementary school teacher in Austria. Engelmann confirms the importance of this period in his life and writes that ‘unfruitful as Wittgenstein’s teaching experience appears to have been for him, its influence on his development from the author of the Tractatus to that of the Investigations should not be underestimated…’ (Engelmann 1967:114–116). His six years as an elementary school teacher are important, not because of the people he came to meet or know nor because of the specific principles, doctrines or slogans of the Austrian School Reform Movement.2 Rather their importance lies in his re-evaluation of language-acquisition and language-use, his awareness of pedagogical issues, and his practice and experience as a teacher. Wittgenstein’s pedagogical knowledge and experience combine with the general goals and methods of the Austrian School Reform Movement to anticipate, in many important respects, his later philosophical teaching and writings. Wittgenstein’s year of teacher-training (1919–1920) corresponds to the first year of the Austrian School Reform Movement and his last year of teaching (1926) corresponds to the last year of that movement. His years as an elementary school teacher reveal the practice of pedagogical techniques which are strikingly similar to those found in his later philosophy. The years which he spent teaching can be seen, therefore, as an important stage in his philosophical development. The decade which separates the Tractatus from his later philosophy was a time of learning for Wittgenstein (through the practice of teaching). After the First World War, and the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, the Austrian Republic adopted new goals and methods of educational instruction. Led by Otto Glöckel, Austria’s Secretary of Education, there developed in Austria a new school system which replaced rote learning by ‘Arbeitsschule’ —learning by doing:

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In place of rote learning, the child now had the ‘Arbeitsschule’ — learning by doing; the teacher had to step down from [their] podium and move among [their] pupils. [They] could no longer talk down to them as an undisputed authority, but must now be their guide and friend. (Papanek 1962:iii) Among the main concepts of the Austrian School Reform Movement were the ideas that elementary school children had a faculty of logical thinking which could be developed and that children enjoyed learning. In other words, it was proposed that when children came to an understanding of a problem, through investigation, they would be eager to continue learning. Education involved ‘active learning’ and learning through activities. Further, ‘education was seen as an unending process with the principle of continuous growth’ (Papanek 1962:vii). ‘It was understood that education was not just the acquisition of knowledge and skills, but the development of certain attitudes, traits and habits of life’ (Papanek 1962:ix). The Austrian School Reform Movement grew out of a variety of different social, psychological, political and educational theories, which were adopted and implemented across the national school system. In other words, the aims, methods and curricula of the new school system were based on existing theories and ideas. No new educational theories were introduced. The Arbeitsschule (the ‘learning by doing’, or literally, ‘work-school’ method) assumed three basic principles of teaching: (i) it must accord with the nature of the child, (ii) it must involve self-activity, and (iii) integrated instruction. It used the Arbeitsmethode (activity method). The philosophy of ‘work education’ was articulated by Eduard Burger, who was appointed to the Education Reform Division in 1919 and who was responsible for drafting school reform laws in the administrative section for elementary schools (Papanek 1962:60). Burger’s basic ‘philosophy of work education’ was expressed in his claim that ‘what the pupil can do should be done by the pupil, not by the teacher’ (Papanek 1962:61). According to Papanek, therefore, ‘instead of handing out ready-made knowledge to rather passively receptive students, the schools undertook as their first task the training of young minds for critical thinking’ (Papanek 1962:118). According to Glöckel, the methods used for the assimilation of subject matter were as important as the subject matter itself. The role of the school was to guide a child to self-activity. In the words of Glöckel:

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Youth must learn to question, to doubt, to meditate—and to enjoy it—that they may not do homage to false authority! They must mature through their own thinking and their own inquiry; they must labor for and work out their own convictions and face intelligently the great problems that agitate our times. Only what the child works out for [themselves], only the knowledge [they earn] by [their] own efforts and through [their] own experience can become [their] undisputed property.3 The child was guided to this self-activity, in part, by two central methods. The first was the method of Bodenständigkeit; the rooting of education in the environment. Knowledge was gained, not only through textbooks, but also from the world around the child. Teachers gathered material from the child’s environment so that the child could ‘first learn to know [their] own home surroundings in order that [they] might then find [their] way outside’ (Papanek 1962:53). Model-making and the use of illustrative materials also contributed to the rooting of education in the environment. The second method was the method of Gesamtunterricht, in which there was no strict division of subject matter and hours of instruction. Rather, the teacher focused ‘all branches of instruction on one central topic. Language, writing, drawing and handicrafts, the child’s conception of [their] environment, arithmetically and geometrically, must all flow naturally from the particular topic being treated’ (Papanek 1962:55). The subjects of instruction were connected (and interrelated) one with another without any strict demarcation. Among the activities used in connection with these methods were drawing, music, physical culture (games, dance and sports) and school walks. It is interesting to note that school walks: were considered one of the most important methods of instruction. The students were told to keep their eyes and ears open so as to be able to use, next day, what they had seen and heard. The children’s experiences and observations on such outings became rich teaching material. The school walk—with all its preparations, incidents and follow-ups—was not planned simply for the sake of what the children might learn about their environment—trees, flowers, animals, people at work, their working habits. These observations became the subject matter of writing, reading, arithmetic, drawing, singing, calisthenics and of special work projects. (Papanek 1962:90)

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It is within the Austrian School Reform Movement, with its work-school method of self-activity, the rooting of education in the environment, and integrated learning, that Wittgenstein trained and taught as an elementary school teacher. In September 1919 Wittgenstein enrolled in a teacher-training college in Vienna; the Lehrerbildungsanstalten in the Kundmanngasse. This teacher-training college was one of the first to operate under the general direction of Glöckel (Bartley 1974a:317). Wittgenstein attended the teacher-training course for one year in order to obtain a teaching certificate. He subsequently taught in Trattenbach from 1920 until 1922, in Puchberg from 1922 until 1924, and then in Otterthal from 1924 until April 1926. He is known to have subscribed to Die Quelle and Schulreform, two of the Reform Movement’s leading periodicals.4 There are varying and conflicting reports concerning Wittgenstein’s career as an elementary school teacher.5 He was by all accounts, however, an enthusiastic, dedicated and gifted teacher who worked very diligently for his students. According to Georg Berger, the provisional headmaster at Trattenbach at the time of Wittgenstein’s arrival: He asked me to help him if necessary. I willingly promised to do so, but it was not necessary. He was very diligent at the school. For every class he painstakingly wrote anesson plan in a book large and thick enough to be a school register. The school hours were always too short for him. (Hausmann 1982:19) According to Emmerich Koderhold, one of Wittgenstein’s students, his teaching methods were often unforgettably effective (Hausmann 1982: 21). Another student, Oskar Fuchs, claims that his enthusiasm for passing on his knowledge to his pupils knew no limits (Hausmann 1982: 17). Wittgenstein’s sister Hermine describes him as a teacher: He is interested in everything himself and he knows how to pick the most important aspects of anything and make them clear to others. I myself had the opportunity of watching Ludwig teach on a number of occasions, as he devoted some afternoons to the boys in my occupational school. It was a marvellous treat for all of us. He did not simply lecture, but tried to lead the boys to the correct solution by means of questions. On one occasion he had them inventing a steam engine, on another designing a tower on the blackboard, and on yet another depicting moving human figures. The interest which

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he aroused was enormous. Even the ungifted and usually inattentive among the boys came up with astonishingly good answers, and they were positively climbing over each other in their eagerness to be given a chance to answer or to demonstrate a point. (Wittgenstein 1984:5) Monk confirms that ‘with everything he taught, Wittgenstein attempted to arouse in the children the same curiosity and questioning spirit that he himself brought to everything in which he took an interest’ (Monk 1990:195). Wittgenstein’s creative and innovative methods can be seen as consistent with the school system’s method of ‘learning by doing’. According to Fuchs (one of the students) he took great trouble to guide the children to find out for themselves what was possible. Wittgenstein, also, ‘wrote up his projects and school activities by reference to these [school reform] principles in the reports he was required to submit regularly’ (Bartley 1974b:77). His teaching methods included modelmaking and the use of illustrative materials. Hargrove writes that ‘Wittgenstein’s daily pedagogical discussions with Norbert Rosner of Puchberg for almost a year often stressed the value of models as illustrative examples’ (Hargrove 1980:455). He made many teaching aids and ‘with the help of the children: a model steam engine, a model iron works, mammal skeletons, etc.’ (Hausmann 1982:19). He also took students on walks, taught them astronomy at night, and led excursions to Vienna.6 The following description of one of Wittgenstein’s excursions from Trattenbach to Vienna clearly demonstrates the ideals of integrated learning and the rooting of education in the environment: As they [the children] hiked through the woods to catch the train from Gloggnitz, Wittgenstein required them to identify local plants and stones, samples of which they had already studied in class. While they wandered through the streets of Vienna, he threw a barrage of questions and information at them, calling their attention to machines, architectural styles, or other things they had already learned about at school. (Bartley 1974b:80) Wittgenstein was sometimes criticized for going beyond the aims and methods of the Austrian School Reform Movement. He successfully taught advanced algebra and geometry for example. And Rosner comments on how he ‘often went on his own way, wanting to find new methods of

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teaching and education’ (Hausmann 1982:22).7 Rosner refers not only to Wittgenstein’s success in the teaching of advanced mathematics, but also to innovations such as the building and use of a potter’s wheel. One of his innovations was to teach by going from the difficult to the simple (or from the extraordinary to the ordinary). Not only in mathematics, but also in grammar and other subjects: Wittgenstein argued that the child should learn the principle of a thing through an interesting, though possibly difficult specific case; even if other standard examples were easier to learn, there was no point in cluttering up the mind of the child with them unless [they] understood and could apply the principle behind them. Thus one went from the unusual to the ordinary rather than—as many teachers had hitherto supposed—from the ordinary to the unusual. (Bartley 1974b:79) The children learned through investigation, and the method of ‘learning by doing’ involved acquiring knowledge by working or puzzling something out for oneself (Bartley 1974a:312). Practical exercises, therefore, played an important part in his teaching (Monk 1990:195). Wittgenstein’s teaching methods embodied the main concepts of the Austrian School Reform Movement. While an elementary school teacher Wittgenstein published a ‘Dictionary for Elementary Schools’. This dictionary (or word book) was described by his publisher (Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky) as an ‘orthography book of everyday life for…use in rural schools’ (WV xxe). According to Eduard Buxbaum (the district school inspector) who reviewed the dictionary prior to publication, ‘the work principle [according to Glöckel’s reform] has made the use of a dictionary in the upper classes of the elementary schools and in the Burgerschule the most pressing question of the present time’ (WV xxie). The use of the dictionary is consistent with Glöckel’s principle of ‘learning by doing’, for reasons which Wittgenstein himself outlines in his preface to the dictionary: The goal of this dictionary is to fill an urgent need with respect to the present teaching of orthography. It is the result of the author’s practical experiences: In order to improve orthographical writing in his class and, in order to enable students to inform themselves about the spelling of a word, the author found it necessary to supply them with dictionaries. Firstly, such a dictionary should enable

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the student to look up a word as quickly as possible. Secondly, the way in which the dictionary informs the student should enable [them] to retain the looked-up word permanently. The spelling of words becomes an interesting and urgent problem for the student mainly when it comes to the writing and correcting of compositions… Only a dictionary makes it possible to hold the student responsible for the spelling of what [they have] written because it furnishes [them] with reliable measures for finding and correcting [their] mistakes, provided [they have] a mind to do so. It is, however, absolutely necessary that the student corrects [their] composition on [their] own. [They] should feel that [they are] the only author of [their] work and [they] alone should be responsible for it. (WV xxxie) In the preface to his dictionary Wittgenstein also describes and discusses issues and problems connected with its composition. These issues and problems concern the selection and arrangement of words. Among his guiding principles he emphasizes that ‘only those words that the students of Austrian elementary schools are familiar with should be listed in the dictionary’ and ‘no word is too common to be entered’. He explains that although, in some cases, it is difficult to decide whether or not a word should be entered into the dictionary ‘much more difficult …are the questions which arise concerning the arrangement of the words’ (WV xxxiiie). For Wittgenstein, a purely alphabetical order cannot be justified: if the purely alphabetical order inserts a heterogenous word between two related ones, then in my opinion the alphabetic order demands too much from a child’s power of abstraction. Thus, because of the comprehension of words and the highly important saving of space, the purely alphabetic order often cannot be re-commended…. In each individual case I have pondered the grouping thoroughly for a long time. Again and again psychological principles (where will the student look for the word, how does one guard [them] against confusions in the best possible manner) clash with grammatical ones (base word, derivative) and with the typographical utilization of space, with the well-organized appearance of the printed page, etc. Thus it happens that the superficial critic will meet with seemingly arbitrary inconsequences every-where, but those

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inconsequences are caused by compromises between essential viewpoints. (WV xxxive–xxxve) Wittgenstein struggles, not only with alphabetical order, but also with the placement of derivatives. In some cases, he explains, the introduction of the derivative after the base word leads to confusion, in other cases it does not. Sometimes, the base word is not commonly used but the derivative is in common usage. On yet other occasions, ‘one has to put a configuration of words beside the lexical entry which explains the meaning of the lexical entry and prevents misunderstanding’ (WV xxxive). On other occasions this is superfluous. Therefore, there is no one principle which he follows for the ordering or arranging of words. As well, he changes the alphabetical order involving ‘ß’, claiming that the normal arrangement where it follows ‘ss’ seemed to be unnatural in a great number of cases. Wittgenstein also places articles in front of the words in order to facilitate comprehension and prevent errors, and he gives plurals when they are irregular. Wittgenstein uses the principle of alphabetical order, as well as the principle of etymological or morphological order for the words of his dictionary. He also makes decisions concerning particular cases based on considerations of where students are likely to look (and where, therefore, a word is most likely to be found). Such decisions involve an understanding of, and familiarity with, the kinds of mistakes students are likely to make. Wittgenstein also includes additional information in his wordbook to prevent or avert misunderstanding where the meaning of a word is unfamiliar or easily confused with another. He uses the following techniques of clarification: (i) the use of synonyms or partial synonyms, (ii) an indication of changes in phraseology (involving propositions for example), (iii) the use of opposites to clarify possible misunderstanding, (iv) the use of short semantic phrases or definitions, (v) the use of dialect to explain meaning, and (vi) the pronunciation of foreign words.8 According to Hubner: one can crystallize certain viewpoints for the arrangement of the dictionary, above all the principle of analogy, the accentuation of graphemic and phonemic oppositions, and the lexical crossconnections (‘word families’). (WV xxiiie)

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Wittgenstein’s dictionary for elementary schools is innovative and unconventional. In its aims and methods it is characteristic of both his teaching methods and the general principles of Glöckel’s Austrian School Reform Movement. It is also characteristic, in several important respects, of his later philosophical writings. Our knowledge and understanding of Wittgenstein after his return to Cambridge in 1929 comes to us in part from the letters, memoirs, lecture notes and diary entries of his students. These records are written predominantly by friends and provide important descriptions of his philosophical and pedagogical labours.9 Throughout these writings Wittgenstein is described as a passionate and inspired philosopher and teacher. These descriptions have been largely neglected because they have been equated with personal temperament and dismissed. They have contributed much to the myth of the man (Wittgenstein’s eccentric and celebrity status) but little to our understanding of his philosophical practices. However they provide important confirmation of the integrity of his philosophical aims and practices. In his biographical sketch, von Wright acknowledges that outside Wittgenstein’s circle of family and personal friends very little was known about his life and character. This contributed not only to absurd legends about his personality, but to widespread misunderstandings of his teaching (von Wright 1984:3). In describing Wittgenstein as a teacher he recounts that: as might be expected, his lectures were highly ‘unacademic’. He nearly always held them in his own room or in the college rooms of a friend. He had no manuscript or notes. He thought before the class. The impression was of a tremendous concentration. The exposition usually led to a question, to which the audience were supposed to suggest an answer. The answers in turn became starting points of new thoughts leading to new questions. It depended on the audience, to a great extent, whether the discussion became fruitful and whether the connecting thread was kept in sight from the beginning to end of a lecture and from one lecture to another. (von Wright 1984:15–16) Malcolm concurs with von Wright and describes these lectures as meetings which were largely conversations. ‘Wittgenstein commonly directed questions at various people present and reacted to their replies. Often the meetings consisted mainly of dialogue’ (Malcolm 1984:25). Redpath also writes that Wittgenstein’s style of lecturing was unlike anything that he

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had come across, and that although he was not wholly unprepared to find Wittgenstein’s lectures unconventional in form he had not realized ‘how personal and, in some important sense “natural” they would be’ (Redpath 1990:19–20ff.). Redpath also describes how discussions were often sparked by remarks made by members of the audience at Wittgenstein’s invitation. And Fann writes that: the later philosophy…arose from discussions and lectures in which the Socratic method was employed. Wittgenstein used to emphasize that his method could not be learned by hearing lectures: discussion was essential. Consequently the Investigations takes the form of a dialogue. (Fann 1969:54) Wittgenstein did not lecture, therefore, in the traditional sense of the word. Nor did he hold his gatherings in classrooms or lecture halls. Rather he held them in the college rooms of a friend or in his own rooms once they had been acquired. Both lectures and lecture halls emphasize the distance between lecturer and students; rendering discussion at best difficult and at worst impossible. He rejects both the form and place of the lecture, and in so doing rejects one aspect of professional philosophy. In its place we find small gatherings of friends and acquaintances. Such gatherings suggest that philosophy involves personal response. Malcolm writes that ‘it did matter to him who was in his classes. He liked to discuss philosophical questions “with friends”. It was important to him that there should be some “friendly faces” in his classes’ (Malcolm 1984:27). Malcolm also writes that Wittgenstein became acquainted with members of his class by having them individually to tea (Malcolm 1984:28). Anyone could attend Wittgenstein’s gatherings (if they arrived on time and made the commitment to continue attending throughout the year) but it was not possible to do so anonymously. These gatherings differ markedly from philosophical lectures and seminars in which anonymity is not an issue or in which it is an asset.10 There are differences in the descriptive accounts written by students. These differences do not invalidate the descriptions but they underline the pedagogical risks and uncertainties inherent in teaching. Wittgenstein himself acknowledges the possibility that his work may bring light into one brain or another while also acknowledging the possibility that it may not. This is not a weakness of his method but a pedagogical necessity if others are to be genuinely stimulated to thoughts of their own. On the other hand, where remarks are quoted verbatim or almost verbatim by

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several students (in notes written not only during class but over a period of several decades) they demonstrate how striking and effective Wittgenstein’s methods and remarks could be. Often these remarks continue to intrigue (and infuriate) students for years to come. All of these considerations could be dismissed as merely interesting observations on Wittgenstein’s personal methods of teaching were it not for the fact that he claims throughout his writings to be teaching friends and to be writing his philosophical work explicitly for them. He begins his ‘Sketch for a Foreword’, found in Culture and Value, with the following words: ‘This book is written for those who are in sympathy with the spirit in which it is written’ (CV 6e). He contrasts this spirit with the spirit of the main current of European and American civilization and concludes that he is ‘really writing for friends who are scattered throughout the corners of the globe’ (CV 6e). Wittgenstein’s friends are few in number and form a small circle of people: If I say that my book is meant for only a small circle of people (if it can be called a circle) I do not mean that I believe this circle to be the élite of [human]kind, but it does comprise those to whom I turn (not because they are better or worse than others…). (CV 10e) He refers to his friends as a small circle of people and he draws our attention to the concept of a circle. Wittgenstein not only writes for his friends but it is to them that he himself turns. In a circle what is given is given back. Not only is there the writing of the philosophical text, or the speaking of the philosophical remark, but there is also its reception and response. The one is incomplete without the other. On first reading, the image of a small circle of friends appears potentially exclusive. (A circle is something closed.) As he anticipates, it appears élitist. But Wittgenstein emphasizes that such a circle is not élitist. He is not characterizing this circle of friends as better or worse than others. As Baker and Hacker confirm, ‘in 1930 (Vol. VI, 18) he remarked that his (projected) book is only for a small circle of people (who are not the élite of [human]kind, are not better or worse than others, but just different)’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:22). His circle of friends is simply different in spirit from the prevalent spirit of his age. The image of the circle suggests that philosophy is communal. A circle of friends broadens our perspective from the isolation of a lone philosopher (so prevalent throughout the history of Western philosophy) beyond even

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the accepted pairing of the writer/reader or lec-turer/student to acknowledge or require three or more people. Thus Wittgenstein suggests, in both his writings and his teachings, that philosophy is inherently communal. It is an activity that we do with others. And in doing philosophy with others Wittgenstein is not writing philosophy for them in the sense of publishing results. Rather he is teaching a method. Teaching is itself a reciprocal act; it moves in a circle. One cannot teach someone who does not want to learn, and the receptiveness and responsiveness of students affects both the teacher and the teaching. It is interesting that while Wittgenstein claims to be writing his philosophical works for friends (scattered throughout the world) we have in their published memoirs and letters, the acknowledgement and reciprocation of his claims and intentions. The uniqueness of his claim to be writing for friends (and not therefore for professional philosophers nor for everyone) is equalled by the fact that he is written about repeatedly by his friends (who struggle, in so doing, to remain true to that friendship). The connection between Wittgenstein’s teaching and his philosophical texts is important. Teaching and writing are both dimensions of his philosophical practices. His method of grammatical investigation is philosophical and pedagogical. To include his teaching practices in the study of his philosophy trivializes philosophy only if we trivialize teaching. Teaching is at once both more complex and difficult, and more natural and playful than many philosophers acknowledge. When viewed pedagogically Wittgenstein’s texts have integrity, coherence and honesty. They are creative and imaginative, humorous and poetic, challenging and responsive, generous and engaging (all important aspects of pedagogical and philosophical practices). The inclusion of teaching practices in the study of Wittgenstein’s philosophy also places him within an ancient and rich philosophical tradition. Early visual representations of philosophers (whether drawn or carved) portray a philosopher seated, standing or walking surrounded by students. The philosopher is often reading from a scroll or speaking while holding a scroll (the scroll being an icon denoting wisdom). The tradition which we have inherited often focuses on the scroll (the text) and the individual philosopher to the exclusion of the scene of instruction. One striking aspect of the opening of the Investigations is the depiction of such scenes of teaching and learning. Wittgenstein’s method of investigation is influenced by the pedagogical practices of the Austrian School Reform Movement, with its emphasis on active learning and learning through activities or investigations. He refers to his philosophical method as a grammatical investigation and chooses

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Philosophical Investigations as the title for his most finished work. As the word ‘investigation’ suggests, Wittgenstein’s later philosophy involves learning by doing; the active acquisition and application of grammatical methods. His later writings are filled with practical exercises, examples and grammatical techniques.11 With reference to Wittgenstein’s ability to teach (and bring things out into the open to make them clear) Barrett writes: [He] had a genius here that he was to carry over into his later writings, which exhibit a tireless capacity for inventing models and examples— a quality that makes at once for the unusual richness of his thought and the despair of anyone seeking an easy summary of it. (Barrett 1978:59) Burger’s philosophy of ‘work education’, expressed in the assertion that ‘what the pupil can do should be done by the pupil, not by the teacher’ is echoed in Wittgenstein’s remark that anything readers can do for themselves leave to them (CV 77e). In teaching philosophical methods, he not only teaches by example but requires readers to apply his methods. Wittgenstein’s readers, like Burger’s pupils, must learn by doing. The active learning and using of grammatical methods is one way in which he leaves to his readers what they can do for themselves. Significantly, also, if doing philosophy is an active process of investigation and the active acquisition of methods or skills, then not only must readers be allowed to do for themselves what they are capable of doing, but they must be allowed to do for themselves what only they can do for themselves. Learning by doing demands active participation in the learning process, as opposed to the passive reception of knowledge. Wittgenstein’s purpose in the Investigations is explicitly to stimulate readers to thoughts of their own, rather than to spare them the trouble of thinking. Thus, throughout his later writings, he challenges us to ‘look at…’, ‘think…’, and ‘imagine…’, (etc.). He challenges readers to create and describe language-games, and to test various grammatical investigations against their own use of language. He provides us with a variety of different methods and examples, and requires that we investigate these philosophical puzzles (with his guidance). As he writes, for example, ‘all we want to do is straighten you up on the track if your coach is crooked on the rails. Driving it afterwards is something we shall leave to you’ (CV 39e). He does not lecture as an expert when teaching philosophy but guides others in their investigations. (The others are often his friends.) This is also consistent with the Austrian School Reform Movement’s emphasis on the teacher as a guide and friend.

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Another aspect of the Austrian School Reform Movement that finds expression in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is the rooting of education in the environment of the student. His grammatical investigations are rooted in our environment in a fundamental and philosophical way. He begins with ordinary language and everyday events. His writings are filled with ordinary (everyday) objects like chairs, tables, apples and tools. In his writings we find ordinary people who engage in ordinary activities like playing, reading, building and shopping. His examples are drawn from everyday life, and everyday life is described in all of its richness and complexity. It is a world not only of thoughts and things but of people. Wittgenstein describes his world and in his descriptions we may recognize our own. He begins with the ordinary and the everyday, and he does not attempt to deny or escape them. He challenges us to walk around our world and to look at it. He writes, ‘To repeat: don’t think, but look!’ (PI 66). Just as children of the Austrian School Reform Movement were to look around while on walks or while studying their environment, so too Wittgenstein challenges us to look at our world and at our use of language. We are not accustomed to using our environment for philosophical investigation, and Wittgenstein recognizes that we are reluctant to do so (preferring to escape our ordinary language and world). He writes: One cannot guess how a word functions. One has to look at its use and learn from that. But the difficulty is to remove the prejudice which stands in the way of doing this. It is not a stupid prejudice. (PI 340) It is by looking at how words function that we come to see or learn how they are used. Wittgenstein’s emphasis on language-use firmly roots language in its environment and he calls upon us to look at our environment and learn. His use of ordinary objects such as chairs and tables is also profoundly significant philosophically. As he explains: there is no trouble at all with primitive languages about concrete objects. Talk about a chair and a human body and all is well; talk about negation and the human mind and things begin to look queer. A substantive in language is used primarily for a physical body…. We might say it is the whole of philosophy to realize that there is no more difficulty about time than there is about this chair. (AWL 119)

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Thus, Wittgenstein’s use of ordinary objects contributes to his attempt to return our words from their metaphysical to their everyday use and thus to their environment. He suggests that it is by rooting philosophical writings in the environment that we will be able to resolve our philosophical problems or puzzles.12 Wittgenstein’s dictionary was also described by his publishers as an orthography book of everyday life for use in rural schools. Such a description highlights both the importance of everyday life and the use of the dictionary in rural schools. It would not be inappropriate to call the Investigations ‘a philosophy book of everyday life for our use’. In his early philosophy, Wittgenstein did not concern himself with everyday life in this way.13 After six years of teaching elementary school, during which time he placed great emphasis on everyday life (an emphasis which was consistent with the principle of rooting education in the environment) his later philosophy emphasizes and expresses the ordinary and the everyday. Wittgenstein also uses the image of the landscape (literally the environment) to describe language. He describes his philosophical investigations as philosophical journeyings and often uses the metaphor of walking. We can hear in these descriptions, not only the rooting of education in the environment, but also possible allusions to the school walks which played such a central role in the Austrian School Reform Movement and the walks which continued to be a part of Wittgenstein’s life after his return to Cambridge. Together with the metaphor of learning as walking (on different surfaces, in different directions and of ‘finding one’s way’) the landscape imagery pervades his later writings.14 In Culture and Value he writes, ‘I am showing my pupils details of an immense landscape which they cannot possibly know their way around’ (CV 56e). He further explains that: language sets everyone the same traps; it is an immense network of easily accessible wrong turnings. And so we watch one [person] after another walking down the same paths and we know in advance where [they] will branch off, where walk straight on without noticing the side turning, etc. etc. What I have to do then is erect signposts at all junctions where there are wrong turnings so as to help people past the danger points. (CV 18e) The image of language as a landscape or labyrinth of paths captures well the complexity of Wittgenstein’s investigations which criss-cross in every

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direction. It also captures the repetition or recurrence of various themes throughout his writings. As he explains: ‘language is a labyrinth of paths. You approach from one side and know your way about; you approach the same place from another side and no longer know your way about’ (PI 203). Using landscape imagery, he distinguishes his philosophical writings from linear argumentation and theory. As Hilmy confirms, he does not ‘think forward in a straight line’ (Hilmy 1987: 21).15 According to Wittgenstein, however, it is not simply that in attempting to find solutions to philosophical problems that we must travel over a wide field of thought, criss-crossing in every direction, but that our philosophical problems themselves have the form: ‘I don’t know my way about’ (or ‘I can’t find myself’). Thus, the very form of investigation (criss-crossing a wide field of thought) is a necessary response to the form of our philosophical problems. Wittgenstein develops this concept of the form of philosophical problems (of not knowing our way about) when he emphasizes that we must begin our philosophical investigations where we are, and that we must learn to find our way in our familiar and immediate surroundings (rather than by travelling to some distant destination). He writes, for example: If you want to go down deep you do not need to travel far; indeed, you don’t have to leave your most immediate and familiar surroundings. (CV 50e)

Where others go ahead, I stay in one place. (CV 66e)

For the place I really have to get to is a place I must already be at now. (CV 7e) He starts and stops in his immediate and familiar surroundings; for that is where his philosophical problems begin and end. As he describes at length: There is a truth in Schopenhauer’s view that philosophy is an organism, and that a book on philosophy, with a beginning and end, is a sort of contradiction. One difficulty with philosophy is

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that we lack a synoptic view. We encounter the kind of difficulty we should have with the geography of a country for which we had no map, or else a map of isolated bits. The country we are talking about is language, and geography is its grammar. We can walk about the country quite well, but when forced to make a map, we go wrong. A map will show different roads through the same country, any one of which we can take, though not two, just as in philosophy we must take up problems one by one though in fact each problem leads to a multitude of others. We must wait until we come round to the starting point before we can either treat of the problem we first attacked or proceed to another. In philosophy matters are not simple enough for us to say ‘Let’s get a rough idea’, for we do not know the country except by knowing the connections between the roads. So I suggest repetition as a means of surveying the connections. (AWL 43) Criss-crossing a landscape is different from progress which, according to Wittgenstein, is the form of his civilization (CV 7e). Progress takes the form of construction and linear advancement. As he writes, ‘it is not that a new building has to be erected, or that a new bridge has to be built, but that the geography, as it is now, has to be judged’ (RFM 157). His landscape imagery is a literary allusion to our environment and it is significant because it alters the place of philosophy and the methods of philosophical investigation. Wittgenstein’s philosophical activities do not involve merely ‘thinking in the head’ or puzzling about philosophical dilemmas alone at one’s desk. Rather, he expands our field of inquiry (and vision) to literally include the world around us.16 The description of Wittgenstein’s thoughts in the preface to the Investigations can also be read as a description of integrated learning: It was my intention at first to bring all this together in a book whose form I pictured differently at different times. But the essential thing was that the thoughts should proceed from one subject to another in a natural order and without breaks…my thoughts were soon crippled if I tried to force them on in any single direction against their inclination…. And this was, of course, connected with the very nature of the investigation. (PI ixe) The concept of integrated learning is consistent with Wittgenstein’s reference to the natural order of thoughts which proceeds without breaks.

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His attention to the organization of his philosophical writings follows years of experience organizing lessons (according to the Austrian School Reform Movement’s concept of integrated learning). As well, his remarks concerning principles of organization (found in the preface to his dictionary) reveal a deep knowledge of pedagogical issues concerning the organization of written material. One could, for example, quote the following words from the preface of his dictionary as a preface to his later philosophical writings: In each individual case I have pondered the grouping thoroughly for a long time…. Thus it happens that the superficial critic will meet with seemingly arbitrary inconsequences everywhere, but those inconsequences are caused by compromises between essential viewpoints. (WV xxxve) Wittgenstein acknowledges that the superficial critic will perceive seemingly arbitrary inconsequences everywhere. In other words, his writings will not appear to follow any logical order, or they may appear trivial, insignificant or haphazard. But his own words suggest that he has given the organization of his writings considerable thought and that they follow a different organizational structure. In his later writing this structure is grammatical. Wittgenstein’s pedagogical innovation of going from the extraordinary to the ordinary when using examples is also a technique which he continues to use throughout his later writings. His later writings are filled with interesting examples and he frequently forsakes standard philosophical examples for his own unusual, sometimes bizarre, cases. It is noteworthy that much of the secondary literature repeats the same few cases or examples drawn from his writings and rarely encompasses the full breadth and richness of the examples which his writings contain. And although the unusual or difficult nature of Wittgenstein’s examples is acknowledged within the secondary literature, it often merely elicits complaints. The pedagogical significance of the use of interesting and unusual cases is not questioned. However, Wittgenstein develops this philosophical practice in several ways. First, he introduces cases which are described by others as interesting, unusual, extraordinary, absurd, bizarre, fascinating, queer, astonishing, unnatural, puzzling, mysterious and nonsensical. Secondly, he also invents new cases using fictitious examples and anomalies. Thirdly, he takes ordinary cases which are not immediately puzzling, makes them puzzling and then returns us to the ordinary (thus we go not only from the

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unusual to the ordinary, but from the ordinary to the unusual and back again). And finally, he examines cases which we find and label ‘fascinating’ and ‘queer’. All of these related techniques serve a variety of philosophical purposes.17 Wittgenstein uses interesting and unusual cases to clarify our conceptual confusion. Malcolm writes in his Memoir. A curious thing which I observed innumerable times, was that when Wittgenstein invented an example during his lectures in order to illustrate a point, he himself would grin at the absurdity of what he had imagined. But if any member of the class were to chuckle, his expression would change to severity and he would exclaim in reproof, ‘No; no; I’m serious!’ The imaginary events and circumstances were so odd and so far beyond the reach of natural possibility that he himself could not help being amused; yet the intention of the example, of course, was serious. (Malcolm 1984:28) Malcolm’s observation is corroborated by others and is important for several reasons. First, he confirms the frequent use of this pedagogical practice. Secondly, in grinning at the absurdity of his own examples Wittgenstein reveals that it is, in part, the strangeness of the examples themselves that is worth consideration. Malcolm’s description expresses the shock of the unusual, which counters intellectual complacency and enables us to look at things in a new or different way. Thirdly, Malcolm emphasizes the serious purpose or intent of these examples. In other words, Wittgenstein’s examples have a particular pedagogical purpose. As Malcolm confirms in the concluding words of the above passage, Wittgenstein did not like academic cleverness: ‘[he] could not tolerate a facetious tone in his classes, the tone that is characteristic of philosophical discussion among clever people who have no serious purpose’ (Malcolm 1984:28). In contrast, his unusual cases have important and serious philosophical purposes. Many of the pedagogical concerns and practices which are evident in Wittgenstein’s years as an elementary school teacher are also evident in his later philosophical methods. His grammatical methods of philosophical clarification are influenced by the grammatical techniques which he uses in the writing and organizing of his dictionary. The use of phonemic and graphemic opposites, analogies and word families (lexical cross-connections) indicates an awareness of grammatical connections and anticipates a similar exploitation of analogies and

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connecting grammatical cases in his later writings. We also find in his later philosophy an emphasis on asking questions, using ordinary language and describing the learning of language. The Austrian School Reform Movement’s activity-method can also be seen as a precursor to Wittgenstein’s use of language-games (which are themselves a kind of model or form of illustrative material). The importance and influence of Wittgenstein’s years as an elementary school teacher can be recognized in the figure of the child which pervades his later writings.18 The Investigations begins with a passage from Augustine in which he describes how he learned language as a child. The child is a central figure in the opening remarks of the Investigations and remains a recurring figure throughout the remarks that follow. Cavell writes that the emphasis of Wittgenstein’s later writings falls, ‘not on the acquisition of the grammar or structure of a language but on the scene of instruction in words’ (Cavell 1988b:132). As he explains: the Philosophical Investigations opens with a (quoted) scene of instruction from Augustine’s Confessions, and the ensuing 693 sections constituting Part I of the Investigations can be understood as following out the implications of that scene. The scene is explicitly, repeatedly invoked with each recurrence in the Investigations of the figure of the child. I sometimes find this figure to present the most distinctive of all Wittgenstein’s departures in philosophy. (Cavell 1988b:132) In a discipline concerned with rationality and language, children and the learning of language often fall out of consideration as irrelevant to philosophical interests and concerns. In his later writings Wittgenstein places the child at the centre of his philosophical investigations. Using Augustine’s quotation to begin the Investigations, Wittgenstein begins where we begin as children. ‘It is appropriate in writings so fundamentally about instruction, and in which a central character is the child, that we have dramatized for us the fact that we begin our lives as children’ (Cavell 1982:124). This is Wittgenstein’s starting point; it is the beginning of his philosophical investigations. In other words, he does not attempt to go further back in search of explanations or theories of languageacquisition. Rather he describes how a child learns to use language. Throughout the opening remarks of the Investigations we find references to how children actually learn and use language. These observations or

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comments are drawn from his experiences as an elementary school teacher. He writes, for example, of ‘the ostensive teaching of numerals that serve not to count but to refer to groups of objects that can be taken in at a glance. Children do learn the use of the first five or six cardinal numerals in this way’ (PI 9). He refers to primitive forms of language, and connects the teaching of language with training rather than explanation. He introduces the term ‘language-game’ for the games by means of which children learn their native language, and also for primitive languages. ‘A child uses such primitive forms of language when it learns to talk. Here the teaching of language is not explanation, but training’ (PI 5). He also remarks, for example, that ‘a rule is best described as being like a garden path in which you are trained to walk, and which is convenient. You are taught arithmetic by a process of training, and this becomes one of the paths in which you walk. You are not compelled to do so, but you just do it’ (AWL 155). When Wittgenstein challenges us to imagine that the language of §2 (of the Investigations) is the whole language of builders A and B, or even the whole language of a tribe, he does so by describing how the children are trained to use words and perform certain actions. He writes: The children are brought up to perform these actions, to use these words as they do so, and to react in this way to the words of others. An important part of the training will consist in the teacher’s pointing to the objects, directing the child’s attention to them, and at the same time uttering a word… I will call it ‘ostensive teaching of words’. —I say that it will form an important part of the training, because it is so with human beings; not because it could not be imagined otherwise.19 (PI 6) His use of the figure of the child emphasizes the role of training rather than explanation. He even writes that ‘any explanation has its foundation in training. (Educators ought to remember this.)’ (Z 419). Training involves language and the actions into which it is woven. Although Wittgenstein’s use of the figure of the child and his descriptions of language-learning are drawn from his experiences as an elementary school teacher, his investigations are not offered as empirical evidence to support (or forward) theoretical or explanatory claims. Thus he writes, for example, that the ostensive teaching of words will form an important part of the child’s training (in §2) because it is so with human

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beings, not because it could not be imagined otherwise (PI 6). If challenged concerning this description, Wittgenstein would not attempt to prove his claim. It is offered as a description rather than as a theory or hypothesis. (He acknowledges that it could be imagined otherwise and he does not attempt either to refute such possibilities or to prove the superiority of his own description.) Rather, in describing the learning of language or the scene of instruction throughout his later writings, he reminds us that language-use involves complex forms of life. The learning of language involves training. We are reminded of the complexity of learning and sharing a language. Cavell reminds us that learning is not as academic a matter as academics are apt to suppose (Cavell 1982:171).20 When we ‘teach’ children their native language: we initiate them into the relevant forms of life held in language and gathered around the objects and persons of our world…. ‘Teaching’ here would mean something like ‘showing them what we say and do’ and ‘accepting what they say and do as what we say and do’ etc., and this will be more than we know, or can say. (Cavell 1982:178) The importance of the figure of the child for Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations is made clear in the following remark: ‘Am I doing child psychology? —I am making a connection between the concept of teaching and the concept of meaning’ (Z 412). The connection which Wittgenstein is making is a grammatical connection. He is not doing child psychology, nor is he offering empirical claims. The figure of the child is the figure that draws together the concepts of teaching and meaning, or learning and language. He describes how a child learns language and describes the training and language-games involved. He provides neither empirical nor theoretical foundations for such a connection. It is his grammatical or philosophical starting point. Wittgenstein’s question concerning whether or not he is doing child psychology anticipates such a reading of his later writings. In the absence of explicit references to child psychology elsewhere in his writings, and in the presence of the connection which he makes between the concepts of teaching and meaning, his response to the question can be read as negative. On another occasion, for example, he remarks ‘I shall begin by talking about problems connected with understanding, thinking, meaning. My investigation will not be psychological…’ (AWL 43). Bartley writes, however, that:

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Wittgenstein’s question whether he is doing child psychology obviously does have to be answered affirmatively. Zettel, The Philosophical Investigations and The Blue and Brown Books must be read in a number of different ways. But two of the necessary ways in which one must read them are: (1) as polemics on the atomism represented by the Tractatus or by Russell or Herbart; and (2) as attempts to develop a child psychology of language. (Bartley 1974a:324) Bartley argues that there is an important ‘family resemblance’ between the views of the Gestalt psychologists and Wittgenstein’s later philosophy (Bartley 1974a:325). He attempts to support this connection, in part, with reference to a social and personal connection between Wittgenstein and Karl and Charlotte Bühler. This connection is problematic however, for Bartley himself acknowledges that: whether Wittgenstein ever made any conscious connection between Bühler’s psychology and his own later thought is, however, an open question. Friends and members of his family recall that Wittgenstein did not like the Bühlers personally, and that he occasionally referred to Karl Bühler as a ‘charlatan’. This personal reaction, however, by no means precludes at least some positive intellectual influence. (Bartley 1974a:325) There is, however, no textual support for Bartley’s claims. It is precisely Bartley’s reading of Wittgenstein’s descriptions of children that Wittgenstein attempts to call into question in the remark quoted above. There were many psychological theories in the air during the time of the Austrian School Reform Movement.21 Perhaps the most striking aspect of Wittgenstein’s later writings is the complete and conspicuous absence of psychological theory. To interpret his later writings as attempts to provide a child psychology of language is, once again, to miss the importance or significance of his grammatical and pedagogical methods. Bartley’s claims are refuted by Hargrove who asserts that Wittgenstein did not meet Bühler until 1926, after he had resigned as a school teacher, and that he did not care for Bühler as a person or for his psychological theories and ideas (Hargrove 1980:458). Contrary to Bartley, Hargrove sees Wittgenstein’s observations about children, which occur on ‘almost every page of the Investigations’, as the true influence of his teaching experience. He writes that:

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throughout his later philosophy, Wittgenstein often supported the points he was making by citing personal observations about children. It is these observations, which he made as school teacher and used as a pool of data later, that, as I see it, are the true influence on Wittgenstein’s work… (Hargrove 1980:461) Hargrove does not elaborate on how Wittgenstein uses this ‘pool of data’ later, nor does he discuss in any detail the nature of these observations. In claiming that he often supports the points he was making by citing personal observations about children, Hargrove implies that Wittgenstein is forwarding empirical claims (to support theories or arguments). Such an interpretation fails to acknowledge the grammatical connection which Wittgenstein is making between meaning and teaching. Both Bartley and Hargrove fail to acknowledge the pedagogical or methodological connections between Wittgenstein’s years as an elementary school teacher and his later philosophy. Wittgenstein clarifies and confirms the methodological significance of describing how a word is taught when he remarks that: one thing we always do when discussing a word is to ask how we were taught. Doing this on the one hand destroys a variety of misconceptions, on the other hand gives you a primitive language in which the word is used. (LC 1) Asking how we teach or learn a particular word challenges and destroys philosophical misconceptions of language which simplify and misrepresent our language-use. Further, in describing scenes of instruction, we describe primitive languages and are therefore able to study the use of words in primitive kinds of application. As Wittgenstein remarks: difficulty is created by the fact that we have invented an enormously complicated language for our use and we are all grown-ups. The philosophy of a child would be quite different from ours, but in a different sense than the physics of a child would be. The physics of a child would be different because it does not know various physical facts, but its philosophy would be different because its language is simpler. (AWL 101)

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Wittgenstein often uses the figure of the child, not only to present simpler language-games, but to introduce different examples or grammatical cases to challenge our conceptual complacency. Consider, for example, the following case: —One might observe a child and wait until one day [they manifest] hope; and then one could say ‘Today [they] hoped for the first time’. But surely that sounds queer! Although it would be quite natural to say ‘Today [they] said “I hope” for the first time’. And why queer? One does not say that a suckling hopes that…but one does say it of a grown-up. —Well, bit by bit daily life becomes such that there is a place for hope in it. (RPP II 15) In this case he is not making an empirical claim that children or sucklings do not hope, but that the use of the word ‘hope’ involves a complicated form of life. As he reminds us, ‘bit by bit daily life becomes such that there is a place for hope in it’. Similarly, he asks: Are we perhaps over-hasty in our assumption that the smile of an unweaned infant is not a pretence? —And on what experience is our assumption based? (Lying is a language-game that needs to be learned like any other one.) (PI 249) If we imagine the smile of an unweaned infant, and then imagine that it is pretence, the scene may seem surreal. Our initial reaction is to respond that of course the smile of an unweaned infant is not pretence. This assertion appears to be an empirical claim. Thus Wittgenstein asks on what experience our assumption is based. Is it based, for example, on the fact that we have never been deceived or lied to by an unweaned infant? (How would we be lied to by an unweaned infant?) Do we think about our experience with infants when we imagine this case? If we base our claims on experience are we making an over-hasty assumption? We may think that all (facial and linguistic) expressions may lie and therefore that we are guessing or making assumptions about the smile of an unweaned infant. But his example is introduced in order to clarify such confusions; for our response to the case of the unweaned infant is not based on knowledge or (over-hasty) assumptions. It makes no sense to say that the infant is

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pretending or that the smile is pretence. The concept of pretence applies to certain complex forms of life. As Wittgenstein writes, an infant learns how to lie, just as it learns all other language-games. Lying is a complex language-game learned within a highly developed form of life. ‘A child has much to learn before it can pretend’ (PI 229e). Wittgenstein chooses an infant for his example because an infant is a human being without language. He also chooses this example because we may be tempted to think that the smile of an unweaned infant is not pretence because infants are innocent or sincere. But it makes no more sense to say of the smile of this infant that it is sincere than to say that it is pretence. The grammatical possibilities do not apply. In both cases we may be tempted to hypothesize about inner processes, and claim that we cannot be certain when a child really begins to hope or when it is lying, for hoping and lying are inner processes (Z 469). But Wittgenstein’s use of the figure of the child is meant to clarify such misunderstanding, for we do not begin to apply a word or concept to a child on the basis of looking at inner processes. Wittgenstein makes this use of the figure of the child explicit when he writes, ‘I chose the case of a child because what is happening in [them] is stranger to us than it would be with an adult…. Does the child suddenly let me look into [them]?’ (RPP II 171). He challenges our complacency concerning inner processes (the as yet uncomprehended processes in a yet unexplored medium) through the figure of the child. Although the figure of the child does not occur frequently within the Western philosophical tradition, it is not without precedent. Most notably children are among the participants in Plato’s dialogues. Children are often present in Plato’s dialogues concerning the acquisition of language and knowledge (for example, the Meno and the Phaedo). And perhaps the most striking and familiar example of the figure of the child in philosophy is Plato’s Theaetetus. Theaetetus is a child with whom Socrates speaks in a dialogue which centres on issues of knowledge, philosophy and wisdom. Interwoven with questions of knowledge are themes concerning language and education. Wittgenstein quotes from the Theaetetus in the Investigations and claims that ‘Plato in this dialogue is occupied with the same problems that I am writing about’ (Drury 1981:149). Few commentators refer to Wittgenstein’s use of the figure of the child. Some, like Kenny and Nieli, find Wittgenstein’s use of the figure of the child insulting, contemptuous and childish. Nieli writes, for example, that:

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it has often been remarked that the view of language offered by Wittgenstein in his later philosophy has been greatly influenced by his experiences in Austria teaching language to rural school children. And this, one might say, is precisely what is wrong with it: in essence, it presents a view of language fit for a child, rather than for a critically thinking, morally and intellectually mature adult. (Nieli 1987:243) For Nieli, childhood is uncritical and unproblematic and Wittgenstein’s philosophy makes no advance beyond this stage (Nieli 1987:243). The figure of the child is contrasted with a ‘critically thinking, morally and intellectually mature adult’. However, Wittgenstein’s use of the figure of the child in his grammatical investigations raises questions about the learning of language and the role of explanation and ratiocination. According to Wittgenstein, when we learn our language we are learning to do something (Z 416). He reminds us of the complexity of languagelearning and of the fact that we all learn language as children. The language of a child is simpler than ours, but not because it is simplistic (in the sense of being uncritical or unintelligent). Wittgenstein’s ideas concerning language-learning and language-use, the examples and analogies which permeate his later writings, and his particular grammatical methods are all influenced by his work and experiences as an elementary school teacher. The pedagogical techniques which he uses while teaching elementary school are consistent not only with the general aims and methods of the Austrian School Reform Movement, but also with his later philosophical practices. As both an elementary school teacher and a philosopher he responds to specific needs and teaches methods of investigation. His pedagogical interests and innovations continue throughout his later philosophy, and his method of grammatical investigation remains both philosophical and pedagogical.

Chapter 3

Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigation

Wittgenstein seizes upon the philosophical and pedagogical methods of others for his work of philosophical clarification. Like Kraus, his method of grammatical investigation is a form of philosophical inquiry and expression which uses language as both the subject of analysis and the tool of that analysis. His method is influenced not only by the practice of grammatical investigation within Viennese culture but also by the pedagogical insights and experiences which he gains during his years as an elementary school teacher. He acquires a profound understanding of language-acquisition and language-use, as well as insight into complex and diverse forms of investigation. His later work presents a philosophical and pedagogical method which, while rooted in this rich Austrian cultural and pedagogical tradition, also transforms it for the purpose of philosophical clarification. Wittgenstein describes and demonstrates his grammatical method throughout his manuscripts, typescripts, lectures, conversations, correspondence and posthumous publications. His remarks range from general claims about philosophy to the description and demonstration of specific grammatical techniques. He constantly draws our attention not only to the form of his words but also to the use made of his form of words. In the preface to the Investigations, for example, Wittgenstein provides a detailed description of the composition of his text. The preface is often read as an acknowledgement of the difficulties, shortcomings or weaknesses of his writings. What are identified as the weaknesses of the text are in fact the strengths of his philosophical and pedagogical method. In describing the composition of his text (or the form of his words) Wittgenstein explicitly raises methodological issues (concerning the use made of his form of words). In so doing, he

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takes responsibility for the text in the form in which we now find it. The question is, what does this tell us about the nature of his philosophical aims and practices? Wittgenstein begins his preface to the Investigations with the following words: ‘The thoughts which I publish in what follows are the precipitate of philosophical investigations which have occupied me for the last sixteen years’ (PI ixe). They are the condensation of investigations extending over a particular and prolonged period of time. In other words, these thoughts are not the results of his investigations. Rather they express the investigations themselves in a temporarily suspended, filtered or settled form. This precipitate or condensation metaphor anticipates the use of fog and cloud imagery throughout Wittgenstein’s later writings. Early in the Investigations he refers to philosophical confusion as a fog or haze which makes clear vision impossible (PI 5). Later he refers to a whole cloud of philosophy condensed into a drop of grammar. 1 A drop of grammar is the precipitate or condensation of a cloud of confusion (which makes clear vision or understanding impossible). This imagery also expresses the complexity of our confusion, for innumerable drops of grammar form clouds of philosophy. Wittgenstein offers his thoughts or remarks as the precipitate or condensation of philosophical investigations. They clear the air, as it were. He repeatedly refers to his aim in philosophy as one of clarification. Throughout the preface Wittgenstein emphasizes philosophical investigations rather than the specific thoughts which are published in the text that follows. According to Wittgenstein his thoughts concern many subjects: ‘the concept of meaning, of understanding, of a proposition, of logic, the foundations of mathematics, states of consciousness and other things’. This list is of interest, not only because of the subjects it presents, but also because of the subjects it does not. The list is neither accurate nor exhaustive. The foundations of mathematics are not, for example, one of the subjects of the Investigations (although there is historical evidence to suggest that it was at one time included in Wittgenstein’s plans for the publication of this text). And this list of only six subjects concludes with a vague reference to these ‘and other things’, suggesting that -the subjects themselves (although important) are not the structural or compositional basis of the text. This remark is not hasty or incomplete however. It is open-ended. The subjects of the Investigations form a complicated network of connections, criss-crossings and overlappings (PI 66). Such complexity is inherent in the nature of Wittgenstein’s investigations and

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challenges our assumptions and preconceptions about the organizational structure and content of philosophical texts. Rather than focus on these thoughts or subjects Wittgenstein immediately introduces his use of remarks. He writes, I have written down all these thoughts as remarks, short paragraphs of which there is sometimes a fairly long chain about the same subject, while I sometimes make a sudden change, jumping from one topic to another. (PI ixe) This methodological claim also emphasizes that the text is not subject-or topic-based. If subject- or topic-based the text would be fragmentary or incomplete as Wittgenstein makes sudden changes and jumps from one topic to another. Within the secondary literature his remarks are often read as the fragmented results of a more complete philosophical position. However, if read as the precipitate or condensation of philosophical investigations his remarks are neither fragmentary nor incomplete. According to Wittgenstein, ‘each of the sentences [he writes] is trying to say the whole thing, i.e., the same thing over and over again; it is as though they were all simply views of one object seen from different angles’ (CV 7e). A grammatical remark is the condensation of an investigation and is therefore highly concentrated and complete in itself. His remarks are offered, not as the end (result) of his investigations but as the beginning of our own. The precipitate of his investigations takes the form of remarks. He continues to describe the form of his text writing: It was my intention at first to bring all this together in a book whose form I pictured differently at different times. But the essential thing was that the thoughts should proceed from one subject to another in a natural order and without breaks. After several unsuccessful attempts to weld my results together into such a whole, I realized I should never succeed. The best I could write would never be more than philosophical remarks. My thoughts were soon crippled if I tried to force them in any single direction against their natural inclination. —And this was, of course, connected with the very nature of the investigation. For this compels us to travel over a wide field of thought criss-cross in every direction. (PI ixe)

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These frequently quoted comments can be read in a variety of ways. Some critics read them as identifying and lamenting the inadequacies of Wittgenstein’s writing ability. For example, Baker and Hacker write that the ‘Philosophical Investigations is, as it were, a sketchbook of a master artist who could not produce a finished canvas’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:20). Others read these comments as justification for the re-structuring and re-writing of his remarks (in conventional forms of argumentation and criticism). Still others read Wittgenstein as falsely modest. All of these interpretations emphasize the numerous unsuccessful attempts to weld results together into a whole. Wittgenstein, however, connects these difficulties with the very nature of his investigations. He shifts from attempting to weld results together into a whole to the use of philosophical remarks. This shift is methodological. He shifts from welding results together to the presentation of the philosophical investigations themselves. In claiming that his writings would never be more than philosophical remarks he cautions us against treating them as notes or preliminary jottings. Anscombe writes that the observations of the preface may: give the reader the impression that he would have liked to emerge in the end with an Investigations in the literary manner of the Blue Book but found that he could not do it and so left only an arrangement of notes or fragments which were like preliminary jottings for such a composition. (Anscombe 1969:374) However she claims that such an impression would be false and that Wittgenstein’s remarks are misleading for ‘there was never any question of his writing the Investigations except in the form of just such discrete chunks as we have here’ (Anscombe 1969:374). The failure to write a good book cannot be explained in terms of a failure to write in a literary manner similar to that of the Blue Book (Anscombe 1969:374). Anscombe confirms that the nature of the investigation determines the form of composition of the book. Acknowledging doubts which Wittgenstein expressed concerning his work (on other occasions) she writes: the doubt, I should judge, did not concern the accomplishment of the ideal, but whether the method and technique and manner were so good and capable of producing so great a work, as it seemed to him they were. (Anscombe 1969:376)

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Wittgenstein’s interests, doubts and concerns are all methodological. He thought that his method was good and capable of creating a great work. Malcolm recalls that Wittgenstein expounded and defended his philosophy with confidence and power, and suggests that he did not think of his philosophy as ‘possibly in error’ (Malcolm 1984:51). Malcolm also writes that Wittgenstein believed that the work might have been made better, although not by himself. This suggests, not that the work could be improved by rendering it conventional in form, but that its improvement might involve new forms of composition. Wittgenstein rejects conventional forms of philosophical writing, and grammatical investigation is for him, as for Kraus, an alternative form of composition. It is not that he laments his inability to write conventional prose, but that he acknowledges that the form of composition of his text is dictated by the very nature of the investigation. Wittgenstein connects his methodological use of remarks with the nature of his investigation which compels us to travel over a wide field of thought criss-crossing in every direction. He writes that: the philosophical remarks in this book are, as it were, a number of sketches of landscapes which were made in the course of these long and involved journeyings. The same or almost the same points were always being approached afresh from different directions and new sketches made. Very many of these were badly drawn or uncharacteristic, marked by all the defects of a weak draughtsman. And when they were rejected a number of tolerable ones were left, which now had to be arranged and sometimes cut down, so that if you looked at them you could get a picture of the landscape. Thus this book is really only an album. (PI ixe) Once again emphasis is placed on philosophical investigations or journeyings. Far from describing notes, fragments or preliminary jottings, he again describes the precipitate or condensation of his investigations. According to Baker and Hacker, the cutting down, rearranging and rejecting of sketches is not merely figurative. Wittgenstein is said to have written uncountable drafts of his preface for example. His drafts are literally uncountable for he ‘redrafts a single sentence up to a dozen times in the context of a single attempt to write a preface’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:22). Baker and Hacker acknowledge the care that went into the composition of his texts (Baker and Hacker 1983:27). This attention to detail and care

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in composition pervades all of his later writings and belies all critical responses which read his writings as preliminary notes or ‘jottings’.2 Wittgenstein’s use of remarks is also consistent throughout his notebooks, manuscripts, typescripts and published texts. As von Wright confirms, ‘all of Wittgenstein’s texts are characterized by the open structure of the remarks, parts of the text which are separated by blank lines in the manuscripts and typescripts’ (von Wright 1984:82). The use of remarks is found not only in his written works, but also in the transcriptions of his lectures (by others) and in his dictations to colleagues and students. Wittgenstein’s method of editing his works also involves dictating material to a typist, altering or adding individual sentences, and changing the order of his remarks. He literally cuts and rearranges his remarks, producing new typescripts on the basis of collections of cuttings. Wittgenstein compares his form of composition and editing to the arranging of books in a library (BB 44). There are many possible arrangements, arrangements may vary, and there is no final or ideal arrangement. The arrangements depend on our use of the books. Viewed from this perspective remarks are not fragments of a text, just as books are not fragments of a library (or drops of grammar fragmented clouds of confusion). Wittgenstein describes his philosophy in terms of the drawing and arranging of sketches and writes that his book is really only an album. This description raises the methodological question of how to read or use this album. An album is a book consisting of blank pages in which we keep drawings and sketches (etc.). Physically Wittgenstein’s book looks like an album; each remark is separated from others by a blank space on the page. His text is often seen as fragmented because his grammatical remarks are separated from one another by blank spaces on the page. The text appears incomplete when compared with texts written in continuous prose. However, if we view remarks as the precipitate of his investigations (rather than the fragmentation of a philosophical text) the nature of this blank space changes. Wittgenstein’s remarks are highly concentrated and the blank spaces are necessary for both reading and responding to his text. The text is methodologically incomplete without our philosophical engagement with it and the blank spaces both recognize and facilitate our response. This is one reason why Wittgenstein writes, ‘the remarks which I write enable me to teach philosophy well, but not to write a book’.3 The weaknesses of his writings from the early 1930s involve his attempt (rather than his failure) to write continuous prose. These early texts prove philosophically incomplete for all except those who attended his lectures and they precipitate a methodological change in the form of his philosophical writing. Ironically, his texts prove philosophically and

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pedagogically incomplete without the use of blank spaces. They are not incomplete because composed of remarks.4 Having described the methodological composition of the text Wittgenstein continues: Up to a short time ago I had really given up the idea of publishing my work in my lifetime. It used, indeed, to be revived from time to time, mainly because I was obliged to learn that my results (which I had communicated in lectures, typescripts and discussions), variously misunderstood, more or less mangled or watered down, were in circulation. This stung my vanity and I had difficulty in quieting it… (PI ixe-xe) Publishing plays an important role in academia and the issue of Wittgenstein’s publications is worthy of consideration. He raises this issue in his preface and it was, throughout his lifetime, a topic of considerable consternation for others. Wittgenstein’s comments challenge our understanding of the philosophical text as intellectual property and as a commodity to be published. In writing that he had given up the idea of publishing his work in his lifetime he challenges one of the main tenets of professional philosophy and distinguishes his philosophical practice from the publication of philosophical results. Although he struggles throughout his lifetime to write a text worthy of publication he is not preoccupied with the publication of the Investigations in the way in which he was preoccupied with the publication of the Tractatus. This shift in attitude represents a significant shift in the understanding of his philosophical task. In the Tractatus he thought that he had solved all of philosophy’s problems, and his solution demanded not only immediate publication but the abandonment of academic philosophy. In his later work he does not conceive of his writings in terms of results or solutions. Emphasis is placed on an on-going philosophical activity which is communicated through lectures, typescripts and discussions. This activity renders publication less important or necessary. Wittgenstein acknowledges that the idea of publishing was revived from time to time due to the fact that his ideas were in circulation. This confession is often read as an indication of his fear of plagiarism and an expression of his claims to intellectual property. Such an interpretation is not supported by the remarks of the preface however. He writes that he was obliged to learn that his results ‘variously misunderstood, more or less mangled or watered down, were in circulation’. ‘This,’ he writes,

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‘stung my vanity and I had difficulty in quieting it’ (PI ixe-xe). If Wittgenstein were only concerned with plagiarism, it is not clear why he would have gone to so much trouble in the preface to describe how his results were not merely in circulation, but were variously misunderstood, more or less mangled or watered down. The vagueness of his explanation suggests that he was not (only or primarily) concerned with plagiarism: ‘This stung my vanity, and I had difficulty in quieting it’ (PI ixe—xe). What stung his vanity? Was it that his ideas were put into circulation by others, or that his ideas were misunderstood, mangled or watered down? In the first instance, others would not give him adequate acknowledgement, while in the second instance they would give him too much. In the first case Wittgenstein would feel compelled to publish in order to claim intellectual property, while in the second case he would feel compelled to publish in order to clarify or disclaim ideas. His vanity is more likely to be stung in the second of these cases for he denies any claims of ownership when he writes: For more than one reason what I publish here will have points of contact with what other people are writing to-day. —If my remarks do not bear a stamp which marks them as mine, —I do not wish to lay any further claim to them as my property. (PI ixe-xe) If the issue were one of plagiarism Wittgenstein would be laying further claim to these points as his property. One incident which indicates that his preoccupation in these comments is not with plagiarism is the publication of an article by R.B. Braithwaite in the journal Mind, in which Braithwaite describes his impressions of various Cambridge philosophers. Wittgenstein’s response to this article is published as a letter to the editor of Mind in which he writes, ‘I disclaim all responsibility for the views and thoughts which Mr. Braithwaite attributes to me. Part of his statements can be taken to be inaccurate representations of my views, others again clearly contradict them’ (Wittgenstein 1993, ‘A Letter to the Editor of Mind’: 156). Malcolm remembers the incident and confirms that Wittgenstein was angered by imperfect representations of his thoughts. He was, in this instance, angered by the suggestion that his philosophy was a form of psychoanalysis (Malcolm 1984:48). Wittgenstein responded that this suggestion was based on a confusion. He claimed that his philosophy and psychoanalysis were different techniques (Malcolm 1984:48). When his thoughts were

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published by others without an understanding of his philosophical method they resulted in philosophical confusion. Malcolm also writes that: what made Wittgenstein furious was not only his belief in the author’s dishonesty, but also the implication that Wittgenstein kept the nature of his work a secret. He said that he had always regarded his lectures as a form of publication. (Malcolm 1984:48) Malcolm goes on to mention that the material now published as The Blue and Brown Books had been in circulation privately in mimeograph or typescript form for more than ten years, and had been widely read by British philosophers (Malcolm 1984:48). In his preface Wittgenstein himself reminds us that his philosophy had been communicated in lectures, typescripts and discussions. According to Malcolm, he gave his thoughts freely (without stint). ‘There was never any attempt by him to preserve his researches in secrecy’ (Malcolm 1984:47). The fact that he offered his thoughts or research to others through lectures, discussions and typescripts helps explain the shift away from written publication. To publish a philosophical text or philosophical results is to make them public. To teach a philosophical method is to make it public. Teaching is, by definition, a public act. In a 1947 remark found in Culture and Value Wittgenstein also writes of his concern for plagiarism. His concern is not that his work will be plagiarised, but a struggle with the fact that plagiarism is a concern. He writes: Is what I am doing really worth the effort? Yes, but only if a light shines on it from above. And if that happens—why should I concern myself that the fruits of my labours should not be stolen? If what I am writing really has some value, how could anyone steal the value from me? And if the light from above is lacking, I can’t in any case be more than clever. (CV 57e–58e) He distinguishes his labours from the fruits of his labours and contrasts the value of his labour with writing that is merely clever. He continues his discussion of the issue of plagiarism by recognising the temptation to have such concerns, but concludes that the issue is one of envy or vanity (and not of intellectual rights and property). He writes:

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I completely understand how someone may find it hateful for the priority of [their] invention or discovery to be disputed, and want to defend [their] priority ‘with tooth and claw’. All the same this is completely chimerical…. Just what would Newton have lost if he had acknowledged Leibniz’s originality? Absolutely nothing, he would have gained a lot. And yet, how hard it is to acknowledge something of this sort: someone who tries feels as though [they are] confessing [their] own incapacity…. It’s a question of envy of course. And anyone who experiences it ought to keep on telling [themselves]: ‘It’s a mistake! It’s a mistake! –’ (CV 58e) This attitude is consistent with his foreword to the Philosophical Remarks. He writes that ‘this book is written in good will, and in so far as it is not so written, but out of vanity, etc., the author would wish to see it condemned. He cannot free it of these impurities further than he himself is free of them.’ Drury also writes: One evening not long before his death Wittgenstein quoted to me the inscription that Bach wrote on the title page of his Little Organ Book To the glory of the most high God, and that my neighbor may be benefited thereby. Pointing to his own pile of manuscripts, he said, ‘That is what I would have liked to have been able to say about my own work’. (Malcolm 1984:71) His work is offered for the benefit of neighbours and friends. It is not presented as intellectual property or as the publication of philosophical results. Interestingly, we find in the published memoirs and letters of his friends the acknowledgement and reciprocation of these claims and intentions. After having raised the issue of publication in the preface to the Investigations Wittgenstein continues by describing how he had occasion to re-read the Tractatus and to explain its ideas to someone (Nikolai Bakhtin). He writes, ‘it suddenly seemed to me that I should publish those old thoughts and the new ones together; that the latter could be seen in the right light only by contrast with and against the background of my old way of thinking’ (PI xe). Since occupying himself with philosophy again he had been forced to recognize grave mistakes in what he had written in his first book. He acknowledges the shift in his way of thinking, and publishing his old thoughts along with his new ones would demonstrate

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how much he had learned. Placing the two works together would also challenge our understanding of philosophical criticism. The purpose of publishing these works together would not be to refute his earlier results, but to clarify his later method or way of thinking. In his preface Wittgenstein also acknowledges and thanks Frank Ramsey and Mr P.Sraffa for their criticism of his thoughts and ideas. He refers to the criticism which Sraffa for many years unceasingly practised on his thoughts as the stimulus to which he is indebted for the most consequential ideas of the book (PI xe). Sraffa was a teacher at Cambridge University and Wittgenstein thanks this teacher for a philosophical practice. The concluding paragraphs of the preface, although well-known, are worth repeating: I make [my remarks] public with doubtful feelings. It is not impossible that it should fall to the lot of this work, in its poverty and in the darkness of this time, to bring light into one brain or another— but, of course, it is not likely. I should not like my writing to spare other people the trouble of thinking. But, if possible, to stimulate someone to thoughts of [their] own. (PI xe) The preface is dated January 1945. (It was a time of great darkness.) These concluding words are also those of a teacher. The aim of the book is to bring light into one brain or another (during a time of darkness). Its aim is not to spare others the trouble of thinking but, if possible, to stimulate them to thoughts of their own. (Only a few sentences earlier Wittgenstein has acknowledged the stimulus which he received from others.) These words echo his remark that the Investigations is a textbook, not in that it provides knowledge but rather in that it stimulates thinking. This raises methodological questions about teaching and stimulating others to thoughts of their own. Wittgenstein responds to these complex philosophical and pedagogical questions by teaching a method of investigation. He writes, ‘I should have liked to produce a good book. This has not come about but the time is past in which I could improve it’ (PI xe). According to Malcolm (as quoted above), ‘he certainly believed that the work might have been made better, although not by himself (Malcolm 1984:50–51). To understand or be in a position to judge whether the Investigations is a good book requires a philosophical and pedagogical understanding of the Investigations and what, on its

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own terms, would make it good. To dismiss the Investigations as a bad book because it does not conform to philosophical convention is to avoid the issues which Wittgenstein raises in his preface (and in the composition of his text). What would make him regard the Investigations as a good book? How would it be written and read? These questions are asked (and answered) in Wittgenstein’s own description of his philosophical aims and practices. Having raised methodological issues and questions in his preface Wittgenstein claims throughout his writings to be teaching a method. According to Wittgenstein, his art or method of grammatical investigation is a descriptive method. Not only does grammatical investigation describe the use of our words for the purpose of philosophical clarification, but the descriptions themselves take the place of philosophical explanations. In The Blue and Brown Books he claims that ‘our method is purely descriptive; the descriptions we give are not hints at explanations’ (BB 125). In referring to his method as purely descriptive he draws a distinction between description and explanation. According to Wittgenstein, ‘we must do away with all explanations and description alone must take its place’ (PI 109). He writes that: philosophy simply puts everything before us, and neither explains nor deduces anything. —Since everything lies open to view there is nothing to explain. For what is hidden, for example, is of no interest to us. One might also give the name ‘philosophy’ to what is possible before all new discoveries and inventions. (PI 126) This remark is important for several reasons. First, in saying that philosophy simply puts everything before us and neither explains nor deduces anything, Wittgenstein is not claiming that the giving of descriptions is a simple (or easy) task. It is not his claim that a descriptive method is a simpler philosophical method than that of giving explanations. Rather, he draws our attention to the fact that philosophy simply puts everything before us. In other words, philosophy does not take the additional steps of explaining or deducing anything. Wittgenstein’s later philosophy does not, therefore, go further back (in explanation) or further forward (in deduction) when faced with philosophical problems.5 Explanation and deduction are unnecessary for everything lies open to view.

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Because everything lies open to view nothing is therefore hidden. Philosophy describes that which is familiar and ordinary. Wittgenstein writes of the simplicity and familiarity of the aspects of things that are most important for us (PI 129). These aspects are there for us to see if we look at them. Therefore we do not need to be trained in abstruse matters (CV 17e). These descriptions often strike critics as simplistic or trivial however, and this descriptive method is treated as simpler than that of giving theories and explanations. But there is nothing in Wittgenstein’s own writings to support such an interpretation. Although the aspects of things that are most important for us are simple and familiar their description is not. This descriptive method is not simple in the sense of being either uncomplicated or general. Wittgenstein repeatedly stresses that descriptions must be complex, accurate and detailed. ‘A description ought to be complex, so that one can check the details’ (WLPP 26). His own descriptions are complex and detailed even when dealing with the simple and familiar aspects of things that are most important for us.6 When Wittgenstein’s descriptive method is interpreted as being simpler than that of giving explanations his descriptions are often treated as preliminary data for theories or explanations. However he cautions us against the temptation to read these descriptions as preliminary notes for explanations. His descriptions are not meant to exemplify or illustrate explanations, nor to replace explanations as the result of philosophical investigation. If read as the results of philosophical investigation his writings become a compilation of such descriptions. The implication is that there is an ideal or complete compilation of such descriptions and, therefore, a complete or general description of language. This interpretation is misguided and fails to recognize that Wittgenstein refers to his method as descriptive (and not to his descriptions as philosophical results). Description replaces explanation as a form of philosophical investigation. He writes, for example: Philosophy is not a description of language usage, and yet one can learn it by constantly attending to all the expressions of life in the language. (LWPP I 121)

So I shall say: It is not established from the outset that there is such a thing as ‘a general description of the use of a word’. And even if

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there is such a thing, then it has not been determined how specific such a description has to be. (LWPP I 969) Wittgenstein’s descriptive method has as its aim, not the giving of descriptions but the clarification of philosophical confusion. His philosophical aim is not to give a general or comprehensive description of language-use, but rather to learn by constantly attending to all the expressions of life in the language. The descriptions which Wittgenstein employs are instruments of grammatical investigation which serve a variety of different purposes. He acknowledges the difficulty and complexity of his descriptive method early in the Investigations when he reminds us of the many different kinds of things we call ‘description’: Think how many different kinds of thing are called ‘description’: description of a body’s position by means of its co-ordinates; description of a facial expression; description of a sensation of touch; of a mood. (PI 24) Although a grammatical remark about ‘description’, this passage applies to the diversity and complexity of his philosophical method. In this and similar remarks he attempts to cure us of the temptation to think that there is only one kind of description and, consequently, an ideal descriptive case. Not only are there different kinds of descriptions, but these descriptions have different uses. He writes, ‘what we call “descriptions” are instruments for particular uses. Think of a machine-drawing, a cross-section, an elevation with measurements, which an engineer has before [them]’ (PI 291). His different grammatical techniques offer different kinds of descriptions. To read his descriptions as the results of investigation rather than his means of investigation fails to acknowledge the diversity of his descriptions as well as their diverse purposes or uses. Thus, while contrasting explanation and description he draws our attention to the purpose of descriptions: We must do away with all explanation, and description alone must take its place. And this description gets its light, that is to say its purpose, from the philosophical problems. These are, of course, not empirical problems; they are solved, rather, by looking into the

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workings of our language, and that in such a way as to make us recognise those workings: in despite of an urge to misunderstand them. The problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known. Philosophy is the battle against the bewitchment of our intellect by means of our language. (my translation PI 109) Not only does Wittgenstein connect his philosophical descriptions with their purposes, he also connects their purposes with our philosophical problems. Thus, our philosophical problems (and our expression of these problems) determine the purpose of the descriptions given and, consequently, the descriptions themselves. A description serves its philosophical purpose if it resolves our philosophical perplexity. There is no sense in which description rather than explanation will (in and of itself) solve our philosophical problems. Wittgenstein’s descriptions are not, therefore, preliminary explanations, hints at explanations, or descriptions of the foundations of language (PI 124). As he writes, ‘the work of the philosopher consists in assembling reminders for a particular purpose’ (PI 127). Many commentators read Wittgenstein’s descriptions as such reminders but fail to acknowledge their particular purposes. Consequently they attempt to clarify, systematize, expand and complete his descriptions. As Baker acknowledges, however: the presumption that all things which Wittgenstein would presumably have called ‘descriptions of grammar’ are homogeneous in function is a major obstacle to understanding many of his conceptual investigations. Still more damaging is the subsidiary idea that these descriptions are additive. (Baker 1992:131) This descriptive method gets its purpose from our philosophical problems and we can resolve our philosophical problems by looking into the workings of our language and coming to recognize those workings despite our urge to misunderstand them. Wittgenstein writes that: people are deeply imbedded in philosophical, i.e., grammatical confusions. And to free them from these presupposes pulling them out of the immensely manifold connections they are caught up in. One must so to speak regroup their entire

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language. —But this language came about//developed//as it did because people had —and have—the inclination to think in this way. (P 185) We are deeply embedded in grammatical confusions and it is, Wittgenstein implies, natural for us to have the philosophical inclinations which we do (involving our forms of language). His descriptive method is therefore not simple or easy for we have an urge to misunderstand the workings of our language. His descriptive method can be difficult for us to engage in, not because of the method itself, but because of our unwillingness to use it. He remarks, for example, ‘I am trying to recommend a certain sort of investigation…. [T]his investigation is immensely important and very much against the grain of some of you’ (WLFM 103). He also describes our reluctance to engage in grammatical investigation as a prejudice, although he acknowledges that it is not a stupid one (PI 340).7 Wittgenstein writes that our philosophical problems are resolved by looking at the workings of our language. In other words, philosophy describes our use of words. One of the central questions posed by the Investigations, and one of the methodological questions inherent in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is: How do we describe the use of our words? It is important to appreciate the difficulty and complexity of this question in order to understand the difficulty and complexity of Wittgenstein’s methodological response to it. How do we describe the use of words? How do we describe the spatial and temporal phenomena of language? This methodological question is challenging and difficult for at least two reasons. First, Wittgenstein acknowledges that we are quite unprepared for this task. Although we use words, we do not know how to describe their use. As he writes: We are not at all prepared for the task of describing the use of e.g. the word ‘to think’. (And why should we be? What is such a description useful for?) And the naive idea that one forms of it does not correspond to reality at all. We expect a smooth contour and what we get to see is ragged. Here it might really be said that we have constructed a false picture. (Z 111)

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One learns the word ‘think’, i.e. its use under certain circumstances, which, however, one does not learn to describe. (Z114) The ideas we form concerning the use of our words often do not correspond to their actual use. (For example, we construct false pictures of ‘thinking’ as a mental process.) ‘For many words philosophers devise an ideal use, which then turns out to be worthless’ (LWPP I 830). According to Wittgenstein we have a use which we practise, but which we cannot describe. The result is a conflict between the practice and the description that we give (WLPP 244). As he acknowledges: Suppose it’s the use of a word we want to enquire about. You may say, how could I not know this? There is a point to this question— if you mean—Surely I have mastery of the technique of using ‘think’. You have. There is though another task—to describe the technique of the use, and this is hard. (WLPP 240)

It [the philosophical case] leads to wrong descriptions of use (not defective mastery). (WLPP 241) Wittgenstein acknowledges that we are not prepared for the task of describing the use of words. But he also asks, ‘Why should we be?’ and ‘What is such a description useful for?’ His first question cautions us against treating this lack of preparation as a lack of knowledge. It is not, he implies, that we should be (or should have been) prepared for this task (but for some reason are not). For our mistaken philosophical descriptions and cases do not lead to defective mastery. We have mastery of the technique of using words, but not mastery for describing their use. This leads to his second question: ‘What is such a description useful for?’ Such a description is only useful for resolving philosophical problems. It gets its purpose from our philosophical problems. The task of describing the use of our words is methodologically responsive. The second difficulty is that there is no precedent within philosophy itself which offers a method for describing the use of words. Wittgenstein requires a method for the description of language-use. For Wittgenstein, ‘philosophy is not laid down in sentences but in a language’ (P 189). He

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requires a method that will allow him to describe the use of words while all is in flux. As he explains, ‘if we look at the actual use of a word, what we see is something constantly fluctuating’ (PG 77). He also acknowledges that ‘our ordinary language is in tremendous flux, so that it is difficult to make distinctions in it’ (AWL 98). Coveos describes this difficulty as follows: linguistic complexity is dynamic and the linearity of conventional book-writing is extremely static and cumbersome for describing language; it freezes the fluctuating linguistic practice (Coveos 1991:134–136). We learn how to use words, but we do not learn how to describe our use of words, or how to describe the circumstances in which we learn their use. It is this that Wittgenstein attempts to teach us. The methodological problem addressed by his later philosophy involves how we describe the use of words. The problem itself is challenging and difficult, and his response is itself complex and original. His response, in the form of a descriptive method is therefore neither simple nor simplistic. In dismissing Wittgenstein’s philosophical method as merely descriptive, or as simply descriptive, critics fail to see the complexity, detail and difficulty of describing the use of words. Such a response itself expresses an inherent misunderstanding of the way language functions. Wittgenstein’s remark (that description should take the place of explanation) is not merely a negative dictum. It sets out a methodological problem that requires a positive response. His solution to this methodological problem is his method of grammatical investigation. Grammatical investigation involves various techniques which we can use to describe the phenomena of language. Grammatical investigation in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is not a single method but rather a cluster of individual grammatical techniques which are used to describe the grammar or use of our words. Wittgenstein writes that he demonstrates his method of grammatical investigation by example: 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, although there are methods, like different therapies. (PI 133) He describes and demonstrates various grammatical techniques throughout his later writings (in response to particular philosophical problems). Among

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the most important and most frequently used techniques are his use of ordinary language, questions, language-games, particular cases and analogies. Wittgenstein teaches these techniques with examples. As Drury writes: I seem to hear the voice of my former teacher, Wittgenstein, thundering at me ‘Give examples, give examples, don’t just talk in abstract terms, that is what all these present day philosophers are doing’. (Drury 1973:38) The giving of examples and the demonstration of grammatical techniques is not an indirect means of teaching or an indirect means of giving explanations. One gives examples and intends them to be taken in a particular way. I do not, however, mean by this that [one] is supposed to see in those examples that common thing which I—for some rea-son— was unable to express, but that [one] is now to employ those examples in a particular way. Here giving examples is not an indirect means of explaining—in default of a better. (PI 71) Wittgenstein writes that ‘we are tempted to think that our examples are indirect means for producing a certain image or idea in a person’s mind, —that they hint at something which they cannot show’ (BB 125). However, he repeatedly emphasizes that his examples are not an indirect means of teaching. Rather he is teaching by example; he is demonstrating his philosophical method. In teaching a philosophical method using examples Wittgenstein alters both the form and terms of philosophical discourse. As Binkley explains: [he] demonstrates methods by exemplifying them… Wittgenstein says he is exhibiting methods by examples, he is showing the skill of dissolving philosophical problems not by setting down a methodology, but by doing it; he is trying to teach an art by demonstrating how it is done. (Binkley 1973:39) His use of examples is not a ‘clumsy way of describing the use of words’, or a ‘second-best method of giving the meaning of a word’ (AWL 67, 96). Thus, he acknowledges during a lecture that:

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the question has been raised how far my method is the same as what is called description of meaning by exemplification. That sounds as if I had invented a method, a means of giving a meaning which is just as good as definition. The point of examining the way a word is used is not at all to provide another method of giving its meaning [but to get rid of certain philosophical troubles]. (AWL 97) Thus his method of teaching with examples differs fundamentally from that of giving meanings, definitions and explanations. Wittgenstein is not giving meanings, definitions or explanations by means of descriptions or examples. Rather, he is teaching his descriptive method using examples. Teaching a descriptive method by example shifts the form of philosophical investigation away from argumentation and criticism. Wittgenstein’s refusal to engage in adversarial criticism is an important aspect of his philosophical method. He acknowledges the difficulties we may encounter in understanding this form of philosophical response when he remarks: One of the greatest difficulties I find in expressing what I mean is this: You are inclined to put our difference in one way, as a difference of opinion. But I am not trying to persuade you to change your opinion. I am only trying to recommend a certain sort of investigation. If there is an opinion involved, my opinion is that this sort of investigation is immensely important and very much against the grain of some of you. (WLFM 103) Wittgenstein draws our attention to a particular form of investigation while denying that he is forwarding or responding to opinions or philosophical claims. His remark is methodological. He is trying to recommend a certain kind of investigation. He claims, ‘I simply draw the person’s attention to what [they are] really doing and refrain from any assertions. Everything is then to go on within grammar’ (McGuinness 1979:186). It is in the nature of his grammatical investigations not to make assertions but to clarify the grammar or use of our words. Wittgenstein responds to our use of words. As he remarks elsewhere, ‘on all questions we discuss I have no opinion; and if I had I would give it up at once for the sake of the argument because it would be of no importance for our discussion’ (AWL 97). His form of philosophical discussion differs from philosophical forms of

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argumentation which involve making assertions, holding opinions, or refuting the assertions or opinions of others. According to Wittgenstein, ‘the only correct method of doing philosophy is not saying anything and leaving it to another person to make a claim. That is the method I now adhere to’ (McGuinness 1979:183). The aim of this grammatical method is philosophical clarity. If one has attained a completely clear formulation, that ultimate clarity, then there can be no further misgivings and resistance; for these, of course, always result from the feeling: something has now been asserted. (McGuinness 1979:18) In other words, philosophical clarity rules out the making of assertions. Misgivings and resistance are not the result of specific claims but the result of their having been asserted. According to Wittgenstein, a properly worded philosophical thesis would not allow for discussion because ‘everyone would say: “Yes, yes, that goes without saying’” (McGuinness 1979:18). If this reaction does not occur then we have an indication that we have not yet expressed things clearly enough (McGuinness 1979:18). Wittgenstein’s descriptive grammatical method is an alternative to the making of philosophical assertions. What we need is a clear view of our use of words: A main source of our failure to understand is that we do not command a clear view of the use of words. —Our grammar is lacking in this sort of perspicuity. A perspicuous representation produces just that understanding which consists in ‘seeing connexions’. Hence the importance of finding and inventing intermediate cases. The concept of a perspicuous representation is of fundamental significance for us. It earmarks the form of account we give, the way we look at things. (Is this a Weltanschauung?) (PI 122) Our failure to understand is not merely an intellectual failure (or mistake) that can be addressed or redressed through propositional forms of argumentation and criticism. Our grammar (or use of words) is lacking in clarity. Anscombe translates ‘Übersichtlichkeit’ as ‘perspicuity’, but it can also be translated as ‘clarity’ or ‘openness’. A perspicuous representation is simply a clear representation. To see the account in the

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Investigations as a clear or open representation of our use of words is preferable to speaking of a perspicuous representation for several reasons. First, perspicuity implies an intellectual understanding and lucidity. Wittgenstein’s references to our ways of looking at things repeatedly emphasize that philosophical problems are not merely intellectual mistakes. Consistent with his visual imagery, he often refers to philosophical illusions rather than to philosophical errors (PI 110). (He also refers to our attitudes towards language as superstitions). Secondly, perspicuity suggests the possibility of systematizing our descriptions of language. Wittgenstein denies any such possibility: 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 should completely disappear. (PI 133) And thirdly, a clear representation is the opposite of the fog which often clouds our understanding (PI 5). The haze or fog which makes clear vision impossible is the result of our own preconceived ideas and our own false pictures. Studying the phenomena of language disperses the fog so that we can command a clear view of our use of words. A clear representation of our grammar can also be contrasted with that which is hidden or disguised. Wittgenstein repeatedly writes that everything that is of interest and importance to philosophy lies open to view. He acknowledges however that we often feel (in philosophy) that things are hidden. But he writes that: the aspects of things that are most important for us are hidden because of their simplicity and familiarity. (One is unable to notice something—because it is always before our eyes.) The real foundations of [our] enquiry do not strike [us] at all. Unless that fact has at some time struck [us]. —And this means: we fail to be struck by what, once seen, is most striking and most powerful. (PI 129) Just as the fog or haze is the result of our ways of thinking, so too the aspects of things that are most important for us are hidden because we do not notice what is always before our eyes. As Wittgenstein writes, ‘we fail to be struck by what, once seen, is most striking and most powerful’ (PI 129). His philosophical investigations attempt to give us

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a clear representation of our use of words. He also writes that his aim is to teach us ‘to pass from a piece of disguised nonsense to something that is patent nonsense’ (PI 464). This claim can also be translated as teaching us to pass from unclear to clear nonsense (or from disguised to public nonsense). The emphasis is on clarity and openness. Wittgenstein attempts to make nonsense clear; to bring it out into the open where it can be recognized. The perspicuous representation of our grammar refers to both Wittgenstein’s means of representation (his method) and that which is represented (our grammar). Language is both the tool of analysis and the subject of that analysis. Wittgenstein emphasizes his method or means of representation when he writes that the concept of perspicuous representation is of fundamental significance because it earmarks the form of account we give, or the way we see things. When his remarks are read as philosophical assertions or claims rather than a means of representation or comparison, they are read as articulating a philosophy of language. In the words of Wittgenstein, ‘we predicate of the thing what lies in the method of representing it. Impressed by the possibility of a comparison, we think we are perceiving a state of affairs of the highest generality’ (PI 104). Although Wittgenstein claims that our grammar is lacking in clarity his aim is not to refine or complete a system of rules for the use of our words. Rather the clarity he seeks involves the dissolution of our philosophical problems. Emphasis is placed on his grammatical method rather than on philosophical assertions about ‘grammar’. Wittgenstein uses the term ‘grammar’ in a variety of ways. He refers to the grammar of particular words, expressions, propositions, languages and signs.8 He writes of a grammatical investigation and a grammatical movement, as well as of grammatical differences, fictions and illusions.9 He writes grammatical remarks and notes, identifies grammatical propositions and asks grammatical questions.10 When asked by Moore how he is using the term ‘grammar’ Wittgenstein replies that he is using it in its ordinary sense although he is making things belong to grammar which are not commonly supposed to belong to it (Moore 1993:276). Against the background of an Austrian philosophical and cultural tradition Wittgenstein’s claim resonates with significance. Wittgenstein is not introducing a new, technical, or specialized use of the term although he is using it in a variety of ways. Such a specialized use of the term is neither tacitly assumed nor conspicuously absent from his writings.

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If we examine his remarks concerning ‘grammar’ we find descriptions which parallel his general methodological claims. Interwoven in philosophical investigations of a variety of subjects Wittgenstein contrasts grammar with philosophical attempts to penetrate phenomena and seek that which is hidden. He also contrasts grammar with natural science, natural history and the making of empirical claims.11 Instead, the investigation of grammar is (variously) descriptive, responsive and preventive of philosophical misunderstanding. The investigation of grammar describes the possibilities of phenomena and has as its aim the clarification of our philosophical confusion.12 Wittgenstein is not using grammar as a foundation for a causal explanation of our language-use nor is he providing empirical, historical or scientific claims concerning our use of words. He is not providing a philosophy of language nor again a philosophy of grammar, although he does claim that we can do philosophy by constantly attending to all the expressions of life in our language. In order to understand Wittgenstein’s use of the term ‘grammar’ we need to look and see how he uses the term throughout his later writings. There is no short answer, explanation or definition for this term (not because such an answer, explanation or definition is missing or yet to be determined, but because this is not what we need to clarify our confusion or misunderstanding). Our confusion about ‘grammar’ is similar to our confusion about ‘language’ and ‘philosophy’. To paraphrase Wittgenstein, instead of producing something common to all that we call ‘grammar’ these phenomena have no one thing in common which makes us use the same word for all, —but they are related to one another in many different ways (PI 65). Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation and his grammatical techniques are examined in the following chapters, and the result of the examination is that we see a complicated network of similarities, overlappings and criss-crossings; sometimes overall similarities, sometimes similarities in details (PI 66). Wittgenstein’s claim to be teaching a method of grammatical investigation (which has as its aim the clarification of philosophical confusion) is not only consistent with his cultural, philosophical and pedagogical experiences but it is also confirmed by his students. Fann confirms Wittgenstein’s claim to be teaching a method and further describes his method as an art:

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In another lecture he remarked to the effect that it did not matter whether his results were true or not: what mattered was that ‘a method had been found’. His method, of course, cannot be followed as a recipe or formula, it is rather an art. Wittgenstein was above all an artist who created a new style of thinking, a new way of looking at things. (Fann 1969:109–110) To describe his method of grammatical investigation as an art serves to highlight several important aspects of Wittgenstein’s philosophical and pedagogical practices. His method is an art. It is a skill or technique which can be taught, practised and learned. It is also an art in the sense that it is a creative activity. Description and demonstration are both necessary elements of its instruction. To learn Wittgenstein’s method is to learn how to use his grammatical techniques in response to our own philosophical confusions and concerns. To learn a method involves more than merely reading philosophical results. To describe the method of grammatical investigation as an art (or skill) also suggests that there are connections or comparisons to be made with other forms of art. Wittgenstein compares his method of grammatical investigation to various artistic practices. For example, he compares his philosophy to poetry, music and architecture.13 These comparisons, although general within his writings, are richly suggestive. In drawing these comparisons Wittgenstein raises questions about the teaching, practice and criticism of grammatical investigation. He writes, for example, of the queer resemblance between philosophical and aesthetic investigations (CV 25e). Both investigations involve the description of complex forms of life (LC 11). And he comments that: Reasons…in aesthetics are ‘of the nature of further descriptions’ …all aesthetics does is to draw your attention to a thing, to ‘place things side by side’…. [If] by giving reasons of this sort, you make another person ‘see what you see’ but it still doesn’t appeal to [them], that is ‘the end of the discussion’. (Moore 1993:106) Another theme inherent in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is that art has something to teach us. He connects art and pedagogy. In contrasting the spirit of his writings with the spirit of his times he writes, ‘people nowadays think that scientists exist to instruct them, poets, musicians, etc., to give them pleasure. The idea that these have something to teach

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them—that does not occur to them’ (CV 36e). He wants us to struggle with this idea, not because we disagree with it but because it does not even occur to us. Wittgenstein is himself often described as creative and artistic in his philosophical and pedagogical endeavours. Carnap writes that during the 1930s his ‘point of view and his attitude toward people and problems, even theoretical problems, were much more similar to those of a creative artist than to those of a scientist’ (Carnap 1967:33–39). And von Wright recounts how ‘Wittgenstein said that he returned to philosophy [in 1929] because he felt that he could again do creative work’ (von Wright 1984:12). His later writings are creative and imaginative and support such claims. Rather than dismiss these claims as interesting biographical details, we can recognize in them important descriptions of Wittgenstein’s philosophical practices. Wittgenstein’s writings are not only creative but procreative. Hyde writes that ‘the greatest art offers us images by which to imagine our lives. And once the imagination has been awakened it is procreative, through it we can give more than we were given, say more than we had to say’ (Hyde 1983:193). This applies to Wittgenstien’s art of grammatical investigation. His writings are imaginative, humorous, intriguing and extraordinary. They are playful, provocative and memorable. And they invite response through both the tone and form of their composition. In this sense his writings are also inclusive. The reader is a participant in his philosophical investigation and never the recipient of an (artificially) completed philosophical theory or system.14 His descriptions and examples are taken from everyday life and open onto a world rich in diversity and detail. His texts are never abstract or alienating, nor intellectually confining or restricting. And perhaps most importantly, they are insightful and profoundly illuminating. His method and remarks prove philosophically helpful and offer the philosophical clarity of which he speaks. Throughout his later philosophy Wittgenstein is generous in both the description and demonstration of his method. There are consequences for our use of (and response to) his later philosophy if we acknowledge his claims to be teaching a philosophical method. In contrast to much of the secondary literature which does not take Wittgenstein at his word, and which dismisses those aspects of his texts or method which appear problematic, we need to both trust and test (or apply) his methods. For example, he claims throughout his later writings that nothing is hidden either within his texts or in philosophy itself. Yet critics read him as hiding or withholding important information or insights (even to the point of conspiracy).15 Conspiracy theories and

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accusations of dishonesty are at once both serious and misguided. The integrity of Wittgenstein’s writings and the integrity of our (critical) response to them are philosophical and pedagogical issues. This does not mean that criticism is impossible but it does raise questions about the form and terms of our criticism. Binkley proposes that understanding Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is more like understanding art than understanding facts or theories. ‘Consequently, a failure to respond appropriately is more like a non-understanding than a misunderstanding: one hasn’t got it wrong, one simply hasn’t got it—like a joke’ (Binkley 1973:192). This suggests that criticisms levelled against Wittgenstein’s writings involve our use of and response to his texts as often as the texts themselves. The struggle inherent in responding to his texts is as characteristic of the texts as his struggle in writing them. It is not incidental to our understanding of the text but a part of our philosophical engagement with it. This is also one recognizable characteristic of teaching and learning. Once a method has been taught there is the reciprocal labour of its reception and its use. One consequence of teaching a method is the possibility of numerous and diverse responses. (A teacher cannot dictate or control the response of the students.) This possibility is confirmed not only in the notes and personal correspondence of Wittgenstein’s students, but also in the secondary literature which covers an extraordinarily wide range of readings and interpretations. Within the secondary literature it is possible, however, to differentiate between those works which acknowledge his methodological claims and those which do not. If we do not take these methodological claims seriously however, we do not engage with his texts in the manner for which they are written. As a result his philosophy becomes variously misunderstood, more or less mangled, and watered down. When we do not recognize and respond to the creativity and spirit of his philosophical and pedagogical method we destroy, debase and silence his art.

Chapter 4

Ordinary language

One of the grammatical techniques in Wittgenstein’s method of investigation is the description and use of ordinary language. Ordinary language is used throughout his writings and he repeatedly draws our attention to this aspect of his grammatical art. However, the methodological role and significance of ordinary language has yet to be acknowledged or addressed within the secondary literature1. Its dismissal as a topic of genuine philosophical interest and concern is an indication of the radical nature of Wittgenstein’s method, for no other aspect of his philosophical writings comes into greater methodological conflict with the Western philosophical tradition, and nowhere does he challenge philosophical convention as clearly and as strongly as he does through his description and use of ordinary language. If we look at Wittgenstein’s use of language as one of his grammatical techniques, and if we place it within the tradition of Kraus and see it in connection with his experiences as an elementary school teacher, the role and significance of ordinary language becomes clear. The description and use of ordinary language raise important issues concerning language and philosophy, and clarify several structural aspects of his later writings. The expression ‘ordinary language’ is used to describe familiar, everyday, commonplace or unexceptional language. It is not a language involving technical, theoretical, abstract or specialized terminology. It is also, as Barrett reminds us, not a single monolithic structure (Barrett 1978:65). Wittgenstein’s description and use of ordinary language is often dismissed within the secondary literature as incidental to his later philosophy. Many philosophers attempt to translate his texts into more conventional academic terminology and discourse, and do not themselves use ordinary language. Commentators often attempt to transform his ordinary language into specialized philosophical

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terminology. A metaphysical emphasis is placed on terms such as ‘grammar’, ‘language-game’, ‘form of life’ and ‘perspicuous representation’. However, Wittgenstein does not introduce or use these terms in a specialized or theoretical way. There is also very little use of (or reference to) the specialized vocabulary of academic philosophy within his writings. There are few ‘isms’ and therefore few references to theories, doctrines or dogmas.2 Wittgenstein’s writings do not, based on their language, require or presuppose knowledge of academic philosophy. Rather, they call forth our knowledge of ordinary language. As he writes: People sometimes say they cannot make any judgement about this or that because they have not studied philosophy. This is irritating nonsense, because the pretence is that philosophy is some sort of science. (CV 29e) The difficulties inherent in Wittgenstein’s later writings are not difficulties of vocabulary or syntax (unlike the writings of many twentieth-century philosophers). The tone of his writing is never that of professional philosophy. There is, in other words, nothing impressive and equally nothing intimidating about his language. For Wittgenstein, philosophy is not a science that requires a specialized vocabulary. In fact, he uses ordinary language as a methodological touchstone for philosophical clarity. ‘Wittgenstein used to ask: “What would my bedmaker say of this kind of abstract talk?”’ (Fann 1969:100). The refusal to use ordinary language in works which attempt to accommodate Wittgenstein’s writings within a philosophical discipline or tradition is itself significant and worthy of note. When Wittgenstein’s description and use of ordinary language is acknowledged as being significant, it is often dismissed as naive, simplistic or intellectually conservative. His description of ordinary language is read as an appeal to common sense. Thus his use of ordinary language is read as a form of intellectual constraint or censorship. The use of ordinary language is offered, however, as a methodological antidote to precisely these attitudes towards language. The methodological significance of Wittgenstein’s description and use of ordinary language resides in the diagnosis and treatment, as it were, of philosophical discontentment with language. Philosophical discontentment with ordinary language is the same discontentment expressed towards Wittgenstein’s use of ordinary language in his later writings.

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In philosophy, ordinary language is often described as vague and imprecise. As a result, an attempt is made to introduce greater precision into our language and to introduce specialized terms into philosophy. We feel that our ordinary, everyday language is inadequate for our philosophical needs. When we do philosophy our ordinary language seems incapable of describing what we want to describe. ‘We are tempted to think that in order to clear up such matters philosophically our ordinary language is too coarse, that we need a more subtle one’ (BB 45). According to Wittgenstein, however: the task of philosophy is not to create a new, ideal language, but to clarify the use of our language, the existing language. Its aim is to remove particular misunderstandings; not to produce a real understanding for the first time. (PG115) The temptation to create a new, ideal language is expressed in attempts to introduce new terms into philosophy or to reform ordinary language. But according to Wittgenstein, the aim of philosophy is not the creation of a new or specialized language, but the removal of particular misunderstandings. The aim of philosophy is, therefore, the clarification of our use of words. Attempts to create new languages, or to reform ordinary language in philosophy, are based on a misunderstanding of both language and philosophy. ‘Whenever we feel that our language is inadequate to describe a situation, at bottom there will be a misunderstanding of a simple sort…. One then tends to become fundamentally dissatisfied with language’ (AWL 64). Our dissatisfaction expresses philosophical misunderstanding. Wittgenstein remarks that ‘in ordinary life we never feel that we have to resign ourselves to something by using ordinary language’ (LPE 229). This suggests that our feelings of resignation are connected with our philosophical confusion. Wittgenstein connects the use of ordinary language with philosophical clarification and with the removal of particular philosophical misunderstandings. He contrasts the use of ordinary language with the creation of a new or ideal language. In so doing he does not claim that language-reform is impossible. Rather he contrasts the aims and purposes of language-reform with philosophical aims of clarification.

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Such a reform for particular practical purposes, an improvement in our terminology designed to prevent misunderstandings in practice, is perfectly possible. But these are not the case we have to do with. The confusions which occupy us arise when language is like an engine idling, not when it is doing work. (PI 132) Attempts to reform language in philosophy are misguided because they present the wrong solutions to the wrong problems. It is not that language is not working efficiently in philosophy, but that it is not working at all. (It is idling.) The introduction of new or reformed language in philosophy will not prevent misunderstanding in practice, or restore language to its working order. In fact, Wittgenstein suggests that the introduction of new terms in philosophy is itself a sign that language is idling: ‘In philosophy it is best…not to introduce new words. When a new word is introduced, one may be more or less certain that the person who introduces [it] has nothing to say’ (WLPP 184). Philosophical attempts to reform language are based on a misunderstanding of the workings of our language. Subsequent languagereform leads philosophers away from the ordinary, everyday world in which language functions. In order to clarify our use of words, Wittgenstein returns language (which is idling) from its metaphysical to its everyday use. The thing to do in such cases is always to look how the words in question are actually used in our language. We are in all such cases thinking of a use different from that which our ordinary language makes of the words. (BB 52) For this purpose, Wittgenstein brings words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use. Contrasting his grammatical method with that of other philosophers, he writes: When philosophers use a word— ‘knowledge’, ‘being’, ‘object’, ‘I’, ‘proposition’, ‘name’ —and try to grasp the essence of the thing, one must always ask oneself: is the word ever actually used in this way in the language-game which is its original home? — What we do is to bring words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use. (PI 116)

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In order to look and see if a word is actually ever used in a certain way in its original home we must bring words back to their everyday use. For Wittgenstein, essence is expressed by grammar. Thus we must look at the grammar or use of our words if we want to see their essence. Rather than introduce new terms into philosophy Wittgenstein describes our ordinary language-use. He writes that ‘philosophy may in no way interfere with the actual use of language; it can in the end only describe it’ (PI 124). As previously discussed, however, the description of our use of language is complex and important. Once again, the description of our ordinary language-use is connected with our understanding of the essence of human language. He writes, for example: We are under the illusion that what is peculiar, profound, essential in our investigation, resides in its trying to grasp the incomparable essence of language. That is, the order existing between the concepts of proposition, word, proof, truth, experience, and so on. This order is a super-order between—so to speak—super-concepts. Whereas, of course, if the words ‘language’, ‘experience’, ‘world’, have a use, it must be as humble a one as that of the words ‘table’, ‘lamp’, ‘door’. (PI 97) Wittgenstein is not denying that our philosophical investigations are important or profound, but he is denying that their importance or profundity resides in trying to grasp ‘the incomparable essence of language’ (an essence which is thus, by definition, beyond our grasp). In describing the use of words like ‘language’, ‘experience’ or ‘world’ as humble Wittgenstein appears to be denying their importance and significance. However, he is only denying the terms in which we express such importance. Words like ‘language’ are important because of their uses in our lives. Their uses are as humble as the uses of ‘table’, ‘lamp’ or ‘door’ (and any additional emphasis placed on them expresses our philosophical attitudes and confusions). Such words are ‘low in status’ when compared to the often highly specialized, technical, abstract and theoretical vocabulary of the discipline. Wittgenstein’s choice of words is significant however. These words are ‘humble’—they are grounded, or rooted, in our everyday lives.3 According to Wittgenstein, metaphysical assertions express discontentment with our grammar (due to a misunderstanding of grammar or language-use). He acknowledges that:

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it is particularly difficult to discover that an assertion which the metaphysician makes expresses discontentment with our grammar when the words of this assertion can also be used to state a fact of experience. Thus when [they say] ‘only my pain is real pain’, this sentence might mean that the other people are only pretending. (BB 57) Wittgenstein’s description of ordinary language draws a distinction between our ordinary forms of expression and philosophical assertions. When discussing mental images and pains, for example, he writes: —When as in this case, we disapprove of the expressions of ordinary language (which are after all performing their office), we have got a picture in our heads which conflicts with the picture of our ordinary way of speaking. Whereas we are tempted to say that our way of speaking does not describe the facts as they really are. As if, for example, the proposition ‘[this individual] has pains’ could be false in some other way than by [their] not having pains. As if the form of expression were saying something false even when the proposition faute de mieux asserted something true. For this is what disputes between Idealists, Solipsists and Realists look like. The one party attack the normal form of expression as if they were attacking a statement. The others defend it, as if they were stating facts recognized by every reasonable human being. (PI 402) Wittgenstein identifies a philosophical tendency to disapprove of the forms of expression of ordinary language. This disapproval is a form of discontentment. We project onto ordinary language an inherent inadequacy when confronted with our philosophical needs. But in philosophy we do not question these philosophical needs, although they arise precisely because we are confused about our ordinary ways of speaking. We feel as if our forms of expression were somehow false, even when the propositions assert something true. When Wittgenstein does refer to philosophical theories or movements (as above) he does not discuss specific philosophical assertions or claims. Rather, he describes philosophical disputes as expressing confusion concerning our use of words. All three parties (above) attack and defend statements. But in each case one party disapproves of a particular use of words (which they read and respond to as a statement or proposition) and the other parties defend that use of words as if they were defending

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propositions or statements of fact. It is precisely because all parties fail to distinguish between statements (or assertions) and our use of words, that they inevitably talk past one another. In examining our normal forms of expression, Wittgenstein’s investigations avoid these conflicts and do not attack or defend the various statements or claims which are made. The disputes themselves, he suggests, result from a misunderstanding of our ordinary ways of speaking. The disputants express disapproval with our use of words because they do not understand the workings of our language. Wittgenstein’s own remarks are often read as philosophical assertions rather than grammatical remarks. When his description of ordinary language is read as stating matters of fact, and not as describing the use of our words, it is misread as an appeal to common sense or an appeal to the status quo. But Wittgenstein is the first person to deny that his description of ordinary language is such an appeal. Such a reading misinterprets his grammatical methods. As he explains: Philosophy may start from common sense but it cannot remain common sense. As a matter of fact philosophy cannot start from common sense because the business of philosophy is to rid one of these puzzles which do not arise from common sense. No philosopher lacks common sense in ordinary life. (AWL 108)

You must not try to avoid a philosophical problem by appealing to common sense; instead, present it as it arises with most power. You must allow yourself to be dragged into the mire and get out of it. Philosophy can be said to consist of three activities: to see the commonsense answer, to get yourself so deeply into the problem that the commonsense answer is unbearable, and to get from that situation back to the commonsense answer. But the commonsense answer in itself is no solution; everyone knows it. One must not in philosophy attempt to short-circuit problems. (AWL 109) Although beginning and ending in the everyday world, Wittgenstein’s grammatical methods in no way merely accept or appeal to common sense. His methods are entirely different. What his remarks do demonstrate is that our grammatical insights neither appeal to, nor conflict with, common sense. It is for this reason that he writes that:

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a common-sense person, when [they read] earlier philosophers thinks—quite rightly—‘Sheer nonsense’. When [they listen] to me [they think]—rightly again—‘Nothing but stale truisms’. That is how the image of philosophy has changed.4 It is not that Wittgenstein is presenting stale truisms (assertions of matters of fact) but that his grammatical remarks will appear to be stale truisms if read as assertions. In other words, they will strike us as not worth mentioning. (They go without saying.) Wittgenstein captures this sense when he writes that ‘if one tried to advance theses in philosophy, it would never be possible to debate them, for everyone would agree to them’ (PI 128). He is not claiming that he is trying to advance theses, but that if one tried to advance theses everyone would agree to them. Wittgenstein’s grammatical remarks are important precisely because they are not advancing theses but fulfilling a different methodological role. (And they fulfil their grammatical role of clarification precisely because everyone would agree to them.) As grammatical investigations, using ordinary language (rooted in our everyday world) Wittgenstein’s later writings do not conflict with common sense as earlier philosophical writings do. Wittgenstein’s investigations describe the grammar or use of our words, rather than specific philosophical claims. It is for this reason that Cavell writes that: for Wittgenstein philosophy comes to grief not in denying what we all know to be true, but in its effort to escape those human forms of life which alone provide the coherence of our expression. (Cavell 1976:61) His description of our use of ordinary language places language back into human forms of life ‘which alone provide the coherence of our expression’. For Wittgenstein, philosophers do not deny particular statements or claims which we all know to be true. Rather, in asserting or denying philosophical statements philosophers (such as the Idealists, Solipsists and Realists above) escape from our human forms of life. The centre of reference for Wittgenstein is not statements or assertions but our use of words. Our words are an expression of our lives (Cavell 1982: 355). According to Wittgenstein ‘the center of reference [for our use of words] is ordinary human life and the further we go from ordinary human life the less meaning we can give such expressions’ (WLPP 37).

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Wittgenstein’s distinction between our use of words and philosophical assertions clarifies his remark that ‘it is what human beings say that is true and false; and they agree in the language they use. That is not agreement in opinions but in form of life’ (PI 241). Philosophy is not set down in sentences but in language. Wittgenstein recognizes that human forms of life provide the coherence for our use of words and he recognizes the philosophical temptation to escape from, or reject, these human forms of life. He writes that ‘what has to be accepted, the given, is—so one could say—forms of life’ (PI 226e). But he never underestimates the philosophical difficulty of accepting human forms of life. In the words of Kerr, ‘Wittgenstein’s later writings are key texts in subverting the entire metaphysical tradition which is constituted by rancour against the physical and historical conditions of human life’ (Kerr 1989:188). Wittgenstein’s writings emphasize the connection between language and forms of life. The term ‘language-game’ brings into prominence the fact that the speaking of language is part of a form of life and imagining a language means imagining a form of life (PI 23, 19). According to Wittgenstein, forms of life (or facts of living) are what have to be accepted. They are the given. Yet to accept them as given is not to accept them without question. He draws our attention to the fact that philosophers do not always question what they accept as given and human forms of life are often ignored or rejected. According to Wittgenstein: How unquestioned the given still is. It would be the very devil if it were a tiny picture taken from an oblique, distorting angle. The unquestioned—life—is supposed to be something accidental, marginal, while something over which I never normally puzzle at all is regarded as the real thing.5 In philosophy human life is often treated as something marginal and accidental. As Wittgenstein writes: Instead of the unanalysable, specific, indefinable: the fact that we act in such-and-such ways, e.g. punish certain actions, establish the state of affairs thus and so, give orders, render accounts, describe colours, take an interest in other’s feelings. What has to be accepted, the given—it might be said—are facts of living [Tatsachen des Lebens] .6

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A description of human forms of life involves sketching the actions of human beings. For Wittgenstein, philosophy ‘leaves everything as it is’ (PI 124). As Cavell points out, if read against philosophical attempts to escape from everyday life, philosophy’s attempt to leave everything as it is is an achievement. According to Cavell, ‘recognizing what we say, in the way that is relevant in philosophizing, is like recognizing our present commitments and their implications’ (Cavell 1976:57). In other words, the description of our use of ordinary language is the recognition of our words and of our world. Only within this context do our words have meaning.7 Wittgenstein writes that his aim in philosophy is to show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle (PI 309). This philosophical aim (and image) can be read with reference to the description and use of ordinary language. A fly-bottle is a stoppered bottle with a hole near the bottom sitting in a saucer of beer. Lured by the fumes, the fly crawls into the bottle and keeps vainly flying upwards to escape (Kerr 1989:75). The philosopher who attempts to escape from ordinary language in philosophy is like the fly that keeps vainly flying upwards to escape the trap that it is in. (Abstraction and the specialization of language are attempts to fly upwards, as it were.) Like the fly, the philosopher is tempted into this difficult situation and, like the fly, attempts to escape in the wrong direction. The only way out of the fly-bottle is the way in.8 In bringing philosophers back to their everyday world, and in bringing words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use Wittgenstein attempts to show philosophers the way out of their difficulties (by showing them the way in). He brings words and philosophers back down to earth. Wittgenstein reminds us that our ordinary language is the language that we use to express our initial philosophical questions and confusions, and that by the time we articulate these questions and concerns we already do a great many things with language. Just as he reminds us of the multiplicity of language-games in our lives, so too he reminds us of the complexity of ordinary language which we tend to overlook: When I talk about language (words, sentences, etc.) I must speak the language of everyday. Is this language somehow too coarse and material for what we want to say? Then how is another one to be constructed? —And how strange that we should be able to do anything at all with the one we have!

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In giving explanations I already have to use language full-blown (not some sort of preparatory, provisional one); this by itself shews that I can adduce only exterior facts about language. Yes, but then how can these explanations satisfy us? —Well, your very questions were framed in this language; they had to be expressed in this language, if there was anything to ask! And your scruples are misunderstandings. (PI 120) Wittgenstein also identifies our ordinary language as the origin of our concepts and interests. He writes, ‘where do we get the concept “thinking” from which we want to consider here? From everyday language. What first fixes the direction of our attention is the word “thinking”. But the use of the word is confused’ (Z 113). According to Wittgenstein, ‘concepts lead us to make investigations; are the expression of our interest, and direct our interest’ (PI 570). Wittgenstein describes our ordinary language as ‘in order as it is’. We seek a perfect language which is based on a false sense of both language and perfection. It is clear that every sentence in our language ‘is in order as it is’. That is to say, we are not striving after an ideal, as if our vague sentences had not yet got a quite unexceptionable sense, and a perfect language awaited construction by us. —On the other hand it seems clear that where there is sense there must be perfect order. — So there must be perfect order even in the vaguest sentence.9 (PI 98) Our ordinary language appears vague only in comparison with a false ideal. To reinforce this claim, Wittgenstein’s final sentence can be read as a grammatical joke: ‘So there must be perfect order even in the vaguest sentence.’ To capture the tone of this remark as that of a grammatical joke serves two purposes: First, it reminds us that he is challenging our attitude towards ordinary language. He is not presenting an argument or a counter-argument. Attitudes are often best challenged with humour (thereby confronting our preconceived notions). Secondly, he explicitly connects the depth of philosophy with the depth of grammatical jokes, writing:

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the problems arising through a misinterpretation of our forms of language have the character of depth. They are deep disquietudes; their roots are as deep in us as the forms of our language and their significance is as great as the importance of our language. —Let us ask ourselves: why do we feel a grammatical joke to be deep? (And that is what the depth of philosophy is.) (PI 111) Wittgenstein is not denying the depth of our disquietudes, for what could be deeper or more important than disquietudes whose roots are as deep in us as the forms of our language, or whose significance is as great as the importance of our language? But he does not equate this importance with subtleties or with the incomparable essence of language. Rather the depth of philosophy is the depth of a grammatical joke (a comparison which itself may make us smile or laugh). ‘Depth’ is here synonymous with importance and significance not with hiddenness or with unattainability. Depth reaches out, as it were, into our language and our lives. (It is inextricably bound up with our forms of life.) We do not need to escape from our ordinary language, or from our everyday lives, in order to penetrate the depth of our language and philosophical problems. Grammatical jokes are deep, not because they are serious or because their essence is hidden, but because their roots are as deep in us as the forms of our language. Grammatical jokes and philosophical disquietudes both share similar forms of expression and involve the workings of our language. This understanding of depth may also help explain an otherwise misleading remark which Wittgenstein makes concerning grammar. He writes: In the use of words one might distinguish ‘surface grammar’ from ‘depth grammar’. What immediately impresses itself upon us about the use of a word is the way it is used in the construction of the sentence, the part of its use—one might say—that can be taken in by the ear. —And now compare the depth grammar, say of the word ‘to mean’ with what its surface grammar would lead us to suspect. No wonder we find it difficult to know our way about. (PI 664) To examine the depth grammar of ‘meaning’ is to see how it is used in our lives. Surface grammar, one might say, is the grammar of the word in abstraction from its use. It involves the form of words rather than the use

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made of the form of words. Our use of words is interwoven in our lives. Wittgenstein makes a similar move in his Remarks on Frazer’s ‘Golden Bough’ when he speaks of the deep nature of certain rituals or actions. He speaks of the deep (or inner) nature of a practice as those circumstances in which it is carried out (that are not included in the account of the festival). He speaks, therefore, of an environment of a way of acting (RFGB 16e). He also writes, ‘perhaps what is inexpressible (what I find mysterious and am not able to express) is the background against which whatever I could express has its meaning’ (CV 16e). He writes, ‘One never looks deep enough for the philosophically significant things; that is to say, one never descends deep enough into the trivial (most trivial)’.10 If we think of depth as significance (a significance which encompasses the complexity of our lives) we will attain understanding by placing our language-use back into the context of everyday life.11 In describing our use of ordinary language, Wittgenstein reintroduces our ordinary, everyday world back into philosophy. He writes: Here it is difficult as it were to keep our heads up, —to see that we must stick to the subjects of our everyday thinking, and not go astray and imagine that we have to describe extreme subtleties, which in turn we are after all quite unable to describe with the means at our disposal. We feel as if we had to repair a torn spider’s web with our fingers. (PI 106) He expresses in a moving and memorable way the philosophical temptation to escape from our everyday world (into the world of extreme subtleties) and the frustration and sorrow that we experience when we find that we are unable to do as we had imagined or envisioned. The means at our disposal (our language or our fingers) appear too coarse and too clumsy to repair that which has been broken or torn apart. Wittgenstein’s response is to bring our words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use. The use of ordinary language involves the subjects of our everyday thinking. As he acknowledges, ‘it is difficult as it were to keep our heads up, —to see that we must stick to the subjects of our everyday thinking’. We must keep our heads up in order to look at our ordinary language-use (rather than keeping our heads down—perhaps tucked in our philosophy books).12 How we speak about the world is inseparable from the world about which we speak. And thus, the use of ordinary language alters, not only the terms of our discussion but the subject matter of philosophy itself. As Bolton writes, ‘our attention is

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directed back to earth’ (Bolton 1979:135). He writes that Wittgenstein begins with what human beings do. ‘What is denied is the possibility of beginning elsewhere, as though we had a standpoint outside from which to grasp daily life’ (Bolton 1979:133). One way in which Wittgenstein uses the term ‘ordinary’ is in connection with ‘the everyday’. Our everyday world is mundane, unremarkable, and often overlooked. It involves that which is familiar and unexceptional. Our use of ordinary language takes place within this everyday world and so we find in Wittgenstein’s later writings (and inherent in his use of ordinary language) the description of our world in all of its ordinariness, detail and diversity. To a degree unequalled in philosophy, his later writings take as their subject matter our contemporary, ordinary language and world. Taking place within the everyday world, his later writings recognize and respect the diversity inherent in our words and lives. His examples are drawn from our everyday world and his comparisons, images and analogies all borrow from this sphere of life. His words are always situational and never abstract. Words acquire their meanings from their always insistent actual habitat, which is not as in a dictionary, simply other words, but includes also…the entire human existential setting in which the real, spoken word always occurs. (Ong 1982:47) Wittgenstein’s description of our everyday world reintroduces this human, existential setting into philosophy through the use of ordinary language. Another term which is used to denote ordinary, everyday language is ‘the vernacular’. The word ‘vernacular’ comes from an IndoGermanic root which implies ‘rootedness’ or ‘abode’. It is, to use Wittgenstein’s words, language in its original home. As Illich explains, vernaculum is the Latin word for whatever is ‘homebred, homespun, homegrown, or homemade’ (Illich 1983:476). Wittgenstein writes in 1933 that: all reflections can be carried out in a much more homespun manner than I used to do. And therefore no new words have to be used in philosophy, but rather the old common words of language are sufficient//the old ones are sufficient.// (P 181)

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Wittgenstein uses the term ‘homespun’ to describe his own description and use of ordinary language (the old common words of language). He also writes that the solutions to philosophical difficulties, if they are correct, ‘must be homespun and ordinary’ [or ordinary and trivial] (P 167). The vernacular is homespun or homegrown; it is ‘made up of the words and patterns grown on the speaker’s own ground’. The vernacular is derived from reciprocal human speech and is embedded in every aspect of life. The vernacular is also a language which is learned from speakers within the context of everyday life through practical use. As Illich writes, ‘in most cultures we know that speech resulted from conversation embedded in everyday life, from listening to fights and lullabies, gossip, stories, and dreams’ (Illich 1983:482). The vernacular is learned through participation in a community of speakers or, in the words of Cavell, through initiation into a form of life. It is not a taught language and it is only recently that vernacular learning has been largely replaced by education: As recently as the period between World Wars I and II, most people, rich and poor alike, learned most of their first language from persons who spoke either directly to them or from others whose conversations they overheard…. What [we] learn is no longer a vernacular that, by definition, we draw into us from roots that we send out into the social context in which we are anchored. (Illich 1983:489) If we place Wittgenstein in rural Austria between the First and Second World Wars, we see that he would have come into direct contact with the world of the vernacular; a world in which language is learned within a communal, conversational context. The learning of the vernacular, rooted in conversation and inherently oral, would have challenged Wittgenstein’s philosophical preconceptions about language, logic and the world. In teaching the subjects of reading and writing to rural Austrian children Wittgenstein would have encountered, at every turn, the differences between vernacular and taught languages. As well, in dictating and later publishing his dictionary (or wordbook) for elementary schools, he would have confronted the enormous differences in language-use between orality and literacy, for ‘dictionaries are light-years away from the world of oral culture’ (Ong 1982:108). Wittgenstein’s own education also has a strong oral dimension. He was taught at home by private tutors until the age of fourteen. And he wrote in 1947: ‘I am really a learned man; only my learning has not

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accumulated through much reading (viel-lesen), but rather through thinking’.13 Wittgenstein’s friends and acquaintances attest to the fact that his thinking took the form of conversation. Historically also, Nestroy and Kraus belong to a tradition which has strong oral dimensions. Nestroy’s grammatical art is expressed in drama and draws heavily on spoken languages (from dialects to aristocratic forms of speech). And Kraus places great emphasis on performing his works in public readings. Thus, within a culture of literacy, both Nestroy and Kraus represent a residual oral culture which expresses itself in the theatre. As previously mentioned, Wittgenstein places himself within this cultural tradition. Wittgenstein’s description and use of ordinary language places language back within a community of speakers and in so doing replaces philosophical preoccupations with written language (and rules) with language-use. Emphasis is placed on the speaking of language as part of an activity or form of life. The communal (oral) aspect of language-learning, and the shift to language-use, are expressed in several interweaving themes within his later writings. First, Wittgenstein does not describe the learning of language in terms of a taught language but in terms of the vernacular. The figure of the child in his later writings is important in this respect, for an infant is one who is yet without speech. As Havelock reminds us, ‘until we are five to seven years old we ourselves are oralists, pure and simple, albeit children dealing orally with a world controlled by literate adults’ (Havelock 1986:67). Not only would the children of rural Austria during the 1920s have been oralists, but their world would have been predominantly oral. Secondly, Wittgenstein’s references to primitive tribes (when imagining language-games) also highlight the oral and communal context of language (and language-learning). Although not making anthropological claims, his choice of imaginary primitive tribes reinforces the learning of language in small, oral communities. Also, he does not clearly distinguish between ‘speech’ and ‘language’ (both die Sprache in German). The absence of this distinction itself highlights the spatial and temporal phenomena of language-use, rather than the academic emphasis placed on written language.14 Perhaps the most significant indication of Wittgenstein’s recognition of the speaking of language and the communal aspect of language-learning is the placement of Augustine’s Confessions in the Investigations. Augustine is a pivotal figure in the history of the transition from orality to literacy. He lived in a ‘culture that knew some literacy but still carried an

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overwhelmingly massive oral residue’ (Ong 1982:36). Augustine himself is credited with the discovery of silent reading, and his Confessions marks a form of introspection and a ‘greater and greater internalization of conscience’ which is connected with the very act of writing itself (Ong 1982:153). As Illich explains: Silent reading is a recent invention. Augustine was already a great author and the Bishop of Hippo when he found that it could be done. In his Confessions, he describes the discovery…. During the night, charity forbade him to disturb his fellow monks with noises he made while reading. But curiosity impelled him to pick up a book. So he learned to read in silence, an art that he had observed in only one man, his teacher, Ambrose of Milan. Ambrose practiced the art of silent reading because otherwise people would have gathered around him and would have interrupted him with their queries on the text. Loud reading was the link between classical learning and popular culture. (Illich 1983:469) Augustine’s confessions, although what Bakhtin describes as a soliloquia or ‘solitary conversations with oneself, were themselves meant to be read aloud. The shift to silent reading and the shift to introspection, as represented by (and in) Augustine’s Confessions is characteristic of the entire philosophical tradition which follows; a tradition which becomes textbased and which becomes separated from ordinary language and everyday life. It is a tradition which emphasizes written and taught language in isolation from the speaking or use of language. It is, as Wittgenstein so accurately describes, a tradition which: describes the learning of language as if (a) child came into a strange country and did not understand the language of the country; that is, as if it already had a language, only not this one. Or again: as if the child could already think, only not yet speak. And ‘think’ would here mean something like ‘talk to itself. (PI 32) Language is isolated from the speaking of language, and thinking becomes ‘talking to oneself’. Placing Augustine in the opening passages of the Investigations signals that the philosophical response which is to follow is no less than a revolution in our understanding of language and

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philosophy. In turning to the words or confessions of Augustine, Wittgenstein implicitly acknowledges a paradigmatic (moment in the) struggle between orality and literacy; a struggle between ordinary language-use and learned, text-based (written) philosophy. To generalize for the purposes of comparison, it can be said that from Augustine to Wittgenstein, the tendency in philosophy was to textualize language-use; to reduce language to text (Ong 1982:130). Taught languages, as well as professional, philosophical languages, textualize the idea of language-learning (hence their obsession with rules). ‘Learned tongues textualize the idea of language, making it seem at root something written’ (Ong 1982:130). The word ‘grammar’ itself is related to the written text: Grammarians focused on writing: gramma means in Greek a letter of the alphabet. The rise of grammarians to prominence signaled a marked shift away from an oral economy of speech to a written economy as Latin fell under total chirographic control. Writers of the language determined not only how it should be written but also how it should be spoken. (Ong 1982:78) With writing and with print philosophy concentrates on the meaning of words in isolation from their everyday (spoken) context.15 Language, once textualized, becomes a visual, fixed, medium. With texts there is ‘a sense of closure, a sense that what is found in a text has been finalized, has reached a state of completion’ (Ong 1982:132). By isolating thought on a written surface, detached from any interlocutor, making utterance in this sense autonomous and indifferent to attack, writing presents utterance and thought as uninvolved with all else, somehow self-contained, complete.16 (Ong 1982:132) Wittgenstein struggles through his use of ordinary language and his acknowledgement of the subjects of our everyday thinking, to challenge philosophical approaches to language which treat language as ‘uninvolved with all else, somehow self-contained, [and] complete’.17 As well, Wittgenstein’s references to the pictures inherent in our language-use and philosophy also recognize the visual aspect of isolating thought on a written surface. He explicitly acknowledges ‘the power language has to make everything look the same, which is most glaringly

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evident in the dictionary…’(CV 22e).18 Wittgenstein’s writings, thus, display an awareness of the philosophical text as text. He struggles, not to escape from the written text, but to recognize it for what it is; thereby identifying its limitations and also exploiting its strengths. Wittgenstein uses grammar as a tool to clarify our understanding of both written and spoken language. Consider, for example, the following remarks in which he plays with the visual or written aspects of language. Ong writes that the notion of definition ‘is arrived at by considering understanding in terms of vision; definire is to draw a line around, to mark the borders of something’ (Ong 1982:323). In Wittgenstein’s discussion of definitions we read: but I can also use it [a concept] so that the extension of the concept is not closed by a frontier. And this is how we use the word ‘game’. For how is the concept of a game bounded? What still counts as a game and what no longer does? Can you give the boundary? No. You can draw one; for none has so far been drawn… (PI 68)

If someone were to draw a sharp boundary I could not acknowledge it as the one that I too always wanted to draw, or had drawn in my mind. For I did not want to draw one at all… (PI 76) He often plays with the visual, or written, aspects of language, suggesting that he is aware of the reduction of language to text and that he is challenging this reduction. His challenge is complex and difficult, although it involves his seemingly simple use of ordinary language. Another indication that Wittgenstein is aware of the philosophical text as text, and that he himself consciously plays with the strengths and limitations of textualized language, is his knowledge of Tristram Shandy and his enthusiasm for Laurence Sterne. Redpath writes that Wittgenstein told him that he had read Tristram Shandy about a dozen times (Redpath 1990:50). Thus he would have been familiar with the techniques used by Sterne to exploit the peculiarities of the text as a physical object. Ricks, in his introduction to Tristram Shandy writes that ‘although [Sterne’s] style is superbly conversational, a reader is continually being teased into realizing that writing is not, after all, the same as conversation’ (Ricks 1985:11–12). Sterne continually uses techniques to point beyond the text and to remind readers of the differences between literature and life. He

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uses a variety of typographical and graphic techniques within the text; such as squiggly lines, dots, dashes, signs, blank pages and a black page. We find in Wittgenstein’s texts a similar use of squiggly lines (doodles), dots, dashes, blank spaces, coloured squares, drawings, and optical illusions. Sterne also raises the issue of where to begin when writing, and the development of his story is not linear (and never, in the end, gets to its professed subject matter; the life and opinions of Tristram Shandy).19 According to Kenner, Sterne is: detached from the assumptions of typographic culture, detached by the richer assumptions of a culture that thinks not of words but of voices…of a matrix of speech in which person confronts person, not fact fact, of language generated by continuous acts of discourse rather than language delivered over to typographic storage. (Kenner 1962:48) This passage could also serve as an apt description of Wittgenstein’s later writings. Part of Wittgenstein’s methodological difficulty, and part of his struggle in writing a philosophical book, involves whether or not it is possible to do what he is attempting to do in words and in writing. Is it possible, for example, to return language to its everyday context in a philosophy book? Can we broaden our concept of grammar beyond its historical connections (with written and taught languages) to encompass the speaking of language as part of an activity or form of life? Is it possible to de-textualize our understanding of language-use in a text? These questions and difficulties may help explain why Wittgenstein’s later methods allow him to teach well but not to write a book. There are, however, several aspects of his later writings which are worth noting, not only because they express this struggle but because they demonstrate Wittgenstein’s ingenious solutions. All of these aspects involve his use of ordinary language. In attempting to free language from its textualization, Wittgenstein’s grammatical techniques and stylistic devices are often strikingly similar to oral forms of discourse and expression. His use of ordinary language, questions, language-games, particular cases, and analogies are all characteristic of orality. While not attempting to return us to a primary orality (an orality which existed before literacy, and to which a return would be quite impossible) Wittgenstein’s later philosophy can be seen as a kind of secondary

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orality. As such it shares its oral characteristics with other twentiethcentury forms of communication: This new orality has striking resemblances to the old in its participatory mystique, its fostering of a communal sense, its concentration on the present moment, and even its use of formulas…. But it is essentially a more deliberate and self-conscious orality, based permanently on the use of writing and print. (Ong 1982:135) Wittgenstein’s later writings are, perhaps, the only truly twentiethcentury philosophical writings we have. They are characterized by a participatory mystique, the fostering of a communal sense, the concentration on the present moment, and the repetition of grammatical techniques. For example, his later writings call for reader participation and response. The criticisms often directed at his later texts (that they are indirect, ambiguous or unclear) are criticisms which seek an ideal, closed or completed text. Philosophy’s denial of ordinary language and everyday life often takes the form of an authoritative and completed text. Philosophical texts are often written from a ‘neutral’, ‘objective’ perspective; outside of any concrete historical, lived world. Philosophical ideals have often been described as timeless truths given sub species aeternitatis (from the standpoint of eternity). If, however, we take Wittgenstein’s use of ordinary language seriously, the difficulties of his texts are the difficulties of languageuse itself. All speech requires response and participation. In contrast to philosophers’ predominantly passive understanding of discourse, Wittgenstein connects understanding with active response. As Bakhtin writes, ‘in the actual life of speech, every concrete act of understanding is active’ (Bakhtin 1981:282). Moreover, ‘understanding and response are dialectically merged and mutually condition each other, one is impossible without the other’ (Bakhtin 1981:282). Continuing to use Bakhtin’s terms, we might describe traditional forms of philosophical discourse as ‘authoritative’; with their control of language, their claims to completeness and their authoritative authorial voice. In contrast, Wittgenstein’s writings might be described as ‘internally persuasive’.20 He himself describes his philosophical writings in terms of persuasion. He remarks, ‘What I am doing is also persuasion …I am saying “I don’t want you to look at it like that”’ (LC 27). He further comments that

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he is persuading people to change their style of thinking (LC 28). The influence of his writings is never imitation, repetition or the simple act of reproduction. For Wittgenstein, understanding (or learning) is responsive and reciprocal. His writings are not presented as the end of philosophical investigation but as their beginning. Hence, also, his emphasis on teaching philosophical methods. In reading Wittgenstein’s later writings we learn by responding to his texts. The spaces between his remarks (the blank spaces on the page) are equivalent to (his) silence. These spaces allow, or invite, our response. The use of blank space clearly differentiates Wittgenstein’s writings from continuous philosophical prose. These spaces are an open acknowledgement that the text requires reader response. Reintroducing our everyday world back into philosophy through the use of ordinary language, Wittgenstein’s writings remain contemporary. They do not sound dated like many contemporaneous philosophical works. In ordinary language, and in everyday life, meaning is never ‘fixed’ once and for all, and a text is never a finished product. The text which begins and ends in philosophy is an artificial, academic construct. Wittgenstein remarks, for example, that ‘there is a truth in Schopen-hauer’s view that philosophy is an organism, and that a book on philosophy with a beginning and end, is a sort of contradiction’ (AWL 43). The Investigations, as a text, does not begin or end in a conventional philosophical manner. It is, in a sense, without a beginning or an ending. But it is also, in another sense, filled with beginnings and endings. Wittgenstein’s philosophical investigations, like language itself, belong in a ‘world where there is no first word (no ideal word) and [where] the final word has not yet been spoken’ (Bakhtin 1982:30). Wittgenstein’s use of striking visual imagery (as demonstrated in the remark that ‘we feel as if we had to repair a torn spider’s web with our fingers’) is also characteristic of oral traditions. Striking visual imagery aids memory. In fact, many of his remarks are incredibly memorable for this reason.21 His use of numbered remarks can also be understood as a memory aid, or as an aid which facilitates oral reference to the text. The rhythm of his various remarks also suggests a certain oral and memory function. For example, ‘What is your aim in philosophy? —To show the fly the way out of the fly bottle’, or ‘A philosophical problem has the form: “I don’t know my way about”’ (PI 309, 123). In the following passage Redpath describes Wittgenstein’s use of ‘slogans’ while doing philosophy: [He] intimated that the dictum ‘In a great number of cases it is advisable to put “use of a word” for “meaning of a word”’ is a slogan. Sometimes the slogan is ridiculed, sometimes it is boosted:

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in both cases, in his opinion, wrongly. If one does philosophy it is natural that one should come to certain sorts of steps which it is advisable to take. Philosophical investigations are tedious and difficult and slip the memory. Slogans are easy and stick in the memory. If the use of the slogan goes, but the slogan remains, it is ridiculous. (Redpath 1990:85–86) This passage emphasizes the role or use of slogans as part of a philosophical method to aid memory and investigation. Wittgenstein acknowledges the strengths and the potential danger of such a use. One of the strongest indications of Wittgenstein’s struggle to broaden language beyond the text, and to acknowledge its spoken qualities, is the presence and role of the interlocutor (or interlocutors) in his later writings. The presence of the interlocutor(s) and their interaction with Wittgenstein remind us, at every stage in his writings, that philosophy is responsive and that learning is communal. Even when written as a text, Wittgenstein’s philosophical investigations closely resemble a dialogue or conversation. In orality ‘an interlocutor is virtually essential: it is hard to talk to yourself for hours on end. Sustained thought in an oral culture is tied to communication’ (Ong 1982:34). As mentioned above, Wittgenstein’s own thinking often takes the form of discussion. His students and friends are all interlocutors whose presence and role are essential for sustaining his thought (as he himself acknowledges). It is not just that the interlocutor is set up as an imaginary adversary, or as a ‘straw person’ for Wittgenstein’s philosophical attacks. Rather the interlocutor is essential to his understanding of language and philosophy. To see the interlocutor as an adversary or target is to see Wittgenstein within a conventional, textualized, philosophical tradition. (It is one of the prejudices of that tradition.) Not only does such a reading weaken or trivialize the role of the interlocutor but it never becomes plausible that Wittgenstein would go to such stylistic trouble merely to set-up and knock-down straw adversaries. (Critics readily acknowledge that the interlocutor’s voice does not provide adequate detail and information to present the philosophical positions which they attribute to them). The presence of the interlocutor suggests a world of dialectical exchange: This world of dialectical exchange was the assumed natural habitat of thought through the Middle Ages. Only later would thought be taken typically to be something that went on silently, and perhaps

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even without words, which were thereupon taken to be clothing supplied to naked thought, generated in the presumed privacy of one’s own consciousness independently of any social context such as the very existence of a language signals. (Ong 1982:60) As Wittgenstein suggests, Augustine describes the learning of language as if a child could already think only not yet speak. And ‘thinking’ would here mean something like talking to oneself (PI 32). There is also a sense in which his later writings are not meant to be read silently, but rather read aloud and discussed. His writings form part of a tradition in which ‘it was taken for granted that a written text of any worth was meant to be and deserved to be read aloud’ (Ong 1982:115). Numerous accounts by Wittgenstein’s friends and colleagues describe how, when studying one of his texts, he would read each remark aloud and they would then discuss it together. Unlike many contemporary philosophical texts which are difficult if not impossible to read aloud (because of terminology, symbols, abbrevia-tions, structure, etc.) Wittgenstein’s later writings are, in the form which they take, (orally) very readable. Kerr further suggests that: the desire to slow the reader down to the point even of having to read the text aloud, preferably in a group, so that the countless little ‘dialogues’ with which the text is punctuated may be performed… is of great philosophical importance…the ‘raw material’ for ‘philosophical treatment’ being ‘what we are tempted to say’ (PI 254), it is vital to bring the temptation out into the open. The intuitive appeal of the temptation has first to be exposed, often against a strong desire to trivialize or deny it. (Kerr 1989:48–49) The structure of oral narratives also offers a useful point of comparison for understanding the structure of Wittgenstein’s later writings. As mentioned above, his later writings appear to be without conventional beginnings and endings. They are also non-linear in their development. As he acknowledges, ‘my thoughts were soon crippled if I tried to force them on in any single direction against their natural inclination’ (PI ixe). We could describe the structure of Wittgenstein’s later writings as episodic (if compared with oral narratives). For the oral poet, ‘“starting in the middle of things” is not a consciously contrived ploy but the original, natural, inevitable way to proceed’ (Ong 1982:144).

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We must not forget that episodic structure was the natural way to talk out a lengthy story line if only because the experience of real life is more like a string of episodes than it is like a Freytag pyramid. Careful selectivity produces the tight pyramidal plot, and this selectivity is implemented as never before by the distance that writing establishes between expression and real life. (Ong 1982:148) Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigations begin in response to the words of Augustine. They proceed in response to questions and in interaction with the interlocutor(s), using language full-blown. They begin, in other words, in the middle of things. As new issues arise the investigations take different grammatical paths, go in new directions, break off (and sometimes later pick up) threads of thought and discussions. It is an authentic and natural way to learn and use language. And in its openness we, as readers, can engage with the text in different ways (depending on how and where our philosophical puzzles begin, change and end). Not only do Wittgenstein’s later writings begin ‘in the middle of things’, but they share with orality a common place. The everyday world is, in other words, ‘the commonplace’. It is where both orality and Wittgenstein’s later philosophy take place. With reference to Wittgenstein’s writings, McGuinness speaks of the ‘commonplace filled with significance’ (McGuinness 1988:4). The everyday world, or commonplace, finds expression in the metaphor of the journey and the landscape. The journey begins where we are, in the middle of things. It passes through familiar territory (through our landscape). The landscape is the place of encounters or the place of happenings. (It is not the place of isolation, privacy and interiors—the place of rooms and minds— which dominates literacy.) Thus, it is natural that when Wittgenstein discusses the structure and organization of his later writings that he should choose landscape imagery. He writes that his investigations compel us to travel over a wide field of thought criss-crossing in every direction. ‘The philosophical remarks in this book are, as it were, a number of sketches of landscapes which were made in the course of these long and involved journeyings’ (PI ixe). His references to walking and journeying are also consistent with his landscape imagery for ‘walking while philosophizing is hardly compatible with taking philosophy to be a textually based enterprise in the way that modern philosophers commonly do’ (Ong 1982:56).

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If we think of philosophy as a landscape painting then traditional forms of philosophical prose can be seen to picture or represent a landscape to a spectator from a point of view which is itself outside of the landscape. (Neither the philosopher nor the reader are depicted in the landscape itself.) Wittgenstein’s sketches of a landscape made during his journeyings attempt to place the philosopher and the viewer back into the landscape. He attempts to help us find our way around the landscape. In order to place us back into the landscape, he has to challenge the traditional philosophical languages of depicting landscapes. His wisdom lies in using ordinary language and the subjects of our everyday lives. In using ordinary language, in its everyday context, Wittgenstein might be compared to a primitive artist. (He is, in his use of ordinary language and in his refusal to use philosophical terminology and references, often criticized for appearing falsely naive or for actually being ignorant of the philosophical tradition.) The words of Berger, which describe a primitive visual artist, are equally applicable to Wittgenstein: He does not use the pictorial grammar of the tradition—hence he is ungrammatical. He has not learnt the technical skills which have evolved with the conventions—hence he is clumsy. When he discovers on his own a solution to a pictorial problem, he often uses it many times—hence he is naive. But then one has to ask: why does he refuse the tradition? …the ‘clumsiness’ of primitive art is the precondition of its eloquence. What it is saying could never be said with any ready-made skills. (Berger 1980:68) What Wittgenstein is saying grammatically with his use of ordinary language looks clumsy, repetitive and naive when compared with the Western philosophical tradition. But it is precisely the refusal of this tradition which is expressed, and could only be expressed, through the use of ordinary language. What Wittgenstein is saying could never be said using conventional philosophical terminology, argumentation and criticism. It is that which makes his use of ordinary language revolutionary and that which explains why the methodological implications of his use of ordinary language have yet to be acknowledged within the philosophical tradition.

Chapter 5

Questions

Wittgenstein’s art of grammatical investigation is not a single method, but a variety of different grammatical techniques which are generously described and demonstrated throughout his later writings and lectures. His use of questions is one such technique, for the philosophical questions we ask (and the answers we seek) express our philosophical concepts and direct our investigations. Wittgenstein draws attention to our questions, and uses questions as a means of philosophical clarification. One of the methodological shifts from his early to his later writings involves the use of questions. As Engelmann observes: his later attempts to correct his earlier results, as formulated in the reflective monologues of the Tractatus, in the light of his later insights generally mark a transition from the categorical proposition form of statements to the Socratic form of questions. (Engelmann 1967:115) Wittgenstein uses questions extensively in both his lectures and texts. Malcolm describes how ‘[he] commonly directed questions at various people present and reacted to their replies. Often the meetings [or lectures] consisted mainly of dialogue’ (Malcolm 1984:25). Fann also confirms that ‘the later philosophy…arose from discussions and lectures in which the Socratic method was employed’ (Fann 1969:54). The Socratic method involves asking questions. Wittgenstein’s use of questions differs not only from his earlier writings but also from conventional argumentation and criticism. He does not ask or answer conventional philosophical questions and it is often difficult to know how to respond to his questions. (It is often difficult to know what kind of response his questions require.) Kenny observes that ‘the

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Investigations contain 784 questions. Only 110 of these are answered; and seventy of the answers are meant to be wrong’ (Kenny 1973:20). This observation is significant if read methodologically. The pervasive use of questions, as well as the absence of what Kenny would identify or acknowledge as conventional philosophical answers (or correct answers) highlights this grammatical technique. Rather than dismiss Wittgenstein’s questions as unanswered (following Kenny) we need to investigate their role in his philosophical and pedagogical practice. Wittgenstein brings philosophical questions into question. He demonstrates that our philosophical questions express confusion and are misleading in the form in which they are expressed. He responds to philosophical questions, not with answers or explanations, but with other questions. In so doing he highlights the inadequacy of philosophical answers and explanations, and attempts genuinely to resolve philosophical questions and offer philosophical peace. According to Wittgenstein, philosophical questions express grammatical confusion and are themselves misleading forms of expression which result in further grammatical confusion. Moore writes that: [Wittgenstein] said also that we were ‘in a muddle about things’, which we had to try to clear up; that we had to follow a certain instinct which leads us to ask certain questions, though we don’t even understand what these questions mean. (Moore 1993:114) According to Wittgenstein, ‘a philosophical problem arises when we are in a muddle, the first mistake is to ask the question’ (WLPP 45). In other words, ‘commonly the first mistake we make in a philosophical investigation lies in the philosophical question itself.1 He describes philosophical questions, not only in terms of grammatical confusion, but also in terms of a muddle, a mental uneasiness and a mental cramp. He asks whether we can be mistaken in thinking that we understand a question (PI 517). He responds to philosophical questions which express grammatical confusion. According to Wittgenstein these philosophical questions share several characteristics. First, they involve things with which we are familiar. Secondly, they appear to request information or require explanations which are difficult or impossible to obtain. And thirdly, they often therefore appear unsolvable. One philosophical question to which Wittgenstein refers throughout his later writings and lectures is Augustine’s question

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‘What is time?’ He quotes Augustine’s own description of this question in order to describe the nature of philosophical questions: Augustine says in the Confessions ‘quid est ergo tempus? si nemo ex me quaerat scio; si quaerenti explicare velim, nescio’…. Something that we know when no one asks us, but no longer know when we are supposed to give an account of it, is something that we need to remind ourselves of. (And it is obviously something of which for some reason it is difficult to remind oneself.) (PI 89) The question ‘What is time?’ is characteristic of philosophical questions because it appears mystifying when it is asked, but it concerns things which we know (or which cause us no difficulty) during the course of our everyday lives. Augustine is puzzled by ‘time’ and thinks that an account or an explanation of time is required. He is subsequently puzzled by his inability to give such an account. Wittgenstein investigates Augustine’s initial puzzlement, for Augustine feels unable to answer the question ‘What is time?’ although he has no difficulty telling time or using concepts of time in his everyday life. Philosophical perplexity concerning ‘thinking’ is similar to Augustine’s philosophical perplexity concerning ‘time’. As Wittgenstein remarks: What is interesting? It is the use of a word…thinking is not learnt by definition—except when learning a foreign language. If so, it should be the easiest enquiry. Everything is known about the use. Yet it is an excruciatingly difficult enquiry. Therefore, we must be hopelessly wrong somewhere as to what questions we are asking or in regard to the answers. (WLPP 120) Wittgenstein emphasizes that there should be nothing easier for us to investigate for everything of interest and importance concerning ‘thinking’ is already known. Yet we find such investigations excruciatingly difficult. He suggests that part of our difficulty lies in the questions that we ask (and in the answers that we give on the basis of our questions). According to Wittgenstein: thinking, wishing, hoping, believing, and negation all have something in common. The same sort of puzzling questions can be

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asked about each: How can one wish for a thing that does not happen, or hope that something will happen that does not? … (AWL 110) He does not connect these topics of philosophical interest with reference to inner (psychological) processes. Rather, he connects them on the basis of a common form of question. These philosophical difficulties, and their characteristic forms of expression can, according to Wittgenstein, be summed up in the following question: ‘How can one think what is not the case?’ He writes: This is a beautiful example of a philosophical question. It asks ‘How can one…?’ and while this puzzles us we must admit that nothing is easier than to think what is not the case. I mean, this shows us again that the difficulty which we are in does not arise through our inability to imagine how thinking something is done. I say this because sometimes it almost seems as though our difficulty were one of remembering exactly what happened when we thought something, a difficulty of introspection, or something of the sort; whereas in fact it arises when we look at the facts through the medium of a misleading form of expression. (BB 30–31) Wittgenstein describes the question ‘How can one think what is not the case?’ as a beautiful example of a philosophical question and draws our attention to the form of the question itself. The form expresses confusion for the question is not asking for empirical facts (although this is what the form of the question suggests). For while this puzzles us we must admit that nothing is easier than to think what is not the case. In other words, the difficulty expressed in the question is not one of knowledge or imagination, for we do not lack information nor are we unable to imagine how thinking something is done. Wittgenstein reminds us that there is nothing easier than to think what is not the case, although ‘sometimes it almost seems as though our difficulty were one of remembering exactly what happened when we thought something’. He connects this difficulty with our philosophical temptation to carry out a form of introspection. We are tempted to try to observe ourselves, or to give a performance of what happens when we think what is not the case. Whereas Wittgenstein claims that our difficulty results from looking at the facts through the medium of a misleading form of expression.

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The form of philosophical questions often misleads us because we look for a thing or a process in response to a question. Philosophical questions such as ‘What is thinking?’ or ‘What is the meaning of a word?’ produce philosophical puzzlement because their form of expression causes us to look for certain kinds of answers. We become mystified or bewitched by the form of the questions themselves. As he writes: The questions ‘What is length?’, ‘What is meaning?’, ‘What is the number one?’, etc., produce in us a mental cramp. We feel that we can’t point to anything in reply to them and yet ought to point to something. (We are up against one of the great sources of philosophical bewilderment: a substantive makes us look for a thing that corresponds to it.) (BB1) Wittgenstein attempts to free us from the misleading influence of our questions (BB 169). Another way in which the form of philosophical questions misleads us is in making us think that there is one specific thing involved in thinking, expecting, wishing, etc. As Wittgenstein remarks: Thinking by means of speaking to oneself—this is a special problem in thinking. But even in this specialized form the question that forces itself on one is ‘What happens when— ?’ (WLPP129)

What happens when talking to oneself? First answers are no good. I) We do not know II) We do not know exactly what happens III) The words are a projection from what happens. All the answers break down. In fact the question is a red herring. This gives rise to a temptation which is even worse: ‘Talking to oneself is something specific.’ This is misleading too. (WLPP 132–133) Once again, he begins by drawing our attention to the form of the question (‘What happens when…?’). Our first answers or responses break down because they result from the misleading form of the question itself. The form makes it look, or sound, as though we require information or knowledge. And such knowledge appears elusive. Thus we are tempted to answer that we do not know, that we do not know exactly, or that we do

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not yet know what happens when talking to oneself. These answers break down, not due to the inadequacy of our knowledge, but because the question is itself a red herring. Wittgenstein suggests that in cases of philosophical perplexity we do not need answers or explanations, rather we need to remind ourselves of something (PI 89). And he acknowledges that it is obviously something which, for some reason, it is difficult to remind ourselves of. The question implied in the vague wording of this remark is: What do we need to remind ourselves of? Wittgenstein remarks on another occasion that ‘philosophy could be taught (cf. Plato) just by asking the right question so as to remind you—remind you of what?’ (WLPP 45). We need to remind ourselves of the grammar or use of our words (for example the use of the word ‘time’ or ‘thinking’). As Wittgenstein writes in response to the question ‘What is thinking?’: ‘What is interesting? It is the use of the word.’ As he explains: In fact it is the grammar of the word ‘time’ which puzzles us. We are only expressing this puzzlement by asking a slightly misleading question, the question: ‘What is…?’ This question is an utterance of unclarity, of mental discomfort, and it is comparable with the question ‘Why?’ as children so often ask it. This too is an expression of a mental discomfort, and doesn’t necessarily ask for either a cause or a reason. (BB 26) Augustine’s question expresses a lack of clarity and is misleading in the form in which it is expressed. The form of his question suggests that an explanation is needed. But, according to Wittgenstein, Augustine knows what ‘time’ is (or how to use the word ‘time’) and is expressing mental discomfort. Consequently, what Augustine requires is not an explanation of ‘time’ but grammatical clarification. Wittgenstein offers clarity in response to this philosophical question by describing the use of the word ‘time’.2 He does not, therefore, respond to Augustine’s question with an explanation. ‘Saint Augustine on time. “If you don’t ask me I know; if you ask me, I don’t know”. He knew the technique, but not how to describe it’ (WLPP 6). Augustine knew how to use the word ‘time’ (he knew the grammar of the word) but he did not know how to describe the use of the word. Wittgenstein’s methods of grammatical investigation offer techniques with which to describe the use of our words.

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Wittgenstein writes that ‘learning philosophy is really recollecting. We remember that we really used words in this way’ (P 179). Emphasis is placed on the grammar or use of our words. Therefore he writes: We remind ourselves that is to say, of the kind of statement that we make about phenomena. Thus Augustine recalls to mind the different statements that are made about the duration, past, present or future of events. (These are, of course, not philosophical statements about time, the past, the present and the future.) (PI 90) Augustine ‘recalls to mind’ the various statements that are made about time, although he has not forgotten how to use the word ‘time’. Our philosophical need to remember is not, therefore, a matter of memory loss. We need to remember the grammar or use of our words for specific philosophical purposes. Wittgenstein uses questions (in response to philosophical questions) to help us remember or recall to mind the grammar or use of our words. For example, Wittgenstein opens The Blue and Brown Books with a question. He begins a philosophical investigation by asking ‘What is the meaning of a word?’ His opening question is not rhetorical nor is it a question which is subsequently answered. Rather, he directs our attention to the philosophical question itself. He begins with a question, acknowledging that this is where we often begin when doing philosophy, but he also stops to consider the question itself. He asks: What is the meaning of a word? Let us attack this question by asking, first, what is an explanation of the meaning of a word. What does the explanation of a word look like? (BB1) Wittgenstein responds to his opening question with another question. He asks a second question in order to help clarify the first. His methodological use of questions places our original philosophical questions back into their ordinary, everyday context. His use of questions also teaches us about the grammar of the expressions which confuse us. Thus he writes: Asking first ‘What’s an explanation of meaning?’ has two advantages. You in a sense bring the question ‘What is meaning?’ down to earth. For surely to understand the meaning of ‘meaning’ you

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ought also to understand the meaning of ‘explanation of meaning’. Roughly: ‘let’s ask what the explanation of meaning is, for whatever that explains will be the meaning.’ Studying the grammar of the expression ‘explanation of meaning’ will teach you something about the grammar of the word ‘meaning’ and will cure you of the temptation to look about you for some object which you might call ‘the meaning’. (BB1) This passage echoes the remark that ‘what we do is to bring words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use’ (PI 116). One method of bringing words (and questions) back to their everyday use (one way of bringing them ‘down to earth’) is by using questions to redirect our investigation to the grammar or use of our words and to help clarify that grammar. Thus, in the above example, Wittgenstein asks, ‘What is an explanation of meaning?’ in response to the question, ‘What is meaning?’ He claims that by studying the grammar of the expression ‘explanation of meaning’ we will learn about the grammar of the word ‘meaning’. Wittgenstein’s questions redirect our philosophical investigations from the abstract to the concrete, and challenge us to resolve our questions in the context in which they are first asked. In so doing he redirects not only our attention but also our expectations concerning the kinds of answers we seek. We are reminded here of the opening passages of the Investigations in which he describes a primitive language-game involving ‘meaning’ (PI 1–32). 3 Wittgenstein’s description of ‘meaning’ in these opening passages includes a description of ‘an explanation of meaning’. Wittgenstein describes the explanation of meaning (the introduction of the expression ‘the word…signifies…’) as a language-game or activity which is taught and learned within a particular form of life. We learn about the use of the word ‘meaning’ through an examination of the grammar or use of the expression ‘The word…signifies…’ (one form of ‘an explanation of meaning’). ‘The meaning of a word is what is explained by the explanation of the meaning.’ I.e.: if you want to understand the use of the word ‘meaning’, look for what are called ‘explanations of meaning’. (PI 560)

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One reason why such an investigation is useful is that we are less perplexed by the expression ‘the explanation of meaning’ than by ‘the meaning of a word’ because the description of the first expression involves both words and the actions into which they are woven, and is thus less likely to lead us to look for an entity or process which we might call ‘meaning’. As Wittgenstein remarks on another occasion, ‘we learn “meaning” from explanations. “What I mean by…is…”; and this has no reference to [inner] experience’ (WLPP 116) According to Wittgenstein, the question ‘What is an explanation of meaning?’ helps us to understand the question ‘What is the meaning of a word?’ in the same way in which the question ‘How do we measure a length?’ helps us to understand the question ‘What is length?’ Rather than look for something which corresponds to length, he redirects our attention to the actual use of the word. To understand ‘length’ involves understanding ‘the measurement of length’. Returning to Augustine’s question ‘What is time?’ Wittgenstein remarks: It may be objected to our method as follows: If someone asks what time is, you ask in return ‘How do we measure time?’. But time and the measurement of time are two different things. It is as if someone asked ‘What is a book?’ and you replied, ‘How does one obtain a book?’. This objection conceives that we know what time is, and we know what measuring is, so we know what measuring time is. But this is not true. If I have taught you to measure lengths and then say, ‘Now go ahead and measure time,’ this will mean nothing. (Malcolm 1984:41) In this passage Wittgenstein explicitly refers to his methodological use of questions and he anticipates the objection that time and the measurement of time are two different things. The interlocutor offers an analogous case in which someone responds to the question ‘What is a book?’ with the question ‘How does one obtain a book?’ But this objection fails to take into account the fact that Wittgenstein’s method of responding to a question (with a question) is a grammatical response; one which attempts to clarify the grammar of the word ‘time’ (and the grammatical confusion expressed in the question ‘What is time?’). Asking how we measure time in response to the question ‘What is time?’ is not analogous to asking how we obtain a book, in response to the question ‘What is a book?’ The grammar or use of the word ‘book’ is not clarified by the grammar or use of the expression ‘to obtain a book’ in the same way that the grammar of ‘time’ is clarified

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by the grammar or use of the expression ‘to measure time’. As Wittgenstein points out, the grammar of ‘time’ is clarified through the grammar of ‘measuring time’ for we do not know what time is, and what measurement is (independently) and therefore know what measuring time is. Wittgenstein concludes the above remark with the words: ‘If I have taught you to measure lengths and then say, “Now go ahead and measure time” this will mean nothing.’ Wittgenstein continues his investigation of measuring time, saying: Suppose you go to Mars and say ‘On Earth they measure time’. Consider the following two reactions: 1. ‘What, time too?’ 2. ‘They also measure time?’ The former shows that they do not understand. The latter calls for explanation and the explanation cannot be given by saying: ‘Time is that which goes, and you know what measuring is.’ (WLPP 141) This imaginary case is illuminating because Wittgenstein expresses two reactions to the statement ‘On Earth they measure time’ in the form of questions, and then proceeds to show how he can tell from the questions themselves whether or not the speaker understands the original statement. Although both reactions appear to ask questions, only the second response is actually a question. The first reaction ‘What, time too?’ only appears to be a question. Such a reaction conceives of measurement as separate from time or lengths and therefore conceives that if the measurement of length is understood on Mars then the measurement of time will also be understood. The second response, ‘They also measure time?’ calls for the grammatical clarification of time and the measurement of time; thereby distinguishing between the measurement of lengths and the measurement of time. Wittgenstein demonstrates, in the above example, that not all questions make sense and that not everything that we ask will necessarily be a question. Philosophical questions can also express grammatical confusion because their use or application is unclear. Wittgenstein draws our attention to a series of questions in §411 and asks us to consider how these questions can be applied and settled. These four questions look (and sound) similar, yet they are grammatically very different. In asking

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us to consider how the questions can be applied and settled Wittgenstein asks us to consider their practical (non-philosophical) applications. He writes: Consider how the following questions can be applied and how settled: (1) (2) (3) (4)

‘Are these books my books” ‘Is this foot my foot?’ ‘Is this body my body?’ ‘Is this sensation my sensation?’

Each of these questions has practical (non-philosophical) applications. (2) Think of cases in which my foot is anaesthetized or paralyzed. Under certain circumstances the question could be settled by determining whether I can feel pain in this foot. (3) Here one might be pointing to a mirror-image. Under certain circumstances, however, one might touch a body and ask the question. In others it means the same as: ‘Does my body look like that?’ (4) Which sensation does one mean by ‘this’ one? That is: how is one using the demonstrative pronoun here? Certainly otherwise than in, say, the first example! Here confusion occurs because one imagines that by directing one’s attention to a sensation one is pointing to it. (PI 411) Although all four questions look and sound similar, their practical applications are very different. Some philosophers treat the transition from (1) to (4) as a matter of degree; treating books, feet, bodies and sensations as possessions or objects which vary in degrees of ownership, accessibility, or privacy. Wittgenstein’s methodological approach of examining the questions and their practical (non-philosophical) applications, demonstrates that their uses are absolutely distinct. His approach also reveals that the final question does not (yet) have an application. We do not know what its practical (non-philosophical) application is nor how it is to be settled. By turning the question back on itself Wittgenstein undermines the philosophical temptation to respond, ‘Of course this

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sensation is my sensation’, or ‘It is necessarily the case that…’. Instead he suggests that the question does not make sense. He asks: ‘Which sensation does one mean by this one? That is: how is one using the demonstrative pronoun here?’ Wittgenstein asks for grammatical clarification. In other words, he recognizes that the question, as it now stands, expresses grammatical confusion. The uses of the demonstrative pronoun vary from question (1) to question (4). Consequently, although the four questions look and sound similar in form, their grammatical uses are very different. In §47 Wittgenstein provides an extended and detailed demonstration of his use of questions. In §46 he asks: ‘What lies behind the idea that names really signify simples?’ He then quotes a passage from the Theaetetus in which Socrates says: ‘If I make no mistake I have heard some people say this: there is no definition of the primary elements—so to speak—out of which we and everything else are composed.’ Wittgenstein concludes §46 with reference to Russell’s ‘individuals’ and his own ‘objects’ (from the Tractatus) as examples of such primary elements. In response to §46 Wittgenstein begins §47 with a question. He asks, ‘But what are the simple constituent parts of which reality is com-posed?’ 4 Significantly, he responds to this question with a question; a question which is grammatically similar but which is unlikely to lead to philosophical bewitchment or mystification. He writes: But what are the simple constituent parts of which reality is composed? —What are the simple constituent parts of a chair? — The bits of wood of which it is made? Or the molecules, or the atoms? — ‘Simple’ means: not composite. And here the point is: in what sense ‘composite’? It makes no sense at all to speak absolutely of the ‘simple parts of a chair’. (PI 47) Wittgenstein replaces the question concerning the simple constituent parts of reality with a question concerning the simple constituent parts of a chair. If perplexed by the first question, we are likely to feel that our perplexity results from a lack of knowledge or understanding (and therefore perhaps feel that the question is unsolvable, or that an answer will be found at some later date). In substituting a chair for reality Wittgenstein chooses a familiar everyday object, about which we know everything that there is to know. Now, he asks, what are the simple

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constituent parts of a chair? If we are confused or perplexed by this question, it is because of the question itself. Wittgenstein suggests several possible answers to this question. The simple constituent parts of a chair are: (i) bits of wood, (ii) molecules, or (iii) atoms. We can easily imagine other answers in addition to the ones given by Wittgenstein. As he explains, ‘simple’ means ‘not composite’, and all of these possible answers in one way or another fulfil this criterion. But, as he continues, ‘the point is: in what sense “composite”?’ This last question challenges the meaning of the original question. What, grammatically, is meant by ‘the simple constituent parts of a chair’? We feel as if we are being asked for an empirical answer, but our confusion is grammatical. (We might also say that the original question does not yet make sense; for we do not know what is being asked. The question is being asked outside of a particular case or context and the answers which Wittgenstein suggests are all answers given from different contexts or cases.) He writes that it makes no sense at all to speak absolutely of the ‘simple parts of a chair’. In responding to the question concerning the simple constituent parts of reality with the question concerning the simple constituent parts of a chair Wittgenstein directs our attention back to the question itself. He continues: Again: Does my visual image of this tree, of this chair, consist of parts? And what are its simple component parts? Multicolouredness is one kind of complexity; another is, for example, that of a broken outline composed of straight bits. And a curve can be said to be composed of an ascending and a descending segment. (PI 47) In this case Wittgenstein asks if his visual image (of the chair or the tree) consists of parts and what those simple component parts are. He suggests various kinds of complexity and demonstrates that we do not yet know what is being asked by the original question. He again reminds us that we use the words ‘simple’ and ‘composite’ in many different ways. He challenges us to investigate and describe our actual use of words in particular cases. He also encourages us to ask questions when confronted with such philosophical questions or claims. He writes, for example:

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If I tell someone without any further explanation ‘What I see before me now is composite’, [they] will have the right to ask: ‘What do you mean by composite? For there are all sorts of things that that can mean!’ —The question ‘Is what you see composite?’ makes good sense if it is already established what kind of complexity—that is, which particular use of the word—is in question. (PI 47) Wittgenstein is not denying that questions such as ‘Is what you see composite?’ make sense, but that in order for them to make sense we must understand the particular use of the words in question (the kind of complexity involved). We need to know how the words ‘simple’ or ‘composite’ are being used in particular cases. Rather than feel philosophically frustrated by the fact that we cannot speak absolutely of the simple constituent parts of visual images, chairs or reality, Wittgenstein rejects such questions and ideals as grammatically or conceptually confused. He continues in §47 by providing an example in which the use of the word ‘composite’ is clearly demarcated. In this example he distinguishes between empirical and grammatical questions and demonstrates the difficulty of distinguishing between them. He writes: If it had been laid down that the visual image of a tree was to be called ‘composite’ if one saw not just a single trunk, but also branches, then the question ‘Is the visual image of this tree simple or composite?’, and the question ‘What are its simple component parts?’, would have a clear sense—a clear use. And of course the answer to the second question is not ‘The branches’ (that would be an answer to the grammatical question ‘What are here called “simple component parts“?’) but rather a description of the individual branches. (PI 47) Wittgenstein emphasizes, once again, the clear use of our words. In this example, if we see a single trunk and also branches then we can call the visual image ‘composite’. He continues the application of this use of words with a second question: ‘What are its simple component parts?’ We may be tempted to respond to this question with the answer: ‘The branches’. Wittgenstein anticipates this response when he writes, ‘And of course the answer to

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the second question is not “The branches”.’ If we are not yet clear about the distinction which he is making between grammatical questions and questions concerning matters of fact then we will likely answer the question as he anticipates. The tone and wording of his response (‘And of course the answer…’) cause us to stop to consider our initial or immediate response. The answer, ‘The branches’, is an appropriate response for the grammatical question: ‘What are here called “simple component parts”?’ The question and answer are surprising, for when we are philosophically confused we are usually tempted to give empirical answers to grammatical questions, whereas here Wittgenstein has created an occasion (by concentrating on the grammar or use of our words) in which we are tempted to give a grammatical response to an empirical request. Such an example demonstrates the difficulty of distinguishing between kinds of questions in philosophy, and also demonstrates the attention we need to give to our questions in order to get a clear understanding of the use of our words. He continues in §47 by asking whether or not a chessboard is ‘obviously and absolutely composite’. This example demonstrates the difficulties created when asking a question outside of a particular language-game: —Asking ‘Is this object composite?’ outside a particular languagegame is like what a boy once did, who had to say whether the verbs in certain sentences were in the active or passive voice, and who racked his brains over the question whether the verb ‘to sleep’ meant something active or passive. (PI 47) In this example it makes sense to determine whether or not a verb is in the active or passive voice within a particular language-game: A verb is in the active voice if it indicates that the subject of a sentence is performing an action (in the sentence ‘the child played the game’ the child is the subject of the sentence and the verb is in the active voice). A verb is in the passive voice if it indicates that the subject of the sentence is the recipient of the action described by the verb (in the sentence ‘the game was played by the child’ the game is the subject of the sentence and the verb is in the passive voice). Confusion is created for the child in Wittgenstein’s example when the question of whether the verb ‘to sleep’ is active or passive occurs outside of its original language-game, or when two or more language-games (or particular cases) are confused. The verb ‘to sleep’ is necessarily in the active voice in the original

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language-game which he describes. But in another language-game— one, for example, in which ‘active’ means moving, working or doing something and ‘passive’ means the opposite—the verb ‘to sleep’ is passive. Grammatical confusion arises when we are unclear about the particular use of a word or the particular language-game of the question itself. Thus Wittgenstein reminds us (referring back to his original question concerning the simple constituent parts of reality) that ‘we use the word “composite” (and therefore the word “simple”) in an enormous number of different and differently related ways’ (PI 47). He therefore concludes §47 writing: To the philosophical question: ‘Is the visual image of this tree composite, and what are its component parts?’ the correct answer is: ‘That depends on what you understand by “composite”’. (And that is of course not an answer but a rejection of the question.) (PI 47) According to Wittgenstein, the correct response to this philosophical question is another question. The response is not an answer but a rejection of the question itself. (A rejection—eine Zurückweisung—is literally a ‘turning back’ of the question.) In §47 there are no fewer than twenty questions. Their use is heuristic and they guide us in grammatical investigation. Their philosophical purpose is to ‘turn back’ the original question and clarify our grammatical misunderstanding. These questions do not request information or explanations but recall to mind the grammar or use of our words. As such they fulfil their grammatical purposes without recourse to conventional philosophical answers. One important aspect of Wittgenstein’s response to philosophical questions is the recognition that philosophical explanations perpetuate our philosophical misunderstandings and do not resolve our questions. In order to understand his alternative philosophical response it is necessary to understand that conventional philosophical responses are unsatifactory or inadequate; that they do not answer or resolve our philosophical questions. For example, Wittgenstein presents a case in which the question ‘Are you sure that it is this you wish?’ is answered by saying ‘Surely I know what I wish’. He asks us to compare this answer to the one which we would give to the question ‘Do you know the ABC?’ He then asks if the emphatic assertion is analogous in both cases. He writes:

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Both assertions in a way brush aside the question. But the former doesn’t wish to say ‘Surely I know such a simple thing as this’ but rather: ‘The question which you asked me makes no sense’. We might say: We adopt in this case a wrong method of brushing aside the question. ‘Of course I know’ could here be replaced by ‘Of course, there is no doubt’ and this interpreted to mean ‘It makes in this case, no sense to talk of a doubt’. In this way the answer ‘Of course I know what I wish’ can be interpreted to be a grammatical statement. (BB 30) We often answer philosophical questions with assertions such as ‘Of course I know…’. According to Wittgenstein, this is an inappropriate way to brush aside a question for it makes it look as if we have given an empirical or factual answer when the appropriate response is grammatical. The response ‘Of course I know…’ is, in the above case, equivalent to the claim that it makes no sense to talk of doubt in this case. In other words, the question ‘Are you sure that it is this you wish?’ makes no sense as a philosophical question. Although Wittgenstein appears to be rejecting or brushing aside philosophical questions when he does not answer them, he is actually responding to them in a more effective manner. His alternative response to philosophical questions challenges us to continue to seek philosophical clarification and to ask questions which are suppressed or brushed aside within the philosophical tradition. He writes: ‘I trot out all the problems that education represses without solving. I say to those repressed doubts: you are quite correct, go on asking, demand clarification.’ 5 Wittgenstein suggests in this quotation that we often merely repress our problems and confusions in philosophy and do not solve them. In other words, the form of our questions and answers (or our education) can itself merely silence our confusion. Wittgenstein encourages us to continue asking questions and to demand clarification. We must acknowledge when our answers fail to clarify our questions. As Kerr writes, ‘one thing that philosophical work involves is giving voice to thoughts and doubts that our culture has taught us to repress’ (Kerr 1989:51). Wittgenstein’s use of questions, in effect, overturns learned expectations and values. In responding to questions with questions he challenges our philosophical expectations. He is not ignoring our questions but he is offering alternative forms of response (which offer philosophical clarification and resolve our philosophical confusions). Wittgenstein

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‘appeared to believe that philosophical questions were very much harder than, in his view, many philosophers thought’ (Gasking and Jackson 1967:54). He also writes that: in philosophy it is always good to put a question instead of an answer to a question. For the answer to the philosophical question may easily be unfair, disposing of it by means of another question is not. (RFM II 5) In responding to questions with questions Wittgenstein turns our original questions back on themselves. In so doing he opens up questions for investigation rather than closing them off with answers. Answers often function to silence questions and can be unfair if the original interlocutor does not feel that their questions have been adequately addressed. Questions, on the other hand, give the next move in the philosophical investigation back to the person who asks the original question. Significantly, Wittgenstein once stated that ‘one could teach philosophy solely by asking questions’ (AWL 97). Here the connection with teaching is important. To teach by asking questions is to stimulate others to thoughts of their own, rather than to provide answers or thoughts for them to follow or accept. By asking grammatical questions Wittgenstein reminds us of things that we already know. His questions free us from our mental cramps and challenge us to look at the grammar or use of our words. The use of questions is thus consistent with his philosophical aims and methods. He himself confirms, ‘it is no accident that I am using so many interrogative sentences in my book’ (LWPP I 150). The use of questions is a methodological tool for obtaining philosophical clarity. The use of questions is a natural technique for Wittgenstein to use with his students (or interlocutor(s)). The use of questions in oral contexts and traditions differs from the use of questions in text-based traditions.6 In philosophical texts, for example, questions often function as rhetorical or organizational devices for writers already know the anwers to the questions before the questions are asked or written down. In contrast, when Wittgenstein suggests that one could teach philosophy solely by asking questions he refers to an oral tradition. He connects teaching with asking questions and refers to Plato (WLPP 45). Inherent in Plato’s dialogues is the Socratic method of teaching through questions. The use of questions is a pedagogical technique which Wittgenstein also used extensively while an elementary school teacher. Thus the use of

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questions, as a methodological technique, has a long philosophical and pedagogical history. Wittgenstein does not always ask the questions which philosophers expect, nor does he ask the questions which philosophers would like him to ask. This omission is not an indication of his philosophical naiveté or incompetence, however. As he demonstrates throughout his later writings and lectures, he anticipates the philosophical questions we are tempted to ask and is fully aware of these questions. His omission of certain questions is philosophically important. We learn when and how to ask questions and, according to Wittgenstein, we also need to learn when not to ask questions or when to stop asking questions in philosophy. He comments that: the idea ‘there must be a feeling of position—how else do we know where our limbs are?’ is very compelling. It is important in philosophy to know when to stop—when not to ask a question. There need be no ‘how’… (WLPP 90) We are philosophically perplexed by an issue and feel that we need to ask a question. But something is unclear, and the question merely expresses our confusion (WLPP 120). Wittgenstein suggests, not only that we ask misleading questions, but that there are times when it is appropriate and inappropriate to ask questions. In questioning when and how we ask questions in philosophy he reminds us that we learn how to ask questions (and that there are many different, specific, uses of questions). Questions themselves function within certain language-games or contexts. In other words, when we learn how to ask questions we learn a technique (OC 314–315). Wittgenstein suggests, through his method of using questions, that we need to be reminded of how we use questions (and reminded of the multiplicity of their uses) (PI 24). The need to learn when to stop asking questions in philosophy (or when not to ask questions in philosophy) suggests that the urge to ask philosophical questions is itself part of our craving for generality or our temptation to theorise or give explanations. In other words, our urge to ask philosophical questions is itself part of our philosophical confusion. As Redpath observes: [Wittgenstein] went on to say that nothing is more characteristic than to ask oneself the same question a thousand times. But sometimes a person stops. What makes them stop? Sometimes one

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is given a new analogy, which replaces an old analogy. Wittgenstein said he had often pointed out that a child is puzzled when a word is seen to have two different meanings. If this is to cease to be puzzling it must be surrounded by other cases. (Redpath 1990:84–85) Although it may appear that Wittgenstein is merely trying to make us stop asking philosophical questions, this is misleading. He does not request the premature termination of philosophical inquiry, nor any form of intellectual sacrifice or resignation. Instead he writes: If I say: here we are at the limits of language, then it always seems //sounds//as if resignation were necessary, whereas on the contrary complete satisfaction comes, since no question remains. (P 183) The method of using questions should yield satisfaction and the resolution of our philosophical puzzlement. We can test Wittgenstein’s method by applying it. As Moore confirms, Wittgenstein allows us to ask the questions we are tempted to ask: He said also that we were ‘in a muddle about things’, which we had to try to clear up; that we had to follow a certain instinct which leads us to ask certain questions, though we don’t even understand what these questions mean…and that this uneasiness can only be cured ‘either by showing that a particular question is not permitted, or by answering it’. (Moore 1993:114) Thus all philosophical questions can be resolved. Wittgenstein’s grammatical method leads to the resolution of philosophical questions and ends in philosophical peace. Questions are resolved, although they are not answered. Such a claim may seem astonishing or naive, however, because one characteristic of philosophical questions is that they appear unsolvable. According to Wittgenstein, if we ask philosophical or metaphysical questions in the form in which they first arise, then we will feel that they are unsolvable or ‘insoluble’ (LSD 364). (He speaks of philosophical questions as insoluble, echoing the precipitate and condensation metaphors used to describe philosophical confusion and investigation.) He writes, ‘the philosophical puzzle seems insoluble if

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we are frank with ourselves, and is insoluble. That is, till we change our questions’ (LPE 253).7 Thus, he not only acknowledges our sense that philosophical questions or puzzles are insoluble, but he claims that they are insoluble or unsolvable in the form in which we first express them. As he comments, ‘[the] question will follow you around for years, if you follow it around’ (WLPP 257). He offers philosophical clarity, not by rejecting our puzzlement but by challenging our questions. Philosophical questions are resolved, not by giving answers but by understanding or clarifying the questions themselves. According to Wittgenstein, ‘this is the essence of a philosophical problem. The question itself is the result of a muddle. And when the question is removed, this is not by answering it’ (LSD 366). In the words of Cavell, our philosophical task involves determining if we can genuinely ask our questions, rather than determining if we can genuinely answer them (Cavell 1982:103). Wittgenstein’s investigations broaden rather than narrow the possibilities of our inquiry for we are not generally taught how to evaluate questions. We are, more often than not, merely taught how to answer them (and how to evaluate the answers). Wittgenstein also considers the idea that philosophical questions will be answered in the future a dangerous idea or attitude. Such an attitude avoids dealing with issues that presently engage us. Further, such an attitude expresses conceptual confusion regarding the kinds of questions we ask in philosophy; for it conceives of philosophical questions as empirical questions which require further empirical knowledge or theories. According to Wittgenstein, ‘one of the greatest impediments for philosophy is the expectation of new, deep//unheard of// elucidations’ (P 179). Such an attitude conceives of philosophical questions as answerable (as requiring answers) only not yet answered. Wittgenstein recognizes in his own earlier work ‘the conception that there are questions, the answers to which will be found at a later date’ (McGuinness 1979:182). Significantly, in the Investigations Wittgenstein speaks of philosophical peace as the result of using his grammatical methods, and connects this peace with the resolution of questions which bring philosophy itself into question. Problems are solved, and questions no longer remain to be answered. The practice of philosophy is, therefore, no longer itself brought into question. As he writes: 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

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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. (PI 133) This is an important methodological remark for Wittgenstein’s aim in philosophy is not to bring it to an end, but to bring it peace. Peace will only seem trivial or dismissive to those who have never experienced the depth of philosophical torment. Wittgenstein speaks of this capability — the use of his method—as his real discovery. We resolve our philosophical questions and are no longer tormented by questions which bring philosophy itself into question. We are also no longer misled by the false peace of philosophical answers and explanations (which do not resolve our questions but perpetuate our philosophical misunderstanding). Wittgenstein’s use of questions is extensive and inseparable from his various grammatical techniques. (Questions are an integral part of the investigations which follow.) We need to be attentive to both his methodological remarks and the diverse use of questions within his later writings and lectures. If Wittgenstein responds to questions with questions and attempts to resolve rather than answer them, then Kenny’s observation that the Investigations contains 784 questions, only forty of which are answered correctly, is consistent with his aims and methods. Perhaps the remaining forty questions are themselves open to question?

Chapter 6

Language-games

Another technique in Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation is the use of language-games. He uses the term ‘language-game’ to describe a variety of different kinds of language and different processes resembling language. The term ‘language-game’ refers variously to (i) the games by means of which children learn their native language, (ii) primitive languages, (iii) simple exercises used during the teaching of language, and (iv) ‘the whole’, consisting of language and the actions into which it is woven (PI 7). Wittgenstein’s description and use of language-games allows us to study the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application in which we can command a clear view of the aim and functioning of words (PI 5). His use of language-games provides a particular and specific form of investigation. Shanker describes the language-game as ‘an expository device which has left many philosophers wondering whether Wittgenstein was engaged in armchair social anthropology, naive genetic/linguistic speculation, or was quite simply fascinated by what strikes them as the jejune’ (Shanker 1986:7). Wittgenstein acknowledges that his use of language-games may strike critics as simple, naive, and perhaps even dull or uninteresting. He claims that ‘what we say will be easy, but to know why we say it will be very difficult’ (AWL 77). And he remarks that ‘the difficulty of this method of exhibiting language games is that you think it is perfectly trivial. You do not see its importance’ (AWL 105). Its importance is heuristic. Wittgenstein’s language-games are recognized within the secondary literature as innovative and original heuristic devices, models or tools. Hilmy confirms that ‘the primary function of such games…is heuristic’ (Hilmy 1987:74). However their heuristic purpose is often described in conventional philosophical terms. Language-games are described as examples, illustrations or references to simple languages. Churchill, for

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example, defines a language-game as ‘a contrived linguistic or languagelike proceeding used to argue or to illustrate a point’ (Churchill 1983: 243). He identifies language-games as: ‘heuristic models’ which are introduced to serve various purposes, both illustrative and persuasive, ranging from the advancement of general points about language, meaning, and the place of language in ‘forms of life’ to the persuasive presentation of selected features of the uses of words. (Churchill 1983:243) Although unconventional heuristic devices, language-games are described as having conventional purposes: from the advancement of general points about language to the presentation of selected features of the uses of words. The purpose of Wittgenstein’s language-games is, according to Churchill, to argue or illustrate a point. Similarly, Black confirms the heuristic importance of Wittgenstein’s use of language-games but describes it in terms of ‘reference’. ‘Wittgenstein’s uses of “language-game” oscillate between reference to simplified and imaginary models of rule-governed observable interaction, and reference to ways in which words are actually used’ (Black 1979:337). Thus, although acknowledged as models, the use of language-games is reduced to one of reference. Barnett provides a third description of the heuristic purpose of language-games. It is to teach us ‘to render in explicit terms a type of linguistic knowledge which is ordinarily merely tacit: our shared knowledge of the way we speak our natural language’ (Barnett 1990:43). Barnett sees Wittgenstein’s language-games as attempts to ‘put this knowledge into words’ by providing a synoptic presentation of language. The attempt to render in explicit terms tacit knowledge of the way we speak language is a well-known and recognizable philosophical task. While attempting to emphasize the heuristic nature of the use of language-games, all of these descriptions fail to confer any real heuristic significance or importance on Wittgenstein’s method. In all three cases, his language-game method is described as a means to conventional philosophical ends. Language-games are described merely as means through which Wittgenstein argues, illustrates, advances general points, persuades, makes references, or renders explicit a certain linguistic knowledge. It is, consequently, difficult to see that the use of languagegames is methodologically or pedagogically innovative or necessary. Yet the use of language-games permeates Wittgenstein’s later writings, and

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is a central method in his grammatical investigations from the early 1930s until his death in 1951. Although correct to emphasize the heuristic nature of languagegames, the above descriptions fail to grasp the full use and implications of this method. Such descriptions remain, as it were, too passive or static for the actual use of language-games. These descriptions simplify the difficulty and complexity of describing the use of our words. Terms of discussion within the secondary literature now include ‘languagegames’ and ‘the use of words’ but the form of discussion, debate and criticism remains unchanged. As Wittgenstein comments, ‘the terms of our analysis have changed, but the form of our philosophical investigation has not’ (AWL 32). The use of language-games does not merely involve a change in terminology. It involves a change in the form of Wittgenstein’s philosophical investigations. It is not an (optional) stylistic device but a philosophical and pedagogical necessity. Wittgenstein’s use of language-games is descriptive. Language-games provide one way of describing the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application. Such a description of the aim and functioning of words is interpreted by many critics as an indirect method of teaching. Thus, for example, Barnett writes that: to teach heuristically is to teach indirectly. Pupils are given a method through which they can learn on their own. A language-game is a heuristic device in just this sense. The language-game conception helps philosophers to learn how to attain a synoptic perspective on language. (Barnett 1990:45) Such an interpretation, as well as those which aim at comprehensive and systematic surveys of language, imply that an understanding of language lies behind all of these individual language-games. Such an interpretation is inconsistent with Wittgenstein’s philosophical method (which denies that anything is hidden from view, and which claims to reveal only that which is already before our eyes). As part of this method, however, language-games describe our use of words directly and thus also teach directly. The heuristic purpose of such language-games is precisely direct clarity for ‘it disperses the fog to study the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application in which one can command a clear view of the aim and functioning of the words’ (PI 5).

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Just as Wittgenstein introduces the use of language-games as an alternative form of philosophical inquiry, so too we require a method of approaching and reading his language-games which will reveal their methodological aims and functioning. Using Wittgenstein’s own terms as a guide we can understand his language-games as a form of philosophical play. The possibility of learning philosophy (and language) through games or play may strike professional philosophers as embarrassing or trivializing, but the pedagogical significance and importance of play is consistent with both Wittgenstein’s experiences and observations as an elementary school teacher, and with his understanding of philosophy as an art. Historically, learning was connected with play and it is only in recent times that we have equated the process of learning with work: Verbalized learning takes place quite normally in an atmosphere of celebration or play…. Only with the invention of writing and the isolation of the individual from the tribe will verbal learning and understanding itself become ‘work’ as distinct from play, and the pleasure principle be downgraded as a principle of verbalized cultural community. (Ong 1982:30) According to Huizinga, the connection between philosophy and play has a long and varied history (Huizinga 1950). Wittgenstein’s later philosophy uses play, with its connotations of celebration, pleasure and fun, as a pedagogical tool. His philosophy is receptive, responsive and creative. Play is also receptive, responsive and creative, and can therefore be recognized within Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, although not recognized as a pedagogical tool within the institutional discipline of philosophy itself.1 The tone of Wittgenstein’s writings (which encourage us to imagine language-games) is playful and humorous. He asks us to imagine his language-games as the languages of primitive tribes or as the actual primitive languages with which children learn to speak. His use of language-games calls for a play of the imagination. In the words of Cavell, he asks us to bring our language and life into imagination: This seems to me a task that warrants the name of philosophy. It is also a description of something we might call education…philosophy becomes the education of adults…. The anxiety in teaching, in

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serious communication, is that I myself require education. And for grownups this is not natural growth, but change. (Cavell 1982:125) Wittgenstein’s description of language-games is also often humorous. During a discussion of the language-game of lying (beginning at §249) he asks, ‘Why can’t a dog simulate pain? Is he too honest?’ (PI 250). His language-games also involve builders and coloured squares. These and many other familiar examples bespeak philosophical playfulness. They look and sound as if they come from children’s books, fairy tales or nursery rhymes. Thus, both the tone and content of Wittgenstein’s later writings suggest that he connects philosophical learning with play. As well, his use of language-games gains its purpose from particular philosophical illusions. (The word ‘illusion’ itself means ‘in play’.) The seriousness of tone which characterizes the critical responses to Wittgenstein’s use of language-games is in sharp contrast to the playfulness of the method itself. A willingness to engage with his language-games and to play out the scenarios described proves invaluable in fulfilling the heuristic purpose of his method. As a form of philosophical play, Wittgenstein’s use of language-games requires participation and practice. A detailed examination of the opening passages of the Investigations offers not only an introduction to the term ‘language-game’ but a demonstration of the use of language-games in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy. It is important to examine how the use of language-games disperses our grammatical confusion. In order to examine the methodological significance of language-games this chapter will be confined to those language-games which are explicitly introduced as language-games in his later writings. Language-games are introduced in the Investigations at §2, §8, (§10), §15, §21, (§27), §48, §53, §60, §64, §86, §143, §151, §556 and §630. In The Blue and Brown Books such language-games proliferate. In both texts they are introduced and then played out. Language-games are imagined, played and eventually come to an end or are suspended just like ordinary games. Wittgenstein also emphasizes that his language-games are invented and used for particular philosophical purposes. He writes: When I describe certain simple language games, this is not in order to construct from them gradually the processes of our developed language—or of thinking—which only lead to injustices… I simply

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set forth the games as what they are, and let them shed their light on the particular problems. (BB Preface) In the opening remarks of the Investigations, for example, Wittgenstein sets forth a language-game and allows it to shed light on the philosophical concept of meaning expressed in § 1. In describing certain simple language-games, and in denying that he is constructing from them the processes of our developed language, Wittgenstein denies that he is providing factual information about language or the evolution of language. Rather he is responding to specific philosophical confusions. His languagegames are, therefore, pedagogical tools employed in response to philosophical problems. He remarks: Do not make the mistake of supposing that I am showing how language is built up or how it has evolved. Sometimes it is easier to imagine these invented languages as languages of a primitive tribe and sometimes as the actual primitive language of a child. A child does actually begin with such a primitive language. Its language training is mostly in the form of such games. A new game introduces a new element into language, for example, negation. It will be noticed that the elements we have already introduced are of great variety. The difficulty of this method of exhibiting language games is that you think it is perfectly trivial. You do not see its importance. (AWL 105) It is sometimes easier to imagine these invented languages as languages of a primitive tribe and sometimes as the actual language of a child, because to imagine a language is to imagine a form of life or a culture (PI 19, BB 154). Wittgenstein emphasizes that children actually do use such primitive forms of language or games when they learn to speak. This method appears trivial not only because language-games are invented and fictitious, but also because we do not see their heuristic or practical use. Wittgenstein’s language-game method serves several purposes, however. First, it challenges us to describe language-games rather than to offer theories and explanations for our language-use. It challenges us to look at the use of our words. As a method, the use of language-games also focuses our attention on the details of our language. With reference

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to language-game (48), for example, Wittgenstein writes that ‘in order to see more clearly, here as in countless similar cases, we must focus on the details of what goes on; must look at them from close to’ (PI 51). In looking at the details of our language-use through language-games we also see the application of our words. As Wittgenstein writes, we must look at the language-game in which words are applied or used (PI 96). Language-games also remind us of the diversity of our use of words. This is necessary for ‘we remain unconscious of the prodigious diversity of all the everyday language-games because the clothing of our language makes everything alike’ (PI 224e).2 Wittgenstein also describes language-games as objects of comparison; thereby emphasizing their methodological or pedagogical role or purpose. Language-games are offered in place of philosophical assertions and claims: Our clear and simple language-games are not preparatory studies for a future regularization of language—as it were first approximations, ignoring friction and air-resistance. The language-games are rather set up as objects of comparison which are meant to throw light on the facts of our language by way not only of similarities, but also of dissimilarities. (PI 130) The language-games are set up as grammatical objects of comparison. They are to be compared with our actual ordinary language and also with one another. We can only see what facts (of our language) certain languagegames are meant to shed light on by looking at the specific instances in which language-games are used. Thus, for example, language-games (2), (8), and (10) can be compared with one another in order to help clarify our use of ‘meaning’ (as discussed below). They throw light on specific grammatical facts concerning ‘meaning’ by providing language-games in which there is no question of ‘meaning’ (§2 and §8) and in which ‘meaning’ is introduced into the description of the language-game (§10). We can compare these language-games with one another, as well as with our complex ordinary language, in order to see grammatical similarities and differences. Wittgenstein’s method of using language-games is often interpreted as presenting an analogy which compares the speaking of language to the playing of games. While not denying that he uses such an analogy, we can draw a distinction between the game analogy and his methodological use of language-games. When used methodologically, the term ‘language-

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game’ is more accurately understood, not as an analogy, but as referring to actual games. It is worth noting that Wittgenstein often uses the game analogy on occasions which are independent of his use of language-games. The use of language-games and the use of the game analogy are two separate (though related) methods of grammatical investigation. Wittgenstein introduces his first language-game in §2 of the Investigations, in response to the philosophical concept of meaning expressed in §1.3 The Investigations begins with the following quotation from Augustine’s Confessions: When they [my elders] named some object, and accordingly moved towards something, I saw this and I grasped that the thing was called by the sound they uttered when they meant to point it out. Their intention was shewn by their bodily movements, as it were the natural language of all peoples; the expression of the face, the play of the eyes, the movement of other parts of the body, and the tone of voice which expresses our state of mind in seeking, having, rejecting, or avoiding something. Thus, as I heard these words repeatedly used in their proper places in various sentences, I gradually learnt to understand what objects they signified; and after I had trained my mouth to form these signs I used them to express my own desires. (PI1) In this passage Augustine describes the learning of human language. In a 1936 manuscript version of the opening passages of the Investigations Wittgenstein introduces the Augustine quotation with the following words: ‘Das Lernen der menschlichen Sprache beschreibt Augustinus so:/ Augustinus beschreibt das Lernen…so:/’ (The learning of human language is described by Augustine thus:/Augustine describes the learning… thus:/ ) (Nedo 1993:76). According to Wittgenstein, Augustine’s description of the learning of human language gives us a particular picture of the essence of human language (PI 1). Consistent with his general grammatical method, he does not read these words as the articulation of a theory or the presentation of an argument. Rather he reads them as the expression of a particular picture of the essence of human language. This raises two important questions: Why does Wittgenstein begin the Investigations with Augustine’s description of the learning of human language? And why does he connect the description of the learning of human language with the essence of human language?4

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According to Wittgenstein, Augustine’s words express the following picture of the essence of human language: Individual words in language name objects and sentences are combinations of such words. Further, ‘in this picture of language we find the roots of the following idea: Every word has a meaning. This meaning is correlated with the word. It is the object for which the word stands’ (PI 1). It is to this picture of the essence of human language, and to this idea of ‘meaning’ that Wittgenstein responds in the opening of the Investigations. Augustine does not speak of there being any difference between kinds of word. If you describe the learning of language in this way you are, I believe, thinking primarily of nouns like ‘table’, ‘chair’, ‘bread’, and of people’s names, and only secondarily of the names of certain actions, and properties; and of the remaining kinds of word as something that will take care of itself. (PI 1) Wittgenstein responds to this picture of the essence of human language by describing a particular use of language. He asks us to think of a use of language in which he sends someone shopping with a slip marked ‘five red apples’. The individual takes the slip to the shopkeeper, who opens the drawer marked ‘apples’; looks up the word ‘red’ in a table and finds a colour sample opposite it; then says a series of cardinal numbers by heart up to the word ‘five’, and for each number takes an apple of the same colour as the sample out of the drawer. Wittgenstein writes that ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’ (PI 1). Wittgenstein refers to this example elsewhere as ‘our old example for the use of words’ (BB 69). His description of the language-use involved in the simple transaction of buying apples demonstrates that we use different kinds of words in different ways. His shopping example emphasizes language-use amidst human actions and interactions. ‘We see activities, reactions, which are clear-cut and transparent’ (BB 17). The choice of a shopping example is also significant. A shopkeeper deals in goods and trades with customers. The German word for ‘trade’ (handeln) is also the word for ‘act’ (handeln). In Wittgenstein’s example the shopkeeper acts as he has described (as he later emphasizes). What makes the labels or words in Wittgenstein’s example important are their use, and therefore the use of the words in practice (BB 69). The opening example describes a

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use of language and concludes with the words: ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’ (PI 1). The interlocutor interjects here for the first time and asks, ‘But how [do they] know where and how [they are] to look up the word “red” and what [they are] to do with the word “five”?’ In response to Wittgenstein’s description of the use of language the interlocutor requests an explanation. (‘But how…?’) Wittgenstein responds, ‘Well, I assume that [they act] as I have described. Explanations come to an end somewhere’ (PI 1). He refers back to his description of the actions of the shopkeeper. (This response can also be translated: ‘I take for granted that [they act] as I have described’, or ‘I accept that [they act] as I have described’, thereby avoiding the intellectual connotations associated with making assumptions.) Wittgenstein responds to the interlocutor’s question, but he does not answer it. Several points are worth noting. First, in response to Augustine’s description of the learning of language (and the philosophical picture of meaning which it expresses) Wittgenstein offers a description not an explanation, and provides an example not a theory. In response, the interlocutor asks for an explanation and expresses an Augustinian picture of language (for only the words ‘red’ and ‘five’ and not the word ‘apples’ require an explanation). Wittgenstein both anticipates and articulates this response in his opening remark. He responds to the interlocutor by offering the same description of the actions of the shopkeeper as he offered earlier in the remark. (It is a description which he takes for granted and does not attempt to justify or explain.) In so doing he rejects the request for an explanation. His description is not merely the absence of an explanation but an alternative form of response. ‘Explanations comes to an end somewhere,’ according to Wittgenstein and one of the most shocking aspects of the Investigations is that explanations come to an end here in §1. The descriptive rather than theoretical or explanatory nature of Wittgenstein’s response is also highlighted in his choice of the shopping example, for the scene involves a play on words (a grammatical joke, as it were). In Wittgenstein’s example the shopkeeper trades (handeln) or acts (handeln) as he has described. It is a grammatical play on words in response to the interlocutor’s request for an explanation. As such it is not a false or inadequate answer, nor again the dismissal of the question. Rather, it is the rejection of a question which asks for an explanation and the response to a question which expresses a riddle or a philosophical puzzle. As with many grammatical jokes we only understand the question after we have heard the answer (or punch line). Instead of an explanation

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Wittgenstein offers a punch line, turning the question back on itself and raising the serious methodological issue of the meaning(fulness) of our questions. It is important to understand Wittgenstein’s response to the interlocutor’s question. The interlocutor (and most readers) will not find this response satisfactory. Although appearing dismissive, this response attempts to understand and resolve the complex philosophical confusion which gives rise to the request for a philosophical explanation. In response to the request for an explanation Wittgenstein attempts, not to provide an explanation, but to demonstrate that it is not what is needed. To understand this response is to understand the motive for the interlocutor’s question and to recognize the picture of the essence of human language expressed in the question itself. The interlocutor asks for an explanation of how the shopkeeper knows when and how to use the words ‘five’ and ‘red’, but not the word ‘apple’. Thus, the interlocutor expresses Augustine’s picture of the essence of human language. It is because the interlocutor pictures the essence of human language in this way that an explanation is requested. In other words, it is a particular picture of the essence of human language that motivates the interlocutor’s question. Wittgenstein recognizes this, and also recognizes that his response to the interlocutor will not prove satisfactory (to the interlocutor or to anyone who pictures the essence of human language in this way). Thus the question that follows is a reiteration of the interlocutor’s question. Only this time it is Wittgenstein who asks: ‘But what is the meaning of the word “five”?’ This question, asked in Wittgenstein’s own voice, is significant for several reasons. First, by repeating the interlocutor’s question he acknowledges that his response to the interlocutor will not have been satisfactory. He acknowledges that the interlocutor will want to continue asking this question. Secondly, by repeating the interlocutor’s question Wittgenstein demonstrates that he anticipates the interlocutor’s (next) question. He understands why the interlocutor wants to ask the question and he understands that the interlocutor will want to continue asking this question. This is crucial because it confirms that Wittgenstein’s refusal to give an explanation is not based on (i) a misunderstanding of the question, (ii) an inability to provide an adequate philosophical response or, (iii) a hasty dismissal of the question as unimportant or insignificant. And thirdly, Wittgenstein rephrases the interlocutor’s question when he repeats it. Instead of asking ‘how [do they] know where and how [they are] to look up the word “red” and what [they are] to do with the word “five”?’, Wittgenstein asks, ‘But what is the meaning of the word “five”?’ In so

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doing, he connects the picture of the essence of human language expressed in the original question with the concept of ‘meaning’. This is the same connection he makes in response to Augustine’s description of the learning of human language. He responds to this final question (and concludes §1) with the remark: ‘No such thing [i.e. meaning] was in question here, only how the word “five” was used’ (and this use has already been described). Another translation (favoured by Wittgenstein) makes the reference to ‘meaning’ even clearer: ‘There was no question of such an entity “meaning” here’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:64). According to Wittgenstein, in the description of the use of language in §1 there is no question of ‘meaning’. The question itself is problematic. Wittgenstein’s remark involves methodological beginnings and endings. We can only give meaning to the claim that ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’ if we can think meaningfully of this use of language and it is not immediately apparent that we can do so. Wittgenstein’s concluding comment is more than conspicuously general. To paraphrase §13 of the Investigations, when we say: ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’ we have so far said nothing whatever, unless we have made clear exactly what distinction we wish to make. One of Wittgenstein’s aims in philosophy is to help us recognize when we have said ‘nothing whatever’ (enabling us to go from disguised to patent nonsense). His claim that ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’ marks the beginning, not the end, of the investigation. In response to the question of how to think of this use of language Wittgenstein teaches a method in the text which follows. In other words, he teaches us how to think about the use of our words. In this opening section of the Investigations Wittgenstein presents the philosophical problems to which he will respond in the text which follows. But he also, significantly, presents their solution. An understanding of the opening passages of the Investigations (in all of their complexity and density) is nothing less than an understanding of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy. As Kerr writes, with reference to §1, ‘Wittgenstein has no more to show us: we might as well stop reading at this point if we want only to hear the result of his work. For most readers, however, it would be premature to go no further’ (Kerr 1989: 58). Having presented philosophical problems and their solutions, Wittgenstein is aware that it is not enough merely to present them. Thus he embarks on his philosophical and pedagogical investigations in order to teach us methods with which to learn. It is in this context of philosophical confusion that he introduces the use of language-games.

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In §2 Wittgenstein refers to the concept of meaning expressed throughout §1 (in Augustine’s description of the learning of human language, in the interlocutor’s question concerning Wittgenstein’s description of the use of language, and in his rephrasing of the interlocutor’s question). He writes, with reference to the concept of meaning expressed in §1: ‘That philosophical concept of meaning has its place in a primitive idea of the way language functions. But one can also say that it is the idea of a language more primitive than ours’ (PI 2). In a significant pedagogical move Wittgenstein next asks us to ‘imagine a language for which the description given by Augustine is correct’ (PI 2). In order to investigate the way language functions (in response to the primitive idea of the way language functions) he proposes that we investigate a language more primitive than our own. In §2 he writes: Let us imagine a language for which the description given by Augustine is right. The language is meant to serve for communication between a builder A and an assistant B. A is building with building stones: there are blocks, pillars, slabs and beams. B has to pass the stones, and that in the order in which A needs them. For this purpose they use a language consisting of the words ‘block’, ‘pillar’, ‘slab’, ‘beam’. A calls them out; —B brings the stone which [they have] learnt to bring at such-andsuch a call. —Conceive this as a complete primitive language. (PI 2) In asking us to ‘conceive this as a complete primitive language’ Wittgenstein asks us to concentrate on this language in isolation from others. This language is drawn as an object of comparison; one which is self-contained and artificially demarcated for specific philosophical purposes. In asking us to conceive this as a complete primitive language he asks us not to add to it, and not to reject it because ‘incomplete’ in comparison with our more complex ordinary language-use. He asks us to conceive this as a complete primitive language for pedagogical purposes. The introduction of language (2) serves several pedagogical purposes. First, Wittgenstein does not simply reject or refute the philosophical concept of meaning inherent in the primitive idea of the way language functions. Rather, by investigating the philosophical pictures expressed in such ideas and descriptions he attempts to identify and respond to the source of such ideas. ‘To relieve the mental cramp

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it is not enough to get rid of it; you must also see why you had it’ (AWL 90). Secondly, by introducing a primitive language for which the description given by Augustine is right, Wittgenstein attempts to demonstrate how language functions. Thirdly, he begins with Augustine’s own words. (This is significant because in so doing he reveals that Augustine is not describing what he thinks that he is describing or what he is attempting to describe.) And finally, in asking us to imagine a language for which the description given by Augustine is correct, Wittgenstein reveals the complexity of imagining even the most primitive kinds of language. Augustine describes the learning of language as if there were no difference between kinds of words. Wittgenstein responds by describing a use of language which highlights different kinds of words and their different uses (PI 1). In so doing, he challenges the picture of the essence of human language expressed in Augustine’s words.5 In §2 Wittgenstein asks us to imagine a language for which the description given by Augustine is right. He demonstrates that Augustine describes a primitive language (which, for example, serves as a system of communication between two builders). Thus he demonstrates, first, that when Augustine describes the learning of language he is not describing the learning of our native language. Secondly, he examines the primitive language which Augustine describes (thereby studying the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application) and demonstrates that even for such a primitive language Augustine’s description does not accurately describe the learning of language. In §3, Wittgenstein confirms that Augustine’s description is appropriate for a simple language but that such a language is not our language and not therefore the language which Augustine thinks that he is describing. Augustine, we might say, does describe a system of communication; only not everything that we call language is this system. And one has to say this in many cases where the question arises ‘Is this an appropriate description or not?’ The answer is: ‘Yes, it is appropriate, but only for this narrowly circumscribed region, not for the whole of what you were claiming to describe.’ It is as if someone were to say: ‘A game consists in moving objects about on the surface according to certain rules…’ —and we replied: You seem to be thinking of board games, but there are others. You can make your definition correct by expressly restricting it to those games. (PI 3)

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Although Augustine does not describe everything that we call language, he provides an appropriate description of a language which is more primitive or simple than our own. Wittgenstein is not, therefore, dismissing Augustine’s description as a limited or inadequate description of our own.6 In §4, Wittgenstein compares Augustine’s conception of language to the over-simple conception of a script in which letters stand for sounds, signs of emphasis and punctuation. As he himself explains, the script can be seen as a language for describing sound patterns. Augustine’s conception of language is compared to an interpretation of the script which acknowledges the correspondence of letters to sounds, but not the additional functions or uses of letters. In the Augustinian language of §2, the words function as sounds or signals, as it were, without also having completely different functions. As Wittgenstein suggests, Augustine does describe a system of communication, only not everything that we call language is that system. According to Wittgenstein we do not understand the workings of language, and it is in part the general notion of the meaning of a word that makes understanding difficult. Referring back to the example in § 1 he writes: If we look at the example of § 1, we may get an inkling how much this general notion of the meaning of a word surrounds the working of language with a haze which makes clear vision impossible. It disperses the fog to study the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application in which one can command a clear view of the aim and functioning of the words. A child uses such primitive forms of language when it learns to talk. Here the teaching of language is not explanation, but training. (PI 5) Studying the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application is meant not merely to remind us of the complexity of our ordinary languageuse, but to allow us to command a clear view of that language-use. According to Wittgenstein a child uses primitive forms of language when they learn to speak. In response to Augustine’s description of the learning of human language (and to the interlocutor’s request for an explanation concerning how someone knows how to use certain words) Wittgenstein introduces language-games. At the beginning of §6 he writes that ‘we could imagine that the language of §2 was the whole language of A and B; even the whole language of a tribe’. This remark can be read in two different ways. It

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can be read as repeating the request to conceive of language (2) as a complete primitive language and it can be read as a new request to imagine the language as the whole language of A and B or the whole language of a tribe. In imagining language (2) as the whole language of A and B or even the whole language of a tribe, Wittgenstein demonstrates that Augustine’s description fails to acknowledge the training involved in the learning of language. The description of the learning of language (2) in §6–§8 emphasizes the actions and training involved in the learning of language within a community of speakers. Wittgenstein is, however, faithful to many aspects and details of Augustine’s opening description (such as pointing, calling out and bodily expressions). Augustine’s description of the learning of language expresses a primitive idea of the way language functions; an idea which is simple not only because of what it leaves out (different kinds of words) but also because of what it assumes. (Augustine describes the learning of language as if a child came into a country and could already speak a language, only not this one.)7 It is not that Augustine’s description is appropriate for a simple language (involving nouns or the naming of objects) which leads to a more complex language (involving different kinds of words) but that his words express a picture of the essence of human language and a concept of meaning which is problematic. In other words, it is not that Augustine describes a language involving only objects, but that his description of the learning of human language is problematic. In §6 Wittgenstein returns to the language-game of §2 and describes the training that is involved. This training involves the performance of specific actions, the use of certain words, and certain reactions to the words of others. It is described as the ‘ostensive teaching of words’, which involves the teacher’s pointing to objects, directing the child’s attention to them, and at the same time uttering a word. In describing the training in this way Wittgenstein is playing out Augustine’s description of the learning of human language, for Augustine writes: ‘I grasped that the thing was called by the sound they uttered when they meant to point it out’. Wittgenstein is also playing with the philosophical idea that meaning is a kind of pointing. As Baker and Hacker confirm, he once wrote that ‘the German word for “meaning”, “Bedeutung” comes from the word for “pointing” “deuten”’ (although etymologically this is incorrect) (Baker and Hacker 1983:67). This training is called the ‘ostensive teaching of words’ rather than ‘ostensive definition’ because the child cannot yet ask for the name of the object. Wittgenstein writes, ‘I say that it will

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form an important part of the training because it is so with human beings; not because it could not be imagined otherwise’ (PI 6). He describes one possible form of training, but he is not making a factual claim, for such training could be imagined otherwise. According to Wittgenstein, ‘this ostensive teaching of words can be said to establish an association between the word and the thing’ (PI 6). We are likely to think of this association in terms of a picture of the object (which comes before the child’s mind), or as ‘effecting an understanding of the word’. Wittgenstein challenges both of these ideas, for it is not the purpose of the words of language (2) to evoke images, and ‘with different training the same ostensive teaching of these words could have effected a quite different understanding’ (PI 6). Continuing to emphasize the instruction and practice of language (2), he writes: In the practice of the use of language (2) one party calls out the words, the other acts on them. In instruction in the language the following process will occur: the learner names the objects; that is, [they utter] the word when the teacher points to the stone. —And there will be this still simpler exercise: the pupil repeats the words after the teacher—both of these being processes resembling language. (PI 7) Referring not only to the exercises described in the above passage, but also to the whole process of using language in §2, Wittgenstein now introduces the term ‘language-game’. He writes: We can also think of the whole process of using words in (2) as one of those games by means of which children learn their native language. I will call these games ‘language-games’ and will sometimes speak of a primitive language, as a language-game. And the process of naming the stones and of repeating words after someone might also be called language-games. Think of much of the use of words in games like ring-a-ring-a-roses. I shall also call the whole, consisting of language and the actions into which it is woven, the ‘language-game’. (PI 7) Wittgenstein refers to at least four distinct uses of the term ‘languagegame’ in this passage. The first use refers to ‘language-games’ as those

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games by means of which children learn their native language. The second refers to primitive languages. The third involves the simpler exercises inherent in the learning of language: such as the naming of objects or the repetition of words. These exercises or activities are connected with ‘much of the use of words in games like ring-a-ring-a-roses’ or with the use of words in nursery rhymes (Baker and Hacker 1983:100).8 The fourth involves the ‘language-game’, rather than a language-game or languagegames. It refers to ‘the whole, consisting of language and the actions into which it is woven’. Throughout the Investigations Wittgenstein uses the term ‘language-game’ in all four ways. As he himself acknowledges, he talks about all sorts of language-games but nowhere says what the essence of a language-game (and hence of language) is (PI 65). Through both the numerous uses of the term ‘language-game’, and the pedagogical use of language-games themelves, Wittgenstein attempts to display the complexity of our language-use. As he comments: I have wanted to show by means of language-games the vague way in which we use ‘language’, ‘proposition’, ‘sentence’. There are many things, such as orders, which we may or may not call propositions; and not just one game can be called language. (AWL 12) Once again, emphasis is placed on our use of words, and on the variety of language-games which we play. This indeterminacy requires us to look at the use of the term ‘language-game’ on every occasion. In §8, Wittgenstein expands language (2) to include a series of words ‘used as the shopkeeper in (1) used the numerals’; the words ‘there’ and ‘this’ (used in connection with a pointing gesture); and a number of colour samples. Wittgenstein describes their use in §8 and describes how a child learns their use in §9. (Language-game (8) is similar to Wittgenstein’s example of the use of language in §1.) We can take this description, not as the end (result) of Wittgenstein’s philosophical investigation, but as the beginning. §1–§9 can be read as preparation for §10. Only at §10 do we begin to play out the elaborate grammatical language-game which Wittgenstein has set up or described. In §10 he returns to his original question concerning the concept of ‘meaning’. He asks, ‘Now what do the words of this language signify?’ (PI 10). (Augustine wrote: ‘I gradually learnt to understand what objects they signified.’)9 Having set up the language-games from §2 to §9, Wittgenstein asks us to respond to this question with reference to (or within the boundaries of) this particular language-game. He writes:

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Now what do the words of this language signify? —What is supposed to shew what they signify, if not the kind of use they have? And we have already described that. So we are asking for the expression ‘This word signifies this’ to be made a part of the description. In other words the description ought to take the form: ‘This word… signifies…’ (PI 10) When Wittgenstein writes that we are asking for the expression ‘this word signifies this’ to be made part of the description, he is claiming that we are here asking for the language-game of ‘meaning’ or ‘signifying’ to be added to (or to become part of) our description of this language. In other words, until this request in § 10 there is no such thing, or there is no question of, ‘meaning’ in the language-games of §8 and §2 which Wittgenstein has described. It is not just that Augustine’s description of the essence of human language presents too simple a concept of meaning (that the meaning of a word is the object for which it stands) but that the whole idea or concept that ‘every word has a meaning’ is itself confused. It is this general notion of the meaning of a word which Wittgenstein claims surrounds the working of language with a haze which makes clear vision impossible (PI 5). The purpose of the detailed language-games sketched by Wittgenstein from §2 to §9 is to focus our attention on the use of the expression once it has been introduced into our description of the language-game. He writes: Of course, one can reduce the description of the use of the word ‘slab’ to the statement that this word signifies this object. This will be done when, for example, it is merely a matter of removing the mistaken idea that the word ‘slab’ refers to the shape of the building-stone that we in fact call a ‘block’ —but the kind of ‘referring’ this is, that is to say the use of these words for the rest, is already known. Equally, one can say that the signs ‘a’, ‘b’, etc. signify numbers; when for example this removes the mistaken idea that ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’, play the part actually played in language by ‘block’, ‘slab’, ‘pillar’. And one can also say that ‘c’ means this number and not that one when for example this serves to explain that the letters are to be used in the order a, b, c, d, etc. and not in the order a, b, d, c.

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But assimilating the descriptions of the uses of words in this way cannot make the uses themselves any more like one another. For, as we see, they are absolutely unlike. (PI 10) This form of description (‘the word…signifies…’) is a reduction of the description of the use of words. Such a description is useful for removing certain kinds of misunderstanding when the rest of the use of the words is already known. But as Wittgenstein warns us, assimilating the descriptions of the uses of words in this way cannot make the uses themselves any more like one another. For, as we see, they are absolutely unlike. Thus, introducing the language-game of ‘signifying’ into our description of the use of words is not introducing a more fundamental, important or profound philosophical concept (one which was lacking in the previous description of the use of words in languages (2) and (8)) but it is to introduce one form of describing the use of words in the face of a particular misunderstanding when the use of the words is already known. However, the form of description ‘the word…signifies…’ is the form of description most often used by philosophers in attempting to describe the use of words. Wittgenstein suggests, not only that this form of description is merely another kind of description (one for which we must already know the use of the words) but also that it is misleading, for it makes the uses of words appear more like one another than they actually are. Thus he writes: Think of the tools in a tool-box: there is a hammer, pliers, a saw, a screw-driver, a rule, a glue-pot, glue, nails and screws. —The functions of words are as diverse as the functions of these objects. (And in both cases there are similarities.) Of course, what confuses us is the uniform appearance of words when we hear them spoken or meet them in script and print. For their application is not presented to us so clearly. Especially when we are doing philosophy! (PI 11) When using descriptions such as ‘the word…signifies…’, or when hearing words spoken or meeting them in script and print, we do not clearly see and distinguish between their various uses. According to Baker and Hacker, Wittgenstein translated the phrase ‘their application is not presented to us so clearly’ as ‘their use is not so clearly there

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before our eyes’ (Baker and Hacker 1983:103). This also suggests why he felt it necessary to use language-games as one form of description of the use of our words. In describing language-games, not only in their simplicity but also in their detail, the various uses of words are more clearly before our eyes. It is in this way that studying the phenomena of language in primitive kinds of application (or use) helps disperse the fog of philosophical confusion. It also suggests that when philosophers use the form of description ‘the word…signifies…’ and think that they are perceiving a state of affairs of the highest generality, they are merely asking for this particular form of description to be used. Referring back to the general notion of the meaning of a word, Wittgenstein writes: When we say: ‘Every word in language signifies something’ we have so far said nothing whatever; unless we have explained exactly what distinction we wish to make. (It might be, of course, that we wanted to distinguish the words of language (8) from words ‘without meaning’ such as occur in Lewis Carroll’s poems, or words like ‘Lilliburlero’ in songs.) (PI 13) Here he creates a context in which a distinction can be made between the words of language (8) and words without meaning (giving a use for the expression ‘every word in language signifies something’). Philosophers tend to begin with the notion that every word in language signifies something which, according to Wittgenstein, says nothing whatever unless we have explained exactly what distinction we wish to make. The distinction which he draws between the words of language (8) and words ‘without meaning’ is not, however, the kind of distinction philosophers generally think that they are making. In §15 Wittgenstein describes one use of the word ‘signify’; drawing our attention to one way in which a name means something and is given to a thing. He writes: The word ‘to signify’ is perhaps used in the most straightforward way when the object signified is marked with the sign. Suppose that the tools A uses in building bear certain marks. When A shews [their] assistant such a mark, [they bring] the tool that has that mark on it.

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It is in this and more or less similar ways that a name means and is given to a thing. —It will often prove useful in philosophy to say to ourselves: naming something is like attaching a label to a thing. (PI 15) The wording of Wittgenstein’s remark, that ‘it is in this and more or less similar ways that a name means and is given to a thing’, echoes his remark in §1 that ‘it is in this and similar ways that one operates with words’. In both cases he draws our attention to the use of words. Whether words marked on a slip of paper, the labels on the shop-keeper’s drawer, or the marks on the builder’s tools, the importance of these words lies in their use. And it is only at §15 that proper names are introduced into language (8) (PI 41). Wittgenstein continues his investigation of ‘signify’ or ‘mean’ (and language, words, sentences, assertions, etc.) until §23, when he writes: There are countless…different kinds of use of what we call ‘symbol’, ‘words’, ‘sentences’. And this multiplicity is not something fixed, given once for all; but new types of language, new language-games, as we may say, come into existence, and others become obsolete and get forgotten. (We can get a rough picture of this from the changes in mathematics.) Here the term ‘language-game’ is meant to bring into prominence the fact that the speaking of language is part of an activity, or of a form of life. Review the multiplicity of language-games in the following examples, and in others: Giving orders, and obeying them— Describing the appearance of an object, or giving its measurements— Constructing an object from a description (a drawing) — Reporting an event— Speculating about an event— Forming and testing a hypothesis— Presenting the results of an experiment in tables and diagrams— Making up a story, and reading it— Play-acting— Singing catches— Guessing riddles— Making a joke; telling it—

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Solving a problem in practical arithmetic— Translating from one language to another— Asking, thanking, cursing, greeting, praying. — It is interesting to compare the multiplicity of the tools in language and of the ways they are used, the multiplicity of kinds of word and sentence, with what logicians have said about the structure of language. (Including the author of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.) (PI 23) He asks us to review the multiplicity of language-games in the above examples; examples which speak with celebration and pleasure of the multiplicity of language-games in our lives. Wittgenstein’s list includes, not merely orders, reports and hypotheses, but also story-telling, play-acting, singing, telling jokes, guessing riddles, and ‘asking, thanking, cursing, greeting and praying’. Not only are the above examples themselves various language-games, but within each example we can imagine a variety of different language-games. (The use of the dash after each example invites such imagination.) Wittgenstein contrasts the multiplicity of language-games in his examples with the narrow focus of philosophers and logicians. He also contrasts the speaking of language (as part of an activity or form of life) with philosophers’ attention to sentences. All of these examples provide vivid illustration of the fact that the speaking of language is part of an activity or of a form of life. According to Baker, and others, Wittgenstein does not always make a clear distinction between speech and language (both die Sprache in German) (Baker 1992:119).10 Rhees writes, for example, that ‘Wittgenstein did not always distinguish between ‘language’ and ‘speaking’, and sometimes this brings trouble’ (Rhees 1959:171). This is not an oversight on Wittgenstein’s part, however. He repeatedly uses the indeterminacy of these related terms to emphasize that language-use is part of an activity or form of life. According to Wittgenstein, ‘what is essential to the language-game is a practical procedure (praktische Methode) (a way of acting)—not speculation (Spekulation) not mere talk (Geschwätz).’11 ‘Primitive language-games are specific and cannot be taught by explanation because they correspond each to a special use of language’ (WLPP 25). Language-games are neither taught nor described by means of explanations. Just as there is no language-game of ‘signifying’ in languages (2) and (8) there is no language-game of ‘ostensive definition’. Thus, Wittgenstein writes at §27:

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In languages (2) and (8) there was no such thing as asking something’s name. This, with its correlate, ostensive definition, is, we might say, a language-game on its own. That is really to say: we are brought up, trained to ask: ‘What is that called?’ —upon which the name is given. And there is also a language-game of inventing a name for something, and hence of saying, ‘This is….’ and then using the new name. (Thus, for example, children give names to their dolls and then talk about them and to them. Think in this connexion how singular is the use of a person’s name to call [them]!)12 (PI 27) Inherent in Augustine’s description of the learning of language is the language-game of naming or ostensive definition. ‘Augustine, in describing the learning of language, says that he was taught to speak by learning the names of things’ (BB 77). But Wittgenstein, in introducing this language-game at §15, suggests that the language-game of ostensive definition is itself something that we learn through training or through initiation into a form of life. ‘We are brought up, trained to ask: “What is that called?” —upon which the name is given’ (PI 27). The placement of this language-game at § 15 suggests that the language-game of naming is learned after we have already acquired other language-games not, as philosophers tend to assume, acquired first. Having demonstrated that we learn how to use words such as ‘signify’ or ‘mean’, Wittgenstein connects his remarks concerning such words with our understanding of the learning of language itself. In §26 he writes: One thinks that learning language consists of giving names to objects. Viz, to human beings, to shapes, to colours, to pains, to moods, to numbers, etc. To repeat—naming is something like attaching a label to a thing. (PI 26) Thus our understanding of the learning of language is confused, as is our understanding of the essence of human language. Both forms of confusion share the same mistaken pictures and descriptions. If we investigate and accurately describe how we learn language we can clarify both philosophical problems. We can do so through the use of language-games. In §32 Wittgenstein draws together all of the preceding remarks and refers, once again, to Augustine’s description of the learning of language. He writes:

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And now, I think, we can say: Augustine describes the learning of human language as if the child came into a strange country and did not understand the language of the country; that is as if it already had a language, only not this one. (PI 32) Several points are worth noting. First, Wittgenstein writes ‘And now, I think, we can say…’. It is only at this point in his investigation, after having examined the language-games of ‘signify’, and ‘name’ (etc.) that he is able to offer this account of Augustine’s description of the learning of human language. The first 32 remarks form a continuous investigation which is written in response to the opening quotation from Augustine’s Confessions. Secondly, Wittgenstein’s comparison of Augustine’s description of the learning of human language to a situation in which a child comes into a strange country and already has a language, only not this one, demonstrates that when Augustine expresses a picture of the essence of human language the picture is too simple, not only because of what it leaves out (the acknowledgement of different kinds of words) but because of what it assumes or includes. Augustine’s picture of the essence of human language is not a primitive language which builds to more complex forms of language, but one which assumes the complex languagegames of naming (etc.) while failing to acknowledge the complexity of such language-use. Hence, there are two distinct responses which Wittgenstein gives to Augustine’s description of the learning of language. The first response is expressed from §1 to §4, and the second from §5 to §32. The first response demonstrates how the philosophical concept of meaning expressed in § 1 is the idea of a language more primitive than ours. The second response demonstrates that the philosophical concept of meaning expressed in § 1 has its place in a primitive idea of the way language functions. Thus, from §1 to §32 we must imagine the language-games in all of their detail in order to command a clear view of the aim and functioning of words (such as ‘mean’, ‘signify’, and ‘name’). There are no short-cuts and no philosophical summaries which can accomplish the pedagogical task of these language-games. As Wittgenstein writes, the difference in uses ‘becomes obvious and clear only when we contemplate a complete example (i.e. the example of a language completely worked out in detail)’ (BB 79–80). In §46 Wittgenstein introduces another language-game, in response to the philosophical idea that names signify simples. He refers to a passage from the Theaetetus, as well as to Russell’s ‘individuals’ and his own

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‘objects’ from the Tractates to describe and exemplify such primary elements. This discussion leads to the application of the method of §2 to the account of the Theaetetus. Thus, in §48 Wittgenstein writes: ‘Let us consider a language-game for which this account is really valid.’ What follows is the description of a language which serves to describe combinations of coloured squares on a surface. He plays out this languagegame and various possibilities from §48 to §64. At §65 he acknowledges ‘the great question that lies behind all of these considerations’. In this remark he returns to the issues raised in the opening passages of the Investigations. He returns to the issue of the essence of human language writing: Here we come up against the great question that lies behind all these considerations. —For someone might object against me: ‘You take the easy way out! You talk about all sorts of language-games, but have nowhere said what the essence of a language-game, and hence of language is: what is common to all these activities, and what makes them into language or parts of language. So you let yourself off the very part of the investigation that once gave you yourself most headache, the part about the general form of propositions and of language.’ And this is true. —Instead of producing something common to all that we call language, I am saying that these phenomena have no one thing in common which makes us use the same word for all, —but that they are related to one another in many different ways. And it is because of this relationship, or these relationships, that we call them all ‘language’. I will try to explain. (PI 65) The great question that lies behind all of these considerations involves the essence of language-games and hence the essence of language. Wittgenstein anticipates the objection that he has not said what the essence of language is. The form or terms of the objection are noteworthy. The interlocutor accuses him of taking the easy way out, and of letting himself off the very part of the investigation that once gave him the most difficulty. Such an objection echoes the opening passages of the Investigations and expresses the sense that Wittgenstein has not answered the questions raised. Wittgenstein responds that the accusation is true. He is not producing something common to all that we call language but he is saying that these phenomena are related to one another in numerous different ways. And Wittgenstein realizes here (as in §1) that this response will not satisfy the

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interlocutor who feels compelled to make such an accusation. Thus §65 concludes with the words: ‘I will try to explain.’ Wittgenstein will try to explain his method, not the essence of language-games or language. The great question which lies behind all of the considerations from § 1 to §65 therefore also informs the considerations which follow §65. The ‘great question’ involves the essence of human language, and Wittgenstein’s response is methodological. As Binkley writes: It is interesting that ‘the great question’ is posed as an objection to what is being done in the Investigations. Its answer is a comment on how we are to read the book as much as it is a comment on language itself. (Binkley 1973:62) To understand Wittgenstein’s description of the essence of human language is to understand his methodological use of language-games. In other words, if we understand his use of language-games we will understand that they describe the essence of human language. Wittgenstein refers, once again, to questions concerning the essence of language in §92, writing: For if we too in these investigations are trying to understand the essence of language—its function, its structure, —yet this is not what those questions [concerning the essence of language] have in view. For they see in the essence, not something that already lies open to view and that becomes surveyable by a rearrangement, but something that lies beneath the surface. Something that lies within, which we see when we look into the thing, and which an analysis digs out. ‘The essence is hidden from us’: this is the form our problem now assumes. We ask: ‘What is language?’, ‘What is a proposition?’ And the answer to these questions is to be given once for all; and independently of any future experience. (PI 92) According to Wittgenstein, ‘we are under the illusion that what is peculiar, profound, essential in our investigation resides in its trying to grasp the incomparable essence of language’ (PI 97). His use of language-games is a methodological antidote to such an illusion. He connects attempts to understand the essence of language with the understanding sought in his investigations. But he distinguishes questions

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which approach the essence of human language as something that lies beneath the surface (something that lies within, or something that is hidden) from his investigations which see the essence of human language as something that already lies open to view and that becomes surveyable by a rearrangement. Wittgenstein attempts to demonstrate, through the use of languagegames, that the essence of human language is open to view and is surveyable through grammatical investigation. The essence of language is not something hidden which we need to discover. The use of language-games, by its very nature, reveals the essence of human language. Thus Wittgenstein writes, ‘Essence is expressed by grammar’ (PI 371). If we want to investigate the essence of human language we need to study the grammar or use of our words. The use of languagegames is one of the grammatical techniques with which we can study the use of our words. It is for this reason that Wittgenstein responds to the interlocutor’s original question, ‘How [do they] know where and how to look up the word “red” and what [they are] to do with the word “five”?’ with the words, ‘Well, I assume [they act] as I have described. Explanations come to an end somewhere’ (PI 1). Wittgenstein is not making an intellectual assumption, nor merely referring to external behaviour. Rather the appropriate answer to the interlocutor’s question (of how the shopkeeper knows how to use these words) is that the shopkeeper has learned to speak this language. In other words, the shopkeeper acts as Wittgenstein has described, with all of the detail and complexity such acts entail. His answer is not hasty or simplistic but profound, for there is no short answer to the interlocutor’s question. An appropriate answer will be a description of how the shopkeeper acts and uses words. Wittgenstein writes that ‘our mistake is to look for an explanation where we ought to look at what happens as a “proto-phenomenon”. That is, where we ought to have said: this language-game is played’ (PI 654). Learning and using language involve training rather than explanation, and any response to the interlocutor’s opening question will involve the description of the learning or using of language rather than the giving of explanations. Wittgenstein therefore begins the Investigations with Augustine’s description of the learning of human language for several reasons. First, Augustine’s description of the learning of human language expresses a particular picture of the essence of human language. Secondly, his description confirms for Wittgenstein the importance or significance of

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this philosophical picture, as well as the need for the philosophical response which he himself offers. As Malcolm writes: He told me he decided to begin the Investigations with a quotation from the latter’s Confessions, not because he could not find the conception expressed in the quotation stated as well by other philosophers but because the conception must be important if so great a mind held it. (Malcolm 1984:59–60) Thirdly, in describing the learning of human language Augustine begins where we begin as children. Both he and Wittgenstein begin with the acquisition of language. In so doing Wittgenstein suggests that this is where to begin our philosophical investigations. He begins with a description of what we do, and denies the possibility of beginning further back (in theory or explanation). Augustine, we might say, begins further back when he describes the learning of human language as if a child ‘could already think, only not yet speak. And “think” would mean something like “talk to itself”’ (PI 32). In denying the possibility of beginning elsewhere Wittgenstein denies that the essence of language is something hidden which needs to be uncovered or discovered. The learning of human language is open to view and surveyable through description. Thus, in opening the Investigations with Augustine’s description of the learning of human language Wittgenstein presents philosophical problems and their resolution. Through the use of language-games he provides an alternative description of the essence of human language by providing an alternative description of the learning of human language. Emphasis on the learning of human language also introduces several themes which permeate his later philosophy. Learning and speaking a language are responsive acts. They occur within a context of human action and interaction. They involve practical procedures and not mere speculation. Wittgenstein’s description and use of language-games is itself a practical procedure which requires our participation and response. Its heuristic purpose is fulfilled only when we play-out these language-games in all of their complexity and detail.

Chapter 7

Particular cases

The use of particular cases is another important technique in Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation. Throughout his later writings he draws our attention to particular philosophical problems and introduces a variety of grammatical techniques for particular philosophical purposes. The use of particular cases is a methodological response to a philosophical craving for generality. It is connected with the use of ordinary language and inherent in the placing of philosophy in our everyday world. Wittgenstein also uses intermediate or connecting cases to weaken the position of certain fixed standards of expression which prevent us from seeing the use of our words with unbiased eyes (BB 43). And he invents particular cases and uses fictitious intermediate cases to clarify the grammar of our words. He writes: What kind of investigations are we carrying out? Am I investigating the probability of the cases that I give as examples, or am I investigating their actuality? No, I am just citing what is possible and am therefore giving grammatical examples. (P 187) He investigates grammatical possibilities through the use of particular, intermediate and fictitious cases. Wittgenstein acknowledges, throughout his later writings, that we may find it difficult to engage in grammatical investigation. Our difficulty is not the result of the abstruseness of the investigation, but the result of our craving for generality. As he writes:

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What makes it difficult for us to take this line of investigation is our craving for generality. This craving for generality is the resultant of a number of tendencies connected with particular philosophical confusions. (BB 17) He lists four philosophical tendencies in The Blue and Brown Books connected with this craving for generality: (i) the tendency to look for something in common in all the entities which we commonly subsume under a general term, (ii) the tendency to equate understanding a general term with possession of a kind of general picture, (iii) the tendency to confuse a mental state (a state of consciousness) with a hypothetical mental mechanism, and (iv) the tendency to be preoccupied with the method of science. These philosophical tendencies are identified in general terms, and Wittgenstein very quickly shifts the emphasis of his discussions and investigations away from these general tendencies towards particular cases. Thus we find in the Investigations that Wittgenstein retains the method of using particular cases but abandons his references to general philosophical tendencies. The four tendencies listed above can themselves be seen as expressions of a philosophical craving for generality (a craving for general tendencies). It is worth noting that, with the exception of these remarks in The Blue and Brown Books, Wittgenstein himself does not speak in terms of general tendencies and instead uses particular cases. In shifting the terms and practices of his own investigation from general tendencies to particular cases he acknowledges and highlights a philosophical attitude. He writes, ‘instead of “craving for generality” I could also have said “the contemptuous attitude towards the particular case”’ (BB 18). Wittgenstein shifts the terms of his discussion as well as his methodological approach from the general to the particular. Just as he addresses our attitudes and scruples concerning ordinary language, so too he addresses our contemptuous attitude toward the particular case. This attitude expresses philosophical confusion and hinders philosophical clarity. As he explains, our contempt for what seems the less general case ‘has shackled philosophical investigation for it has not only led to no result, but also made the philosopher dismiss as irrelevant the concrete cases which alone could have helped [them] to understand …’ (BB 19–20). Concrete cases and specific examples are the opposite of philosophical abstraction, generalization and theory. His method offers philosophical clarity precisely because it re-incorporates into philosophy the particular cases which offer understanding. As with all of Wittgenstein’s techniques, the use of particular cases offers a method

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for describing the use of our words. Inherent in the use of particular cases is a description of the apparently unimportant details of particular situations (BB 56, 66). Particular cases draw our attention to the complexity and diversity of our use of words while also clarifying the use of particular words. The use of particular cases is often dismissed as a philosophical method because particular cases appear to be incomplete. Philosophers tend to crave what Wittgenstein describes as a general comprehensive picture of the universe. The craving for this picture is a false ideal, however, and philosophers who crave generality do not understand the workings of our language (or the actual use of our words). Wittgenstein remarks: Suppose someone said, ‘My craving is to get a general comprehensive picture of the universe. Can you satisfy this craving?’ I would say, ‘No…Let us see whether doing such-and-such, or thinking such-and-such a way will, not satisfy the craving, but make you cease to have it’. (Ambrose 1989:109) In response to the craving for a general comprehensive picture of the universe Wittgenstein is not merely denying that he can give such a picture (that he can satisfy such a craving) but he is also claiming that by using his grammatical methods we can cease to have this craving. It is not that the use of particular cases provides particular (rather than general) answers in response to philosophical cravings, but that the use of particular cases dissolves the cravings themselves. Wittgenstein’s particular cases are not preliminary data for philosophical generalizations or theories. The satisfaction which his grammatical investigations offer results from the use of particular cases themselves. As he writes: If we study the grammar, say, of the words ‘wishing’, ‘thinking’, ‘understanding’, ‘meaning’, we shall not be dissatisfied when we have described various cases of wishing, thinking, etc. (BB 19) He attempts to resolve philosophical misunderstanding through the use of particular cases because the understanding which philosophers seek is available to them precisely through the use and investigation of such cases. In the words of Wittgenstein, ‘take any such phenomenon as comparing colours, measuring time, comparing lengths, playing games. These are

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specific. “I’ll show you a thing we humans do”’ (WLPP 24). The phenomena which Wittgenstein describes are specific and as such cannot be described in general terms. Wittgenstein characterizes his philosophy as one that ‘heads straight for what is concrete’ (CV 6e). One purpose of using particular cases is to clarify and describe the actual use of our words. In the following passage Wittgenstein identifies a philosophical misunderstanding and, through the description of a Examine expressions like ‘having an idea in one’s mind’, ‘analysing particular case, helps us achieve philosophical clarity. He writes: the idea before one’s mind’. In order not to be misled by them see what really happens when say, in writing a letter you are looking for the words which correctly express the idea which is ‘before your mind’…. For when we recall what really happens in such cases we find a great variety of processes more or less akin to each other… The phrase ‘to express an idea which is before our mind’ suggests that what we are trying to express in words is already expressed, only in a different language, that this expression is before our mind’s eye; and that what we do is to translate from the mental into the verbal language. In most cases which we call ‘expressing the idea, etc.’ something very different happens. Imagine what it is that happens in cases such as this: I am groping for a word. Several words are suggested and I rejected them. Finally one is proposed and I say ‘That is what I meant!’… (BB41) Wittgenstein advises us to look at what happens when we try to express an idea which is ‘before our mind’. For the purpose of describing our actual use of this expression he presents one particular case: a case in which we are writing a letter and looking for words to express an idea correctly. According to Wittgenstein, a great variety of things can happen in this particular case. He proposes one possibility: he is groping for a word, several words are suggested by others and he rejects them. Finally someone suggests the word that he is looking for and he exclaims, ‘That is what I meant!’ In this particular case, others are able to suggest words that might express the idea before his mind because they are aware of the situation, ideas or intentions of the writer. What makes a word correct in such a letter will be determined by the situation and by the thoughts or intentions of the writer (and here the thoughts in just the same way as the things which the writer says aloud).

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Those who suggest words to Wittgenstein are not blindly guessing at a mental idea which is already in his mind and awaits translation. Rather, as competent speakers of a shared language, the other person(s) may succeed in capturing the term, tone, sound, connotation or nuance he is seeking. The description of this particular case is itself a description of one process which takes place when we look for words to express an idea correctly before our mind. In this way, the use of particular cases offers us a method for describing the use of our words. In describing this particular case in detail we do not need philosophical explanations concerning mental thoughts or inaccessible minds. The great variety of situations which we could imagine for this one expression place the expression within the context of our complex everyday lives. In the above example Wittgenstein offers one possible case in which we look for a word to express what is ‘before our mind’. There are a variety of such cases and a great variety of processes more or less akin to one another. Wittgenstein expands his investigation of this particular case in the Investigations when he writes: What happens when we make an effort—say in writing a letter—to find the right expression for our thoughts? —This phrase compares the process to one of translating or describing: the thoughts are already there (perhaps were there in advance) and we merely look for their expression. This picture is more or less appropriate in different cases. —But can’t all sorts of things happen here? —I surrender to a mood and the expression comes. Or a picture occurs to me and I try to describe it. Or an English expression occurs to me and I try to hit on the corresponding German one. Or I make a gesture, and ask myself: What words correspond to this gesture? And so on. (PI 335) When doing philosophy we are (potentially) misled by expressions such as ‘expressing an idea which is before our mind’ or ‘finding the right expression for our thoughts’, and we are tempted to feel that we are trying to express in words what is already expressed mentally (in our minds). As a result we postulate mental activities and theorize about language-use. But philosophical explanations are the result of misunderstanding and Wittgenstein demonstrates that the understanding we seek is available through the description of particular cases themselves.

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Wittgenstein provides many particular cases when examining ‘thinking’ and the expression of our thoughts. In another example, when confronted with the philosophical claim that ‘the expression of our thoughts can always lie, for we may say one thing and mean another’, he responds, ‘imagine the many things which happen when we say one thing and mean another’ (BB 42). In response to a very general claim Wittgenstein requests particular cases and examples. If we imagine the many different things which happen when we say one thing and mean another, we come to see that the general claim (‘the expression of our thoughts can always lie’) is either false or meaningless. There are many different ways, and many different situations, in which we can say one thing and mean another: We can say one thing and mean another when (i) speaking in anger, under duress or out of kindness, (ii) lying, being manipulative, or sarcastic, (iii) making a mistake or through a slip of the tongue, and (iv) speaking carelessly, quickly or thoughtlessly. Wittgenstein asks us to imagine the many different things which happen when we say one thing and mean another. We may regret or deny what we have said. We may try to withdraw or apologize for our words. Others may be hurt by our words, or duped by them. We may no longer be trusted. Or we may all simply laugh. The consequences may be trivial, funny, insightful or devastating depending on the particular case. As a general claim, ‘the expression of our thoughts can always lie, for we may say one thing and mean another’ is meaningless when we examine and consider detailed particular cases. We may lie for numerous different reasons and on numerous different occasions, but that does not necessarily entail the philosophical claim that the expression of our thoughts can always lie. As Wittgenstein writes, ‘it is nonsense to say: the expression may always lie’ (LPE 245). Also, by examining these particular cases we are not tempted to feel that this issue involves the difficulty of translating inner mental thoughts into outer verbal language. Such a difficulty arises when we misunderstand our language-use and remove the expression of our thoughts from the context of our complex lives. In another remark concerning ‘thinking’ Wittgenstein draws our attention to the pair of verbs ‘speaking’/‘thinking’ and to the numerous everyday expressions in which their uses seem to run parallel. He writes: We very often find it impossible to think without speaking to ourselves half aloud, —and nobody asked to describe what happened in this case would ever say that something—the thinking—accompa-nied the speaking, were [they] not led into

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doing so by the pair of verbs ‘speaking’/‘thinking’, and by many of our common phrases in which their uses run parallel. Consider these examples: ‘Think before you speak!’ ‘[They speak] without thinking’. ‘What I said didn’t quite express my thought’. ‘[They say] one thing and [think] just the opposite’. ‘I didn’t mean a word of what I said’… (BB 148) Wittgenstein asks us to consider these examples. If we imagine particular cases for each of these examples, or look at how we actually use these words, the philosophical idea of thinking (as a mental process which accompanies speaking) dissolves. ‘Think before you speak!’ can mean (i) don’t speak carelessly: consider the implications or consequences of what you say, (ii) don’t be insensitive, foolish or stupid, or (iii) don’t just say anything: take your time and think it over. ‘They speak without thinking’ can mean (i) they speak without considering others or the situation (they speak thoughtlessly), (ii) they didn’t really mean what they said, or (iii) they speak just to hear themselves talk. ‘What I said didn’t quite express my thought’ can mean (i) I am still unclear about the issue and my thoughts are confused, (ii) I withheld my real thoughts, or (iii) I couldn’t quite find the right words to express my thoughts. ‘They say one thing and think just the opposite’ can mean (i) they are inconsistent, (ii) they say things to impress or manipulate others, or (iii) you can’t trust them. ‘I didn’t mean a word of what I said’ can mean (i) I was angry and didn’t really mean it, (ii) I lied, or (iii) I was only joking. In response to these common expressions we can imagine many particular cases. In asking us to consider these particular cases Wittgenstein draws attention to our actual use of words; a use which is complex and woven into the deeds and actions of our lives. When we place our everyday expressions back into our everyday lives, we get a clear picture of the use of our words and we are not tempted to postulate hypothetical mental processes (etc.). Although we can imagine numerous and diverse particular cases, it is not the case that such expressions are therefore vague or ‘meaningless’. Nor is Wittgenstein merely offering a theory of meaning which is contextual. Rather, in acknowledging the diversity of possible meanings, we look to particular cases for the clarification of misunderstanding. Wittgenstein connects this use of particular cases with the philosopher’s task of assembling reminders for particular purposes. As he remarks:

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We want to try to discover something. Discovery in philosophy consists in remembering what we would say in various situations; you have to think of situations you wouldn’t normally think of and remember what you would and would not say in them. Discovery and proof is recalling. (WLPP301) Wittgenstein’s use of particular cases allows us to think of situations we would not normally think of while doing philosophy, and helps us remember what we would and would not say in these situations. The use of particular cases can also involve making a practical application of philosophical propositions. Consider, for example, the following case: We sometimes say outside philosophy such things as ‘of course only [they know] how [they feel]’/or ‘I can’t know what you feel’/ . Now how do we apply such a statement? Mostly it is an expression of helplessness like ‘I don’t know what to do’. But this helplessness isn’t due to an unfortunate metaphysical fact, ‘the privacy of personal experience’, or it would worry us constantly. (LPE218) Saying to someone ‘I can’t know what you feel’ (perhaps at a time of bereavement or illness) can be an expression of helplessness (as Wittgenstein suggests) or an expression of sympathy (an acknowledgement of the depth and privacy of that grief or despair). As Wittgenstein writes, with reference to another case involving grief, ‘the question was really, of course, a temporal and personal one, not the logical question which we wanted to raise’ (PI 174e). He acknowledges that such expressions involve a particular point of time and particular actions (PI 175e). He writes, ‘take the (vague) talk (chatter (Gerade)) of philosophy seriously and make a practical application of it’.1 In giving philosophical claims a practical application (or use) we discover (or are reminded) that their use is different from the philosophical meanings we attribute to them. Thus, for example: ‘While I was speaking to [them] I did not know what was going on in [their] head.’ In saying this, one is not thinking of brain-processes, but of thought-processes. The picture should be taken seriously. We should really like to see into [their] head. And yet we only mean

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what elsewhere we should mean by saying: we should like to know what [they are] thinking. (PI 427) If we apply the philosophical claim that we do not know what is going on in someone else’s head we discover that its use in particular cases is often synonymous with the expression that ‘we should like to know what [they are] thinking’. As such, there is nothing mysterious about this case and there are no metaphysical consequences to such a claim. (We could, for example, ask this person what they were thinking or we could perhaps discover it with a more detailed understanding of the particular situation.) Wittgenstein suggests that the use of such expressions in practical situations actually signals the opposite of our philosophical picture of hidden thoughts. He writes, for example, ‘I don’t know what is going on inside [them]. I couldn’t flesh out [their] behaviour with thoughts’ (LWPP I 197). As Kerr explains, saying that we do not know what is going on inside someone means that we could not reconstruct or imagine situations to account for their behaviour (Kerr 1989:99). Wittgenstein also asks us to look at the particular philosophical situations in which we are inclined to make philosophical assertions. He writes: To get clear about philosophical problems it is useful to become conscious of the apparently unimportant details of the particular situation in which we are inclined to make a certain metaphysical assertion. Thus we are tempted to say ‘only this is really seen’ when we stare at unchanging surroundings, whereas we may not at all be tempted to say this when we look about us while walking. (BB66) When we become conscious of the details of our actual use of words we see our use of words in all of its complexity and detail. When we become conscious of the apparently unimportant details of the situations in which we are inclined to make certain metaphysical assertions, we become conscious of the absence of such complexity and use. Wittgenstein places the use of metaphysical words or assertions back into their particular situations. In the above remark he uses one particular case (in which philosophers are tempted to say ‘only this is really seen’ when staring at unchanging surroundings) and contrasts it with a second situation in which we look about us while walking. In the second situation we may not be tempted to say that ‘only this is really seen’. The metaphysical assertion

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appears to have meaning precisely because it is used only in particular situations (when doing philosophy). Wittgenstein provides a related case in the Investigations when he writes: But can’t I imagine that the people around me are automata, lack consciousness, even though they behave in the same way as usual? If I imagine it now—alone in my room—I see people with fixed looks (as in a trance) going about their business—the idea is perhaps a little uncanny. But just try to keep hold of this idea in the midst of your ordinary intercourse with others, in the street, say! Say to yourself, for example: ‘The children over there are mere automata; all their liveliness is mere automatism.’ And you will either find these words becoming meaningless; or you will produce in yourself some kind of uncanny feeling, or something of the sort. (PI 420) The use of this particular case is not offered to stop us from making such philosophical claims or experiments. Rather, Wittgenstein encourages us to pay attention to when and how we do so. In challenging us to keep hold of this idea in the street, or during our ordinary discourse with others, he reminds us of the complexity of such acts of imagination (which are simplified while doing philosophy alone in our rooms). When we remove particular cases from the context of our ordinary lives, we produce ideas or feelings which are ‘uncanny’; they are literally beyond (or removed from) our normal or ordinary lives (and can fill us with either wonder or horror). We may be tempted, while doing philosophy, to attribute this uncanniness to the discovery of profound philosophical insight. Wittgenstein, however, attributes these uncanny ideas or feelings to philosophical confusion and misunderstanding. As he demonstrates in the above passage, such uncanniness disappears or is dissolved when we carry out grammatical investigations using particular cases. Similarly, referring back to the philosophical issue of knowing what someone else has in mind, Wittgenstein asks: ‘When does the question arise what a [person] has in [their] mind? Not when I buy things in a shop. But sometimes it matters what picture a [person] has’ (WLPP 57). In asking for particular cases he reminds us that we are not always interested in such questions. We are particularly interested in raising such questions while doing philosophy (just as we are particularly tempted to say ‘only this is really seen’ when staring at unchanging surroundings). He reminds us that such questions do not arise when we go shopping, for

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example. Wittgenstein reminds us of such cases not to dissuade us from raising such questions, but to remind us that such questions arise in particular cases or circumstances and that we can examine their use in such cases. Thus, for example, he writes that sometimes it matters what picture a person has (in mind). Consider Wittgenstein’s case of having pictured the structure of the Investigations differently at different times. (This becomes philosophically important to us when we attempt to understand his philosophical struggles, as well as the composition of the text itself.) Or consider a situation in which one person pictures another person differently. Or again, consider a case in which someone responds to a completed piece of work (or task) with the words, ‘that is not what I had in mind’ (or ‘that is not how I pictured it’). Similarly, we may want to know what someone has in mind (or what they are thinking) if we think that they are lying to us, or if they are unclear in their wishes or demands. Such words may be spoken with disappointment, frustration, resignation, surprise or anger. Such questions (concerning what others have in mind) arise in particular cases and their significance is inextricably tied to such situations. Wittgenstein also investigates philosophical statements or claims which are frequently used in philosophy but which are seldom used in everyday life. He comments, for example: Logicians use examples which no one would ever think of using in any other connection. Whoever says ‘Socrates is a man’? I am not criticizing this because it does not occur in practical life. What I am criticizing is the fact that logicians do not give these examples any life. We must invent a surrounding for our examples. We might use ‘man’ as a predicate if we wanted to distinguish whether someone dressed as a woman was man or woman. We thus would have invented a surrounding for the word, a game in which its use is a move. It does not matter whether in practice the word has a place in a game, but what matters is that we have a game, that a life is given for it. (AWL 24) According to Wittgenstein, the particular cases which philosophers often use do not occur in ordinary life. He does not dismiss them for this reason, but he draws our attention to the fact that without inventing a surrounding for these cases (without ‘giving them life’) we do not understand their meaning or use. Placing particular cases back into an

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everyday context, or inventing cases in order to give a word a place in a language-game, enables us to describe our language-use and clarify the philosophical misunderstandings which result from the abrogation of such contexts. Another purpose of Wittgenstein’s use of particular cases is to weaken the position of certain fixed standards of expression which prevent us from seeing facts with unbiased eyes (BB 43). In philosophy we often become fascinated by certain words (such as ‘meaning’, ‘language’, or ‘thinking’) and by certain forms of expression. When we concentrate on such words or expressions we find it difficult to look at our use of words with unbiased eyes. According to Wittgenstein, the examination of the grammar of a word weakens the position of certain fixed standards of expression. We come to see the complex grammatical connections between our words. When we recognize the multiplicity and complexity of our language-use we relieve our mental cramp and broaden our philosophical inquiries. ‘Any obsession arising from the unique position of something in our language ceases as soon as another language appears which puts that thing on a level with other things’ (AWL 98). We also obtain philosophical clarity concerning the actual use of our words. The use of particular cases enables us to draw comparisons, contrasts and connections between various uses of our words. It enables us to survey our use of language. As Wittgenstein writes, ‘one cannot guess how a word functions. One has to look at its use and learn from that’ (PI 340). As demonstrated in the above cases, his use of particular cases relieves our mental cramp. He writes: the particular peace of mind that occurs when we can place other similar cases next to a case that we thought was unique, occurs again and again in our investigations when we show that a word doesn’t have just one meaning (or just two), but is used in five or six different ways. (P 175) The expressions ‘to speak without thinking’, or ‘not mean what we say’ have many different meanings. Our mental cramp (concerning thinking as a mental process which accompanies speaking) is relieved when we are reminded of the numerous different ways in which we use such expressions, and when we place these similar cases next to one another. Our philosophical confusions dissolve and our philosophical perplexities or problems completely disappear.

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Wittgenstein describes this philosophical procedure as giving the morphology of the use of an expression: What I give is the morphology of the use of an expression. I show that it has kinds of uses of which you had not dreamed. In philosophy one feels forced to look at a concept in a certain way. What I do is to suggest or invent other ways of looking at it. I suggest possibilities of which you had not previously thought. You thought that there was one possibility, or only two at most. But I made you think of others. Furthermore, I made you see that it was absurd to expect the concept to conform to those narrow possibilities. Thus your mental cramp is relieved, and you are free to look around the field of use of the expression and to describe the different kinds of uses of it. (Malcolm 1984:43) Wittgenstein also emphasizes that the description of different kinds of uses of our words is not merely a process of enumeration. He remarks, ‘I shall not proceed by enumerating different meanings…but instead shall draw ten or twelve pictures that are similar in some ways to the actual use of these words’ (AWL 48). It is worth noting the number of pictures to which he refers: he says that he will draw, not one or two pictures, but ten or twelve. According to Wittgenstein, one source of our failure to understand the use of our words is our failure to command a clear view of their use. Our grammar is lacking in clarity or perspicuity (PI 122). Wittgenstein writes that ‘a perspicuous representation produces just that understanding which consists in “seeing connexions”. Hence the importance of finding and inventing intermediate cases’ (PI 122). By finding and inventing intermediate cases he draws our attention to grammatical connections. In so doing, we come to see the grammatical similarities and differences between our words and expressions. One example of this method of using intermediate cases is provided by Wittgenstein when he asks not only how we know something, but also how we guess it. In philosophy, emphasis is often placed on our knowledge of inner entities and processes. As Wittgenstein writes (with reference to philosophical problems concerning mental states and processes), ‘the first step is the one that altogether escapes notice. We talk of processes and states and leave their nature undecided’ (PI 308). We do not differentiate between the grammar or uses of ‘sensation’, ‘intention’, ‘thought’, or ‘mood’ and we are tempted to approach them all as hidden, inner entiles. He challenges such philosophical prejudices

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with the remark: ‘Clearly you don’t guess a person’s intention, [their] sensations, [their] thoughts, [their] mood, all in the same way’ (LWPP I 960). This remark is grammatically instructive because by introducing the intermediate case of how we guess a person’s intention, sensation, thought or mood, he effectively broadens our grammatical investigation. In reminding us that we do not guess these thoughts, intentions, moods or sensations in the same way, Wittgenstein draws our attention to their grammatical differences and hence to their different roles or uses within our language. The various descriptions of how we guess thoughts (etc.) help clarify the grammar of these words. Wittgenstein provides a grammatical investigation of guessing thoughts in which he again challenges the philosophical temptation to approach ‘thinking’ as an inner state or process. He writes: There is a game of ‘guessing thoughts’. A variant of it would be this: I tell A something in a language that B does not understand. B is supposed to guess the meaning of what I say. —Another variant: I write down a sentence which the other person cannot see. [They have] to guess the words or their sense. —Yet another: I am putting a jig-saw puzzle together; the other person cannot see me but from time to time guesses my thoughts and utters them. [They say], for instance, ‘Now where is this bit?’ — ‘Now I know how it fits!’ —‘I have no idea what goes in here.’ — ‘The sky is always the hardest part’ and so on—but I need not be talking to myself either out loud or silently at the time. All this would be guessing at thoughts; and the fact that it does not actually happen does not make thought any more hidden than the unperceived physical proceedings. (PI 223e) Wittgenstein describes various games or cases of ‘guessing thoughts’. In each case his thoughts are hidden from the other person in specific ways: (i) his thoughts are spoken in a language the other person does not understand, (ii) his thoughts are written down but the other person cannot see them, or (iii) he is putting together a puzzle and the other person cannot see him. In each case what is involved in guessing Wittgenstein’s thoughts varies. In the first case, B might guess the meaning of what he says on the basis of the actual sound of the words (guessing the meaning of a German statement because of the similarity to its English equivalent). Or, B might guess his meaning by considering the circumstances

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surrounding the utterance (for example, knowing that Wittgenstein does not want them to find out about something). In the second case, guessing what he has written down might be part of a game and there might be various techniques which B uses to guess accurately. In the third example, B guesses Wittgenstein’s thoughts based on their knowledge of doing jigsaw puzzles. By comparing and contrasting these intermediate or connecting cases Wittgenstein reminds us of the many different ways in which we guess thoughts. He clarifies the grammar of guessing thoughts and in so doing emphasizes that guessing thoughts does not involve guessing at hidden, inner entities or physiological processes. As he writes, ‘all this would be guessing at thoughts; and the fact that it does not actually happen does not make thought any more hidden than the unperceived physical proceedings’ (PI 223e). All of the processes are guessing at thoughts and the thoughts which are being guessed are hidden in different ways. In describing the ways in which they are hidden as ‘unperceived physical proceedings’ (in these particular cases) Wittgenstein is trying to demonstrate that thoughts are no more hidden than these unperceived physical proceedings (which are unperceived by one person but none the less physical proceedings). In other words, these unperceived physical proceedings can also be perceived, just as thoughts can be known and also guessed. Thoughts are not inherently hidden, inner entities, nor are they more hidden than the proceedings which Wittgenstein describes in his examples. The fact that the cases which he describes do not actually occur does not make guessing thoughts in these (or similar) cases any more difficult, or make thoughts any more hidden. In another example he addresses the philosophical temptation to equate ‘thinking’ with a mental process that occurs in our brain, by examining the idea of ‘the locality of thinking’. As he writes: One of the most dangerous of ideas for a philosopher is, oddly enough, that we think with our heads or in our heads. (Z 605)

The idea of thinking as a process in the head, in a completely enclosed space, gives [us] something occult. (Z 606)

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In order to challenge these ideas Wittgenstein examines the grammar of the ‘locality of thought’. He investigates the grammar of the ‘locality of thinking’ by investigating connecting cases: It is misleading to talk of thinking as of a ‘mental activity’…. If again we talk about the locality where thinking takes place we have a right to say that this locality is the paper on which we write or the mouth which speaks. And if we talk of the head or the brain as the locality of thought, this is using the expression ‘locality of thinking’ in a different sense. It is not our intention to criticize this form of expression or to show that it is not appropriate. What we must do is: understand its working, its grammar, e.g. see what relation this grammar has to that of the expression ‘we think with a pencil on a piece of paper’. (BB 67) The ideas that thinking is a mental activity and that thinking takes place somewhere are related. As Wittgenstein writes elsewhere, we say that thinking and thought must be something (not nothing) and we look for a place for the thinking (BB 7). He encourages us to understand the grammar or workings of expressions such as ‘the locality of thinking’. As he confirms, he is not criticizing the form of this expression or attempting to show that it is not appropriate. Rather, he is trying to clarify its role or use. In order to obtain grammatical clarity, Wittgenstein compares and contrasts ‘thinking in the head’ with ‘thinking on paper’. If we talk about the locality of thinking in terms of the paper on which we write, or the mouth which speaks, we are speaking in terms of a physical locality. When we talk of the mind or the brain as the locality of thinking we are not using the expression ‘locality of thought’ in a grammatically similar way. The expression ‘to think with a pencil on a piece of paper’ may be used to mean that our thoughts are guided by what we write. (Wittgenstein himself writes, for example, ‘I really do think with my pen because my head often knows nothing about what my hand is writing’ (CV 17).) Or, it may mean that we are just beginning to think about something by playing out ideas on the page. The expression ‘we think with our mouth’ might mean that we are guided in our thinking by the sound of our words. We might ‘mouth the words’ as a means of thinking about something or concentrating on it. In these cases we could interchange ‘the locality of thinking’. And we might call the mind or brain the ‘locality of thinking’ if we use expressions such as ‘I am going over it in my mind’ (etc.) to

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mean that we are not going over it on paper or speaking it aloud (although we could do so). The difficulty of speaking of the mind as the locality of thinking is that we tend to consider it the locality of thinking (and treat the connecting cases as merely metaphorical); for we do not want to claim that we can think with a pencil on paper and not, at the same time, in our minds. Our confusion is grammatical, however, and it involves the different uses of the expression ‘the locality of thinking’. As Wittgenstein writes: ‘Where does thinking take place?’ We can answer: on paper, in our head, in the mind. None of these statements of locality gives the locality of thinking…we must not be misled by the similarity of their linguistic form into a false conception of their grammar. As e.g. when you say: ‘Surely the real place of thought is in our head’. …And it is, furthermore, extremely important to realize how, by misunderstanding the grammar of our expressions, we are led to think of one in particular of these statements as giving the real seat of the activity of thinking. (BB 16) We misunderstand the grammar of the expression ‘the locality of thinking’ and come up with false pictures (such as pictures of thinking in the head). The ‘activity of thinking’ and its ‘locality’ (in a completely enclosed space) give us something occult. Our methods of investigation, based on these false pictures, are misguided. We try to investigate physiological processes (Z 608–609). By using intermediate and connecting cases Wittgenstein attempts to clarify our grammatical confusions and challenge our false philosophical pictures. Wittgenstein also invents particular cases and uses fictitious intermediate cases to clarify our use of words. Using fictitious cases is an important grammatical technique, for it highlights the fact that Wittgenstein’s use of particular cases is grammatical and that he is not making factual or empirical claims. He writes that ‘our method is not merely to enumerate actual usages of words, but rather deliberately to invent new ones, some of them because of their absurd appearance’ (BB 28). He emphasizes that the creation of new cases gets its philosophical purpose and importance, not from the novelty of the cases themselves, but from their role in clarifying the concepts that we already have or use:

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‘No one thought of that case’ —we may say. Indeed, I cannot enumerate the conditions under which the word ‘to think’ is to be used —but if a circumstance makes the use doubtful I can say so, and also say how the situation is deviant from the usual one. (RPP II 201) He writes that ‘nothing is more important for teaching us the concepts we have than constructing fictitious ones’ (CV 74e). According to Wittgenstein, ‘a useful method is to see parallels and see where they fade. A way of doing this is to produce a fiction’ (WLPP 289). The more unusual or strange the case, the more illuminating the comparison or contrast. As Wittgenstein confirms, ‘What is important about depicting anomalies precisely? If you cannot do it, that shows you do not know your way around the concepts’ (CV 72e). If Wittgenstein’s examples are admittedly fictitious and if, as Malcolm describes, they strike us as odd and far beyond the reach of natural possibility then we should not confuse his grammatical remarks with empirical claims (Malcolm 1984:28). The secondary literature, however, often fails to acknowledge that Wittgenstein’s fictitious cases are works of fiction. Thus, for example, his opening description of the builders in the Investigations (which he asks us to imagine) is sometimes falsely or inappro-priately taken as a factual or theoretical description of the evolution of human language. Such a critical response misses the pedagogical purpose of fictitious cases and expresses how radically Wittgenstein’s use of fictitious cases differs from standard forms of philosophical inquiry. Here the difference between his teaching of a philosophical method and traditional forms of theorizing and arguing is apparent. Wittgenstein himself recognizes that we may experience apprehension or difficulties with this aspect of his grammatical investigations. Early in his lectures on philosophical psychology he remarks that we may question the point of considering an admittedly fictitious case: The problem is how I reacted to the question with which we started this term: ‘What is thinking?’ In a way I tried to change your point of view: look at it this way. Ultimately we considered the soul-less tribe. It is pure fiction. What is it for? It is a waste of time. What can one do by doing what we did? This: the way in which people look at the non-fictitious case can be changed. We are inclined to compare some phenomena with something: I ask you to compare them with something else. (WLPP 168)

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Thus he acknowledges both his use of fictitious cases and our potential struggle in understanding their purpose. Their purpose is one of comparison. In comparing real and fictitious phenomena we come to see things differently. Thus Wittgenstein invents a soul-less tribe in order to challenge the picture that thinking ‘accompanies’ speech (WLPP 286). He comments: ‘Part of the reason why I took the case of the soul-less tribe was to get rid of the picture: thinking accompanies speech. I do this by inviting comparisons’ (WLPP 169). Wittgenstein’s description of the builders in the opening passages of the Investigations, and his use of ‘reading-machines’ during his discussion of ‘reading’ are similar cases. Wittgenstein introduces a fictitious case involving reading-machines in the Investigations to shift attention away from mental processes to our use of words. In §156 he replaces ‘understanding’ with ‘reading’ which, for the purposes of his investigation, is described as ‘the activity of rendering out loud what is written or printed; and also of writing from dictation, writing out something printed, playing from a score, and so on’. Referring to the grammatical investigation of understanding, he writes: This will become clearer if we interpolate the consideration of another word, namely ‘reading’. First I need to remark that I am not counting the understanding of what is read as part of ‘reading’ for purposes of this investigation: reading is here the activity of rendering out loud what is written or printed; and also of writing from dictation, writing out something printed, playing from a score, and so on. (PI 156) Wittgenstein interpolates the word ‘reading’ into the investigation of the word ‘understanding’; thus it is not a new or independent investigation but a tool of comparison.2 Wittgenstein acknowledges that the use of the word ‘reading’ in the ordinary circumstances of our lives is a very familiar one, although the part which the word plays in our lives, and the language-games in which we employ it, would be difficult to describe ‘even in rough outline’. He begins his investigation by describing a person who has learned to read their native language and subsequently reads a variety of different materials. This description is left suitably general in order to acknowledge the connection between reading and education, as well as the many different forms this education could imaginably take:

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A person, let us say an English [citizen], has received at school or at home one of the kinds of education usual among us, and in the course of it has learned to read their native language. Later they read books, letters, newspapers, and other things.3 (BB 156) This leads to a question: Now what takes place when, say, they read a newspaper? The paragraph that answers this question describes a variety of possible acts; acts which combine speaking out loud and speaking to oneself; looking at words in different ways; and repeating or not repeating what has been read. Now what takes place when, say, they read a newspaper? —Their eye passes—as we say—along the printed words, they say them out loud—or only to themselves; in particular they read certain words by taking in their printed shapes as wholes; others when their eye has taken in the first syllables; others again they read syllable by syllable; and an occasional one perhaps letter by letter. —We should also say that they had read a sentence if they spoke neither aloud nor to themselves during the reading but were afterwards able to repeat the sentence word for word or nearly so. —They may attend to what they read, or again—as we might put it—function as a mere reading-machine: I mean, read aloud and correctly without attending to what they are reading; perhaps with their attention on something quite different (so that they are unable to say what they have been reading if they are asked about it immediately afterwards). (PI 156) There is no one thing common to all of these cases of ‘reading’; no one thing that takes place when a person reads a newspaper. Wittgenstein provides us with various descriptions. The variety is itself based on the possibilities inherent in describing what takes place when someone reads. He carefully ensures that every description is coupled with its opposite; the reader says the words out loud or only to themselves; they read words as a whole or syllable by syllable or perhaps even letter by letter; we would say that they read if they did not speak aloud nor to themselves during the reading but were later able to repeat the sentences or, equally, if they read aloud and correctly but could not repeat what they read.

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Wittgenstein next compares the case of this (experienced or mature) reader with that of a beginner: Now compare a beginner with this reader. The beginner reads the words by laboriously spelling them out. —Some however they guess from the context, or perhaps they already partly know the passage by heart. Then the teacher says that they are not really reading the words (and in certain cases that they are only pretending to read them). If we think of this sort of reading, the reading of a beginner, and ask ourselves what reading consists in, we shall be inclined to say: it is a special conscious activity of the mind. We also say of the pupil: ‘Of course they alone know if they are really reading or merely saying the words off by heart.’ (We have yet to discuss these propositions: ‘They alone know…’) (PI 156) Here, when faced with the possibilities of ‘guessing’ and ‘pretending’ (instances of not reading) we feel compelled to distinguish between reading and not reading on the basis of conscious activities of the mind. Consequently it becomes philosophically persuasive to conclude that if reading involves a conscious activity of the mind only the pupils themselves can know if they are really reading (really having the accompanying mental processes). But Wittgenstein challenges such a view by suggesting that the same thing might take place in both types of readers. (Here again, he examines possibilities; he is not claiming that such things do or do not take place.) We feel as if there must be a difference (conscious or unconscious) in the mechanisms of the mind, but such mechanisms are merely hypotheses. As he explains: I want to say: we have to admit that—as far as concerns uttering any one of the printed words—the same thing may take place in the consciousness of the pupil who is ‘pretending’ to read, as in that of the practised reader who is ‘reading’ it. The word ‘to read’ is applied differently when we are speaking of the beginner and of the practised reader. —Now we should of course like to say: What goes on in that practised reader and in the beginner when they utter the word can’t be the same. And if there is no difference in what they happen to be conscious of there must be one in the unconscious workings of their minds, or again, in the brain. —So we would like to say:

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there are at all events two different mechanisms at work here. And what goes on in them must distinguish reading from not reading. —But these mechanisms are only hypotheses, models designed to explain, to sum up, what you observe. Wittgenstein now introduces into his investigation of reading a fictitious case in which human beings, or creatures of some other kind, are used by us as reading-machines (PI 157). These reading-machines render out loud what is written. They may or may not understand what they read aloud (and we can, for the purposes of this investigation, assume that they do not understand what they read. Understanding has no role to play in this case. This is consistent with Wittgenstein’s remark in the previous passage that he is not counting the understanding of what is read as part of ‘reading’ for the purposes of this investigation.) As creatures of some other kind we cannot make assumptions about the mechanisms of their minds, or compare these processes with human mental processes; assumptions and comparisons we often make without even being aware that we are making them. The question becomes, ‘When would we say that they are reading?’ Wittgenstein writes: Consider the following case. Human beings or creatures of some other kind are used by us as reading-machines. They are trained for this purpose. The trainer says of some that they can already read, of others that they cannot yet do so. Take the case of a pupil who has so far not taken part in the training: if they are shewn a written word they will sometimes produce some sort of sound, and here and there it happens ‘accidentally’ to be roughly right. A third person hears this pupil on such an occasion and says: ‘They are reading’. But the teacher says: ‘No, they aren’t reading; that was just an accident.’ —But let us suppose that this pupil continues to react correctly to further words that are put before them. After a while the teacher says: ‘Now they can read.’ (PI 157) The teacher bases their assessment of the pupil on a correct (and consistently correct) reaction to words. They distinguish between the correct pronunciation of individual words, which may occur accidentally, and the correct reaction to words over a prolonged period of time. At no point is reference made to mental processes or comprehension. What is at

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issue is the grammar of the word ‘reading’; when the trainer would use this word to describe a pupil, and when they would refuse to use it. Continuing from the last quotation, Wittgenstein writes: —But what of that first word? Is the teacher to say: ‘I was wrong, and they did read it’ —or: ‘They only began really to read later on’? —When did they begin to read? Which was the first word that they read? This question makes no sense here. Unless, indeed, we give a definition ‘The first word that a person “reads” is the first word of the first series of 50 words that they read correctly’ (or something of that sort). (PI 157) The grammar of ‘reading’ does not, in the above case, include the identification of the first word which is read. Wittgenstein does not deny that we could introduce a specific definition for specific purposes, but such a definition is not ordinarily part of this language-game. We feel as if we should be able to identify the point at which someone begins to read, or to identify the first word they read, because we think of reading as an inner (conscious) activity or experience, or as a mental mechanism. Inner activities or mechanisms can, we believe, be described in these terms. Wittgenstein acknowledges this temptation in the next two paragraphs when he writes: If on the other hand we use ‘reading’ to stand for a certain experience of transition from marks to spoken sounds, then it certainly makes sense to speak of the first word that they really read. They can then say, e.g. ‘At this word for the first time I had the feeling: “now I am reading”.’ Or again, in the different case of a reading machine which translated marks into sounds, perhaps as a pianola does, it would be possible to say: ‘The machine read only after such-and-such had happened to it—after such-and-such parts had been connected by wires; the first word it read was…’ (PI 157) The pianola translates marks into sounds and it is possible to speak of the moment at which this machine begins to read because it is possible to correlate this moment with the connection of parts and wires. Wittgenstein provides these examples precisely because he wants to

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contrast them with the case of the living reading-machine described above. But in the case of the living reading-machine ‘reading’ meant reacting to written signs in such-and-such ways. This concept was therefore quite independent of that of a mental or other mechanism. —Nor can the teacher here say of the pupil: ‘Perhaps they were already reading when they said that word’. For there is no doubt about what they did. —The change when the pupil began to read was a change in their behaviour; and it makes no sense here to speak of a first word in their new state. (PI 157) In other words, the grammar of ‘reading’ is independent of all references to mental, or other, mechanisms. Anscombe, in her article ‘Wittgenstein: Whose Philosopher?’, examines the investigation of reading and connects this investigation with that of ‘understanding’ (Anscombe 1992:1–10). However, she describes the purpose of the investigation of ‘reading’ as that of making clearer the fact that it is the circumstances under which someone has a certain experience that justifies them in saying that in such a case they understand or know how to go on (Anscombe 1992:4). Anscombe reads the passages from §156 to §171 as providing a series of arguments against general explanations. She writes: in short, the whole enquiry in these pages consists largely in rather convincing arguments against generalizing particular expressions that we are inclined to use in highly particular situations and cases. (Anscombe 1992:7) She connects Wittgenstein’s reading example with his use of particular cases but describes his use of particular cases as consisting of arguments against philosophical generalizations. In other words, she reads Wittgenstein’s description of particular cases as examples against generalizations without an acknowledgement of their further methodological purposes. There are several difficulties with this interpretation. First, it is not clear that Wittgenstein is presenting a series of arguments against philosophical generalizations. If his investigations form arguments then it is even less clear that they are convincing. It is true that he does, throughout his later writings, struggle against our tendencies to generalize

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and against our dismissal of the particular case. But his use of this fictitious particular case has the richer pedagogical purpose of offering philosophical clarification of the use of our words. Secondly, Anscombe’s claims are empirical rather than grammatical. Thus, for example, she writes: note this: the formula occurring to me is a particular experienced event, and with that we have explained how there can be ‘experiences of understanding’. For that experience in that case is an experience of understanding—though this is true only because of the circumstances, which include much that went before the moment of the formula’s occurring to me. (Anscombe 1992:7) Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigation of reading and understanding does not attempt to explain how there can be ‘experiences of understanding’. His grammatical investigations challenge the role and significance of such claims or experiences. He neither proves nor refutes such claims, rather he demonstrates that the experiences need not necessarily occur. In the Brown Book Wittgenstein writes (concerning the readingmachines) that ‘no connection between seeing and reacting, no internal mechanism enters into this case’ (BB 121). He concludes an investigation of ‘reading’ in the Brown Book with the following claim: ‘Our method is purely descriptive, the descriptions we give are not hints at explanations’ (BB 125). He shifts the focus of our investigations away from such experiences. He is doing more, philosophically, than merely claiming that a particular experience is an experience only in certain circumstances. If this were the aim of his investigations, then the empirical circumstances and experiences would be open to philosophical debate. Wittgenstein creates fictitious and imaginary scenarios (and circumstances) to investigate grammatical possibilities. Perhaps the most significant difficulty with Anscombe’s paper is its inability to adequately explain why Wittgenstein would choose to write about reading at all and why he would present this particular fictitious case involving human beings, or creatures of some other kind, which are used by us as reading-machines. Anscombe raises the first issue and acknowledges this difficulty in several different ways. First, she describes Wittgenstein as a philosopher’s philosopher as opposed to an ordinary person’s philosopher. She makes this distinction because, she claims, Wittgenstein’s writings say little that is of interest to non-philosophers. For non-philosophers there are no philosophical problems concerning

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reading. (Although Anscombe attributes this absence of philosophical problems to philosophical naiveté, most people would probably agree with her central claim that reading is not of philosophical interest to most non-philosophers. She does not, however, consider the possibility that there are no philosophical problems concerning reading, or that there need not be, nor the possibility that non-philosophers might be right. More on this below.) Secondly, she also acknowledges that some philosophers might share the attitude of ordinary people ‘if they thought about [reading] at all’ (Anscombe 1992:4). This statement suggests that even philosophers do not think about this topic. Thus, it is not yet clear why reading is a philosophically important topic, or why it is of philosophical interest at all. As Anscombe writes, ‘that understanding and thinking are topics for philosophy none would doubt; that reading might be, it takes a philosophical bent to conceive’ (Anscombe 1992:4). It may take Wittgenstein’s philosophical bent to conceive of reading as a topic for philosophy, but that does not legitimate it as a philosophical topic. Such an investigation might reveal more about his personal philosophical bent than about the topic itself (especially in his later writings when he constantly struggles to overcome philosophical tendencies and weaknesses). In other words, attributing Wittgenstein’s reading example to his (personal) philosophical bent can serve not only to legitimate it as a topic of philosophical interest (as Anscombe asserts) but equally to dismiss it as a false or illegitimate topic of confusion or concern. Perhaps it is a false or misguided philosophical bent which creates philosophical problems where there are none? Wittgenstein’s investigation of reading is described as ‘a contribution to a certain clarifying of the concept of understanding’. According to Anscombe, the investigation into reading ‘plays a part in some major themes of his work—it is not just an eccentric preoccupation with a concept of very marginal importance’ (Anscombe 1992:8). It is not clear, however, how the investigation of reading is a contribution to the clarification of the concept of understanding. If it is merely that it demonstrates the need to look at particular circumstances and to refrain from making generalizations, then why does Wittgenstein choose to use reading as an example? How does reading play a part in some of the major themes of Wittgenstein’s work? Which themes? Why isn’t it an eccentric preoccupation with a concept of marginal importance? Anscombe’s claim is, as it stands, too general to be illuminating.

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If, on the other hand, we interpret Wittgenstein’s investigation of reading as an example of his method of using fictitious cases for grammatical clarification the interpolation of the word ‘reading’ for the word ‘understanding’ becomes intelligible. Reading is a very good example precisely because there is nothing immediately philosophically disturbing or mysterious about reading. As Wittgenstein writes at the beginning of the investigation on ‘reading’, the use of the word ‘reading’ in the ordinary circumstances of our lives is a very familiar one. Thus, he is not challenging the fact that non-philosophers (and philosophers alike) do not find ‘reading’ philosophically perplexing or worthy of philosophical attention. It fulfils its pedagogical or grammatical function in part because of this attribute. When Wittgenstein begins his investigation of ‘reading’ we are not perplexed, but we become perplexed (or tempted to make certain philosophical claims) as the investigation proceeds. One aim of the investigation is to help us see or recognize when we become perplexed and why we are tempted to make these claims. Wittgenstein remarks, ‘my method is to take a parallel case where one is not puzzled and get the same puzzle about it as in cases where one is always puzzled’ (AWL 58). He refers to using examples ‘where no confusion is likely to arise’ (AWL 65). Wittgenstein is not making factual or empirical claims about reading, as Anscombe asserts, but rather examining its grammar in a languagegame which he has created. He asks, ‘if reading is rendering out loud what is printed (etc.) then under what circumstances would we say that someone is reading?’ It is a grammatical investigation not an empirical one. Wittgenstein creates a fictitious case in which everything is open to view; an investigation in which reading is defined as rendering out loud what is printed (etc.) and in which human beings, or creatures of some other kind, are used as reading-machines. And yet we are still tempted to postulate mental processes. It is the temptation to postulate mysterious mental processes which Wittgenstein is challenging us to recognize and cure. He creates an investigation in which there is no need to postulate mental processes and in which mental processes play absolutely no role. And yet we still hypothesize mental processes or conscious states in response to his questions: ‘What happens when they read a newspaper?’ and ‘When would we say that they are reading?’ Wittgenstein’s fictitious case involving reading-machines attempts to resolve the misunderstanding of our language-use which leads us to explain reading in terms of mental processes. (If Wittgenstein’s investigation of ‘reading’ is an empirical investigation, it is unclear why he would speak of fictitious readingmachines.)

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Similarly, he is not forwarding a behaviourist position. Such an interpretation misreads his grammatical investigation as the affirmation of physical processes and the refutation or denial of mental processes. Wittgenstein is doing neither. His grammatical investigation has a different purpose. In this case, his purpose is to redirect our attention away from hypothetical mental processes towards grammar and circumstances (towards language-use). He demonstrates that by looking for mental processes we often fail to recognize the important details around us; we fail to understand our actual language-use. His case of the reading-machines is a fictitious case. There is, or should be, nothing mysterious about his choice of the example of reading, or about reading itself. Part of the philosophical significance which Anscombe attributes to ‘reading’ is based on the mysteriousness which results from an inability to explain its role and function in Wittgenstein’s writings. As such, her article provides us with an example of the very philosophical tendencies which his grammatical investigation of ‘reading’ (and his use of fictitious cases) is meant to help us overcome. If we fail to acknowledge the pedagogical significance of Wittgenstein’s use of fictitious cases we may either dismiss such cases as a waste of time or we may try to interpret them factually or theoretically (as Anscombe does with the above example). Wittgenstein anticipates these responses and addresses them when he discusses the relationship between his grammatical investigations and investigations concerning natural history. He connects his invention of fictitious cases with imagining different historical developments. Thus he writes: ‘one of the most important methods I use is to imagine a historical development for our ideas different from what actually occurred. If we do this we see the problem from a completely new angle’ (CV 37e). As with his use of particular and intermediate cases, the use of fictitious cases weakens our fascination with certain words or forms of expression. Although Wittgenstein appears to be asking questions about the natural history of human beings he is investigating very general facts of nature only insofar as they help clarify our philosophical or grammatical confusion. He acknowledges that such an investigation may tempt us to look for factual explanations if we lose sight of our grammatical purposes: If the formation of concepts can be explained by facts of nature, should we not be interested, not in grammar, but rather in that in nature which is the basis of grammar? —Our interest certainly

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includes the correspondence between concepts and very general facts of nature…. But our interest does not fall back upon these possible causes of the formation of concepts; we are not doing natural science; nor yet natural history—since we can invent fictitious natural history for our purpose. (PI 230e) Wittgenstein is quick to distinguish his method from that of giving hypotheses. He writes, ‘I am not saying: if such-and-such facts of nature were different people would have different concepts (in the sense of a hypothesis)’ (PI 230e). He also distinguishes between his method of imagining different general facts of nature or historical developments and the giving of explanations. He emphasizes that he is not doing natural science or natural history. As he remarks, ‘The whole point is that I cannot tell you anything about the natural history of language, nor would it make any difference if I could’ (AWL 97). In imagining different historical developments Wittgenstein connects our language-use with general facts of nature. Part of his creation of fictitious cases involves a recognition of the complexity of such acts of imagination (the relationship between language-use and forms of life). According to Wittgenstein, ‘to imagine a language is to imagine a form of life’. Thus the description of fictitious cases is connected with the description of different natural histories. As he writes, ‘our interest certainly includes the correspondence between concepts and very general facts of nature. (Such facts as mostly do not strike us because of their generality.)’ (PI 230e). What we are supplying are really remarks on the natural history of human beings; we are not contributing curiosities however, but observations which no one doubted, but which have escaped remark only because they are always before our eyes. (PI 415) If we believe that certain concepts are absolutely correct it is useful to imagine very general facts of nature to be different from what we are used to, and then ‘the formation of concepts different from the usual ones will become intelligible’ (PI 230e). With the use of particular cases Wittgenstein attempts to cure us of our philosophical cravings for general, comprehensive pictures of the universe (which may take the form of natural science and natural history). He is not investigating the probability or actuality of these particular cases. Rather he is investigating grammatical

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possibilities. Using ordinary and extraordinary cases he challenges us to change our ways of thinking and he offers philosophical clarity through the use of particular, intermediate and fictitious cases. The use of particular cases (like particular cases themselves) often escapes our notice because it is always before our eyes.

Chapter 8

Analogies

The last grammatical technique to be examined in this study is Wittgenstein’s investigation and use of analogies. He explicitly connects certain kinds of grammatical confusion or misunderstanding with analogies and writes: Our investigation is…a grammatical one. Such an investigation sheds light on our problem by clearing misunderstanding away. Misunderstandings concerning the use of words caused, among other things, by certain analogies between the forms of expression in different regions of language. —Some of them can be removed by substituting one form of expression for another… (PI 90) One aspect of this grammatical method is the identification and examination of analogies. Another is the use of new analogies (as well as different forms of expression) to challenge and change our way of looking at things. Wittgenstein does not claim that analogies or analogous forms of expression are necessarily (or always) misleading. Thus, he does not claim that all analogies are misleading, nor that we should rid our language-use of analogies altogether. According to Wittgenstein it is often difficult to know if and when analogies mislead us. Early in the Blue Book, for example, he cautions us that: when we say that by our method we try to counteract the misleading effect of certain analogies, it is important that you should understand that the idea of an analogy being misleading is nothing sharply defined. No sharp boundary can be drawn round the cases in which we should say that a [person] was misled by an analogy.

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The use of expressions constructed on analogical patterns stresses analogies between cases often far apart. And by doing this these expressions may be extremely useful. It is, in most cases, impossible to show an exact point where an analogy begins to mislead us. (BB28) According to Wittgenstein, the use of analogies or analogous forms of expression may be useful or misleading. In philosophy the use of analogies is often treated as an unnecessary or misleading stylistic device. This leads to the temptation to attribute misunderstanding to the use of analogies and, consequently, to attempt to rid ourselves of that use. But Wittgenstein writes that certain analogies mislead us in certain cases. On other occasions the same analogies may not mislead us and may be very useful. As he writes, it is in most cases impossible to show an exact point where an analogy begins to mislead us. Thus, his method of identifying, examining and using analogies or analogous forms of expression is responsive; he responds to analogies when we are misled by them. Wittgenstein describes analogies as both the source and expression of our grammatical confusions. His philosophical task is not merely to identify intellectual errors but to find the source of our confusion. He emphasizes the role of analogies in this respect, writing: If I correct a philosophical mistake and say that this is the way it has always been conceived, but this is not the way it is, I always point to an analogy //…I must always point to an analogy according to which one had been thinking, but which one did not recognize as an analogy. (P 163) This philosophical method depends for its effectiveness on our acknowledgement of the analogies which he draws to our attention. In the following passages, he confirms that it is only if we acknowledge an expression as the correct expression of our thoughts (or feelings) that it will be the correct expression of our thoughts. Thus he writes: One of the most important tasks is to express all false thought processes so characteristically that the reader says, ‘Yes, that’s exactly the way I meant it!’ (P 165)

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Indeed we can only convict someone else of a mistake if [they acknowledge] that this really is the expression of [their] feeling// …if [they (really) acknowledge] the expression as the correct expression of [their] feeling. (P 165) It is imperative for Wittgenstein to find the correct expression of our thoughts and feelings. It is a philosophical and descriptive task. If we do not respond by saying, ‘Yes, that is exactly the way I meant it!’ then he has not yet found the correct expression of our thoughts and his clarification of our misunderstanding will be ineffective. Acknowledging the analogy that Wittgenstein is proposing as the source of our thought is significant for two reasons: First, it emphasizes grammar or forms of expression rather than intellectual claims or arguments. Secondly, it differs fundamentally from adversarial forms of argumentation and criticism because we must acknowledge the forms of expression that Wittgenstein draws to our attention. Often in adversarial forms of criticism writers complain that the criticisms levelled against their claims fail to do justice to those claims. And often when we read philosophical works of argumentation and theory we have the impression that claims and criticisms pass one another by. Wittgenstein writes, for example, that the trouble with the realist is always that they do not solve (but skip) the difficulties which their adversaries see, though they don’t succeed in solving them (BB 48). The use of analogies and analogous forms of expression changes the form of criticism itself. The act of acknowledgement is itself methodologically important, and an absence of acknowledgement nullifies the philosophical clarification that is offered. According to Wittgenstein, ‘philosophy shows the misleading analogies in the use of language’ (P 163). It is an important part of his grammatical investigation for we do not always recognize the analogies inherent in our thinking: We do not always recognize (i) analogies as analogies, or (ii) the particular analogies expressed in our thinking. Philosophical discussions which describe language as a calculus with fixed rules provide an example of the first case. Wittgenstein writes, for example, that ‘in philosophy we often compare the use of words with games and calculi which have fixed rules, but cannot say that someone who is using language must by playing such a game…’ (PI 81). Such an analogy or comparison can be useful for certain purposes but it can also be misleading. If we do not recognize or acknowledge our analogy as an analogy, then we may come to believe that we are stating facts of the highest generality. He

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writes, for example, that ‘we predicate of the thing what lies in the method of representing it. Impressed by the possibility of a comparison, we think we are perceiving a state of affairs of the highest generality’ (PI 104). In the case of the analogy between language-use and games or calculi with fixed rules we encounter several difficulties if we fail to acknowledge the analogy as an analogy. We may, for example, treat the use of words as a game or calculus even though we cannot say that someone who is using language must be playing such a game. Wittgenstein acknowledges that he himself was led to think that if someone utters a sentence and means or understands it they are operating a calculus according to definite rules (PI 81). Such a misunderstanding determines the subsequent form of philosophical investigation and research. If, on the other hand, we say that our language only approximates such calculi, and if we lose sight of the analogy we are using, then we are also ‘standing on the brink of a misunderstanding’ (PI 81). For we may then think that we are either (i) talking about an ideal language (that exists in a vacuum), or (ii) talking about a better, more perfect language (which philosophers have to show us). Identifying and acknowledging our analogy as an analogy clarifies such misunderstandings by reminding us that when we speak of an ideal language in this case we simply mean a language that we construct for the purposes of comparison. Not only do we need to acknowledge analogies as analogies, but we also need to identify the particular analogies which mislead us. One of the central analogies which Wittgenstein identifies throughout his later writings involves our understanding of language-use. When we talk of words and meanings we tend to think of words and the objects for which they stand. We think of words and their meanings as analogous to money and the objects which it buys. But Wittgenstein emphasizes our use of words by comparing the meaning of words to money and its uses. One important source of difficulty in philosophy is that words look so much alike. They are brought together in a dictionary like tools in a box, and like the tools, which look pretty much alike, they have enormously different uses. The uses of words can differ from each other in the way beauty differs from a chair. They are incomparable in the way in which some things we buy are incomparable, such as a sofa and permission to sit in a theatre. When we talk of words and their meanings we tend to compare them with money and the things

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it buys rather than with money and the uses it has. A thing we buy with money is not the same as the use of the money… (AWL 46) The analogy comparing words and tools is a familiar one in Wittgenstein’s writings. He continues in this passage with a series of analogies which highlight the differences in our use of words. That the uses of words can differ from one another in the way beauty differs from a chair, or in the way a sofa differs from permission to sit in a theatre is striking. Wittgenstein also draws our attention to analogous grammars or uses of words. For example, he draws our attention to analogies between ‘thinking’ and bodily activities. According to Wittgenstein: the existence of the words ‘thinking’ and ‘thought’ alongside of the words denoting (bodily) activities such as writing, speaking, etc., makes us look for an activity, different from these but analogous to them, corresponding to the word ‘thinking’. When words in our ordinary language have prima facie analogous grammars we are inclined to try to interpret them analogously, i.e. we try to make the analogy hold throughout. — (BB7) ‘Thinking’ appears to be grammatically similar to activities such as speaking or writing. The temptation to conceive of ‘thinking’ as an activity which is analogous to (bodily) activities determines the nature of our philosophical investigations. As Wittgenstein writes, we look for an activity corresponding to the word ‘thinking’. Our difficulty lies, not in the failure of our subsequent investigations but in the confusion and futility of the initial concept itself. We say that ‘thinking’ must be an activity of some kind, and we attempt to observe and describe this activity analogously. Part of our philosophical difficulty or confusion concerning ‘thinking’ is expressed in the fact that we look for an activity which is different but analogous to bodily activities. Thus we claim that ‘thinking’ is a different kind of activity from bodily activities. According to Wittgenstein, one ‘muddle consists in using the phrase “another kind” after the analogy of “a different kind of chair”’ (AWL 32). One attempt to describe the difference between bodily activities and the activity of thinking is to describe ‘thinking’ as a mental activity. In other words, a distinction is drawn between mental and physical

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activities, or between incorporeal and corporeal activities. Wittgenstein writes, for example: I called the expression ‘an incorporeal process’ to my aid in my embarrassment when I was trying to explain the meaning of the word ‘thinking’ in a primitive way. One might say ‘Thinking is an incorporeal process’ however, if one were using this to distinguish the grammar of the word ‘think’ from that of, say, the word ‘eat’. Only that makes the difference between the meanings look too slight…. An unsuitable type of expression is a sure means of remaining in a state of confusion. It as it were bars the way out. (PI 339) In an attempt to describe the difference between ‘thinking’ and activities such as speaking, writing or eating, we refer to ‘thinking’ as a mental or incorporeal process or activity. Although we believe that we are making an important or significant distinction between the grammar of these words we are, in fact, making the differences between them look too slight. We distinguish between mental and physical activities but we are unclear about the nature of ‘mental activities’. We remain in a state of confusion because we simply define a ‘mental activity’ as one which is not physical. The term ‘mental activity’ often serves a philosophical purpose or role, not because it clarifies the concept or grammar of ‘thinking’, but precisely because it does not. It gives us something mysterious or occult. According to Wittgenstein, the use of the word ‘mental’ in philosophy is often synonymous with an attitude that we cannot possibly hope to understand such issues. As he writes, we ‘think of meaning or thinking as a peculiar mental activity; the word “mental” indicating that we mustn’t expect to understand how these things work’ (BB 39). It is precisely because we conceive of ‘thinking’ as a mysterious mental activity that we hypothesize brain processes and mental states. We define ‘thinking’ as a mental activity and then attempt to define what a mental activity is. Wittgenstein writes that our first philosophical step is the one that escapes our notice. We talk of ‘thinking’ as an activity and we talk of this activity in terms of processes and states. However: we talk of processes and states and leave their nature undecided. Sometime perhaps we shall know more about them—we think. But that is just what commits us to a particular way of looking at the

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matter. For we have a definite concept of what it means to learn to know a process better. (The decisive movement in the conjuring trick has been made, and it was the very one we thought quite innocent.) —And now the analogy which was to make us understand our thoughts falls to pieces. So we have to deny the yet uncomprehended process in the yet unexplored medium. And now it looks as if we had denied mental processes. And naturally we don’t want to deny them. (PI 308) In this passage Wittgenstein draws our attention to several important and interrelated points. First, he acknowledges that we talk of brain processes and mental states but leave their nature undecided. This is an expression of our conceptual confusion. Yet we interpret this conceptual confusion as an empirical or factual difficulty. We are unclear about what we mean by mental states and processes but we attribute this problem to the nature of the mental activities or processes themselves. (We claim that these mental states or processes are elusive or difficult to discover.) Here it is easy to get into that dead-end in philosophy, where one believes that the difficulty of the task consists in our having to describe phenomena that are hard to get hold of, the present experience that slips quickly by, or something of the kind. (PI 436) We therefore also have the attitude that we may someday find out more about them; for we attribute our confusion to a lack of factual or scientific information. Secondly, when we interpret our conceptual confusion as a lack of empirical information we commit ourselves to a certain way of looking at the matter and a certain form of investigation. Although we leave the nature of mental states and processes undecided, we have a definite concept of what it would mean to learn to know a process better. We look for a mental activity (although we do not know what it is we are looking for or how to look for it). Wittgenstein writes that it is our first philosophical step or move that is decisive and it is the one that we think quite innocent. Our first move involves treating ‘thinking’ as a mental activity (which we describe in terms of mental states and brain processes). Our first philosophical move is based on the analogous forms of expression between ‘thinking’ and other activities. Our conceptual confusion begins with this analogy, for

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‘when words in our ordinary language have prima facie analogous grammars we are inclined to try to interpret them analogously’ (BB 7). We try to make the analogy hold throughout, but we find that the analogy does not hold throughout and thus the analogy which was to help us understand ‘falls to pieces’. The result is that, in rejecting the analogy, Wittgenstein appears to be making empirical claims. He writes that ‘we have to deny the yet uncomprehended process in the yet unexplored medium. And now it looks as if we had denied mental processes’ (PI 308). He speaks of a grammatical fiction, but is heard as denying mental processes themselves (PI 307). When we attempt to interpret ‘thinking’ as analogous to activities such as speaking, writing or eating, we commit ourselves to a particular way of looking at the matter. According to Wittgenstein we have a definite concept of what it would mean to learn more about this activity. In philosophy we attempt to observe it and we conceive of such observation as analogous to the observation of bodily activities. Thus, philosophers try to turn their attention onto their own ‘thinking’ and observe themselves. As he writes, ‘the question “What is thinking?” has been asked hundreds of times. The initial inclination is to give a performance to oneself (WLPP 119). In the Investigations he asks: What is thinking? —Well, don’t you ever think? Can’t you observe yourself and see what is going on? It should be quite simple. You do not have to wait for it as for an astronomical event and then perhaps make your observation in a hurry. (PI 327) Thinking is something that we are all familiar with; it is something that we do in our everyday lives. Wittgenstein asks, ‘Can’t you observe yourself and see what is going on?’ If we approach thinking as an activity then it should be possible to observe it, for it is an activity that occurs in our ordinary lives. He suggests that it should be quite simple to observe ourselves thinking for thinking is not a special or rare occurrence, like an astronomical event. We do not have to wait for a special event, nor do we need to make our observations under difficult or demanding circumstances. The tone of this remark both challenges us to attempt such observations and foreshadows the difficulties that we will face in so doing. Our difficulties will not be difficulties of observation but difficulties which result from our initial conception of ‘thinking’ as a mental activity.

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Wittgenstein also challenges the idea that thinking is analogous to activities such as eating or writing by examining the duration and speed of thought. One of the grammatical characteristics of words such as eating, speaking or writing, is that we can speak of these activities beginning, continuing and ending. We can speak of interrupting such activities as well as resuming them again. Wittgenstein examines whether the grammar of ‘thinking’ is analogous to the grammar of such activities. He asks, for example, ‘Suppose someone takes a measurement in the middle of a train of thought: [have they] interrupted the thought if [they say] nothing to [themselves] during the measuring?’ (PI 328). We are perplexed by such a question if we consider thinking to be an activity analogous to speaking. If we treat thinking as an activity which is analogous to (bodily) activities then this question should have a clear answer. However, it is unclear how to respond to such a question. This uncertainty casts doubt on the idea that ‘thinking’ is an activity which is analogous to speaking. Similarly,Wittgenstein investigates the grammar of ‘thinking’ by examining the speed of thought and what happens when we say that we think ‘in a flash’. He writes in the Investigations: Suppose we think while we talk or write—I mean as we normally do—we shall not in general say that we think quicker than we talk; the thought seems not to be separate from the expression. On the other hand, however, one does speak of the speed of thought, of how a thought goes through one’s head like lightning; how problems become clear to us in a flash, and so on. So it is natural to ask if the same thing happens in lightning-like-thought—only extremely accelerated—as when we talk and ‘think while we talk’, so that in the first case the clockwork runs down all at once, but in the second bit by bit, braked by the words. (PI 318) ‘Lightning-like-thought’ and ‘thinking in a flash’ are expressions which seem to support the concept of the activity of thinking. If we speak of thinking as an activity then we can speak in terms of the speed of thought. We may not be perplexed by the idea of the speed of thought when we concentrate on examples such as thinking while we talk or write; for in such cases thinking seems inseparable from the expression of thought. However, Wittgenstein introduces cases where the speed of thought is problematic if thinking is conceived as an activity. For when we use expressions such as ‘lightning-like-thought’, or ‘thinking in a flash’

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there seems to be a discrepancy between the ‘speed of thinking’ and our expression of thought. These examples force the issue of the activity of thinking. Wittgenstein acknowledges that it is natural to ask if the same thing happens in lightning-like-thought as when we think while speaking, only in an extremely accelerated form. And it is natural to answer that the only difference between the two cases seems to be the speed or acceleration of the thought. In response to this philosophical dilemma he draws an analogy. He compares our picture of ‘thinking in a flash’ to a clockwork that runs down all at once, and ‘thinking while talking’ to a clockwork that runs down bit by bit. He attempts to demonstrate that inherent in our understanding of ‘thinking while talking’ and ‘thinking in a flash’ is a misleading analogy. In his lectures on philosophical psychology he is quoted as saying: Is a ‘flash of thought’ related to ‘thinking while speaking’ in the way a watch with a broken escapement is related to a normal watch? If thinking is an activity this is a problem…. Does one say the same words very rapidly? …‘Is thinking in a flash the same as the thinking when you talk?’ You may be tempted by ‘It’s the same, only more rapid’. But that tells you nothing. The use of ‘rapid’, for one thing, is queer, and it tells you no more than Vomiting is eating in reverse’ does. (WLPP 288)

The question whether it happens rapidly is humbug. Now we can ask: is thinking ‘in a flash’ the same as when we talk? …One might as well say: vomiting is eating in the opposite way. (WLPP 171) If we conceive of thinking as an activity, then what happens when there is a ‘flash of thought’ or when we ‘think while speaking’ becomes a problem or an issue, as does the relationship between these two occurrences. We are tempted to try to answer the questions ‘What happens when…?’, as well as to draw comparisons and contrasts between the two cases. We are tempted to think of ‘thinking in a flash’ as thinking rapidly. But Wittgenstein’s choice of examples, as well as the analogy which he uses (that of the watch or clockwork) are meant to highlight the difficulty of the original analogy concerning the activity of thinking itself. His

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examples or cases call for a rejection of our question as well as our answer. He writes, ‘If we ask “What happened?” one is inclined to say any number of things. The question has to be crossed out. It is nonsensical’ (WLPP 171). Similarly, he says that ‘the question whether it [thinking in a flash] happens rapidly is humbug’ (WLPP 171). Again, these questions, answers and descriptions make the grammatical differences between the use of these words or expressions look too slight. Not only are we tempted to describe thinking as an activity, we are also tempted to describe thinking as a ‘kind of speaking’. Wittgenstein asks: Is thinking a kind of speaking? One would like to say it is what distinguishes speech with thought from talking without thinking. — And so it seems to be an accompaniment of speech. A process, which may accompany something else, or can go on by itself… (PI 330) We continue to describe ‘thinking’ as an activity; (i) as a kind of speaking and (ii) as an accompaniment of speech. In the first case, we conceive of thinking as talking to oneself or as a kind of inner speech. As Wittgenstein acknowledges ‘we are now looking at “talking to yourself” or “imagined speech”. This is a more specialized question and apparently remote from “thinking”, but it has connections with “What is thinking?”’ (WLPP 249). He challenges the notion of thinking as a kind of speaking (which may accompany something else or go on by itself) with the following experiment: ‘Say: “Yes, this pen is blunt. Oh well, it’ll do.” First thinking it; then without thought; then just think the thought without the words’ (PI 330). In the first instance we have little difficulty in thinking the statement while we say it. In the second instance we can also quite easily say the words without thinking about what we are saying (saying the words mechanically, quickly, or repeatedly). The third alternative appears more problematic. Can we conceive of what it would be like to think the thought without the words? Wittgenstein does not suggest that this is impossible to imagine, for he writes, ‘Well, while doing some writing I test the point of my pen, make a face—and then go on with a gesture of resignation’ (PI 330). In drawing our attention to these possibilities he attempts to show that ‘what constitutes thought here is not some process which has to accompany the words if they are not to be spoken without thought’ (PI 330).

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In response to the question ‘Can we think the thought without the words?’ we might also be inclined to answer affirmatively if we consider the fact that we can sometimes express a thought in different words or in the words of different languages. Then it appears that the thought must exist somewhere separately from the words. As Wittgenstein writes: We say ‘The thought is not the same as the sentence; for an English and a French sentence, which are utterly different, can express the same thought’. And now, as the sentences are somewhere we look for a place for the thought…we say, ‘surely the thought is something, it is not nothing’; and all one can answer to this is, that the word ‘thought’ has its use, which is of a totally different kind from the use of the word ‘sentence’. (BB7) When we fail to investigate and understand the use of our words we are tempted to hypothesize mental activities. When we are misled by certain analogies, as above, the result is an attitude or superstition (a way of looking at things) which finds expression in our theories and ideas. Thus Wittgenstein writes, ‘that pure thought is conveyed by words and is something different from the words is a superstition’ (AWL 54). He refers to it as a superstition as opposed to an error or a mistake; consequently he challenges it by examining analogies rather than arguments and claims. When investigating ‘thinking without words’ Wittgenstein refers to William James, who quotes the recollection of a deaf-mute, Mr Ballard, in an attempt to show that thought is possible without speech. Mr Ballard wrote that in his early youth, even before he could speak (even before he had acquired language) he had thoughts about God and the world. Wittgenstein quotes the following passage from Mr Ballard: ‘It was during those delightful rides some two or three years before my initiation into the rudiments of written language, that I began to ask myself the question: how came the world into being?’ Wittgenstein’s response is interesting because he does not know what to make of these words. His questions raise grammatical concerns involving thought and language. He asks: —Are you sure—one would like to ask—that this is the correct translation of your wordless thought into words? And why does this question—which otherwise seems not to exist—raise its head

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here? Do I want to say that the writer’s memory deceives him? — I don’t even know if I should say that. These recollections are a queer memory phenomenon, —and I do not know what conclusions one can draw from them about the past of the man who recounts them. (PI 342) Wittgenstein chooses an example in which someone has not yet acquired language. Yet Ballard describes his thoughts as if he already had a language only not this one. Ballard describes a situation in which he could already think only not yet speak or write (like Augustine). The difficulty, as Wittgenstein points out, is the apparent ‘translation’ of wordless thoughts into words. It is a conceptual difficulty. Wittgenstein does not know what conclusions he can draw from these recollections about the past of the man who recounts them. Does the writer’s memory deceive him? What kind of a mistake would this be? The choice of this example, as well as Wittgenstein’s response to it, demonstrate that, at the very least, ‘thinking without words’ is not as simple as we are tempted to think (WLPP 170). It is not an activity, for example, that simply involves ‘leaving out the words’. If we interpret ‘thinking’ as an activity, then we often refer to ‘thinking’ as the accompaniment of speech. ‘Accompaniment’ is an analogy, however, which we often fail to recognize. According to Wittgenstein this analogy is worthy of investigation although it may not strike us immediately as problematic. Thinking is an activity—say, talking to yourself (so the investigation proceeds). But as soon as you talk, is there thinking? No, because you can talk without thinking. Thinking is therefore an accompaniment to talking. This does not sound at all bad. We want to draw attention to the nature of the mistake involved in this. But why do we make the mistake? …My trouble was not a choice. (WLPP 124) One of the important aspects of our use of analogies and analogous forms of expression is that they are not philosophical claims (our difficulties are not choices). Thus Wittgenstein attempts to draw our attention to the nature of the mistake involved in being misled by analogies or analogous forms of expression.

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According to Wittgenstein we often use analogies without having worked out the use of our analogies in detail. When we interpret ‘thinking’ as an activity, for example, we often describe it as an accompaniment to speaking: we have a picture of thinking as accompanying actions. (Acting without thinking, with thought.) This has, of course, the same difficulties as the picture of thought accompanying language… — So ‘accompaniment’ invites comparisons. Piano and voice is the primary example… (WLPP 43) When we think of ‘accompaniment’ we think of examples like piano accompanying voice. He suggests, for example, that ‘one would not begin a list of “activities” with “thinking”; nor a list of accompaniments with “talking and thinking”, but with “singing and playing piano”’ (WLPP 286). Wittgenstein proceeds by comparing and contrasting ‘talking and thinking’ with ‘singing and playing piano’ in order to clarify the grammar of ‘accompaniment’. If we describe piano playing as accompanying singing, then we can imagine the accompaniment being played separately. We can ask to hear the accompaniment played or practised on its own, for example. If we describe thinking as the accompaniment of talking, can we imagine an analogous situation in which the thought can be separated from language? Can we ask, for example, to hear the accompaniment on its own? Wittgenstein also asks, ‘how does thinking accompany talking? At the same time, before, etc.?’ (WLPP 124). If we describe it in the way in which piano playing accompanies singing then we should be able to answer such questions. We could, for example, describe how a piano part accompanies a vocal line (how it begins and ends, how its harmonic or rhythmic structures relate to that of the vocal line, etc.). As Wittgenstein writes: ‘How does thinking accompany talking, one thought for each word?’ or ‘Is your thought as long as your sentence?’ These questions are appropriate to things other than thinking. (WLPP 244) It is not that we cannot, or cannot yet, describe how thinking accompanies talking, but that we do not know what it would mean to describe thinking as accompanying talking. The questions which Wittgenstein asks are

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appropriate for the description of certain activities, but not for ‘thinking’; thereby highlighting a grammatical difference between ‘thinking’ and other activities. He suggests that to describe thinking as an accompaniment to speaking is a misleading analogy. His grammatical investigation attempts to play out the analogy of accompaniment and demonstrate that the grammar of ‘thinking’ is much more complex than we ordinarily think. Thus, he writes, ‘“Thinking is an accompaniment to talking. It is implied in our way of talking.” This is not misleading until it misleads. The use of “thinking” is much more complex than we ordinarily think’ (WLPP 125). Wittgenstein not only identifies and gives expression to the analogies inherent in our philosophical confusions but he introduces new and different analogies to challenge and change our way of looking at things. He also substitutes different forms of expression for those forms of expression which fascinate or mislead us. As he acknowledges, not all analogies or analogous forms of expression mislead us and not all analogies mislead us on all occasions. Thus, for example, there are occasions when we speak of ‘thinking’ as an activity and when we are not misled. We may use the expressions ‘Your mind is too active’ or ‘Stop thinking about it’, and although these expressions suggest that thinking is an activity, we are not misled by them in the contexts in which they arise. It is when we lose sight of their use within our lives that we become fascinated by such expressions. If we hear such statements in philosophy we hypothesize about (mysterious) mental processes. But if someone says ‘Your mind is too active’ they may mean that we are imagining things (‘letting our imagination run away with us’). Or if someone tells us to stop thinking about something they may mean (i) stop dwelling on it, (ii) stop worrying about it, (iii) think about something else, or (iv) do something to take our minds off it. We can stop thinking about something by (i) changing the topic of conversation, (ii) diverting our attention (perhaps by engaging in a different activity) or, (iii) coming to terms with whatever has occupied our thoughts or our attention. There are many different ways in which we can stop thinking about something, and none of these ways involve terminating specific mental processes. Similarly we can use the picture of thought ‘accompanying’ speech or action without it always or necessarily being misleading. For example, in the Investigations Wittgenstein writes, ‘the mental attitude doesn’t “accompany” what is said in the sense in which a gesture accompanies it. (As a [person] can travel alone, and yet be accompa-nied by my good wishes; or a room can be empty and yet full of light.)’ (PI 673). It is only when we approach ‘thinking’ and ‘accompaniment’ as activities which

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are analogous to activities such as ‘speaking’ or ‘playing the piano’ that we make a false comparison or use a misleading picture. Likewise, if such expressions do mislead us we can often substitute a different form of expression. For example, instead of saying thinking accompanies their actions we could say that they act intelligently (WLPP 286). In so doing we avoid the temptation to think that the difference between acting intelligently or unintelligently is something that accompanies one’s actions. Wittgenstein writes: In certain connexions it is useful to use a different form of expression for a while; and then we may go back and use the old form without feeling that it is unsatisfactory. —The first thing is a dissatisfaction with something in our normal forms of expression. (LSD 333) Wittgenstein does not caution us against using certain expressions or forms of expression. In altering our forms of expression when we feel that they are unsatisfactory (when we are perplexed, obsessed or confused by them) we relieve our mental cramp. We are then able to return to the use of our original forms of expression without difficulty. For our original dissatisfaction is with normal forms of expression. Our dissatisfaction expresses our confusion. Wittgenstein also uses new or different analogies to clarify our grammatical confusion. For example, he compares speaking with and without thinking to playing a piece of music with and without thought (PI 341). We can play a piece of music thoughtfully or thoughtlessly and what changes is our playing of the piece, not a particular brain process which accompanies our playing. We may describe someone as playing a piece of music thoughtfully if they play with sensitivity or expression. We may describe their playing as thoughtless if they play mechanically for example. In neither case does our description involve a description of the processes in the mind of the musician. Similarly, Wittgenstein’s response to philosophical perplexity concerning ‘thinking in a flash’ is to turn our attention away from the ‘activity of thinking’ and towards the use of this expression by introducing a different analogy. The relationship between ‘thinking in a flash’ and ‘thinking while speaking’ is not a relationship between two activities which differ in speed. He compares ‘thinking in a flash’ to making a note of a thought with a few words or marks on a page. Such a suggestion shifts our philosophical inquiry. He writes:

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I can see or understand a whole thought in a flash in exactly the sense in which I can make a note of it in a few words or a few pencilled dashes. What makes this note into the epitome of this thought? (PI 319) The kind of answer we give to Wittgenstein’s question (concerning what makes this note into the epitome of this thought) is the kind of answer we seek when we refer to ‘thinking in a flash’. Thus, he asserts that the expression ‘flash of thought’ is completely different grammatically from the expression ‘thinking while we speak’. Its role or use in our language is completely different. A note can be the epitome of a thought because of its use within a system of notation and language. When we describe ‘thinking’ as a mental activity we attempt to observe this mysterious activity although we do not know what it is we are attempting to observe or how to observe it. As discussed above, Wittgenstein challenges attempts to observe ‘thinking’ in a way which is analogous to observing ‘speaking’ or ‘eating’. Such observations are based on a misunderstanding of how language functions, and we need to observe our actual use of words. Implicit in this method is the suggestion that we create mysterious mental images and processes because we refuse to count what is tangible about our language-use (PI 608). According to Wittgenstein we need to get clear about our use of words. Thus, for example, we become confused about the activity of thinking when we misunderstand our forms of expression. And our attempts to observe ourselves thinking are misguided, for the understanding we require comes from observing or looking at our use of words or all the expressions of life in the language. ‘In order to get clear about the meaning of the word “think” we watch ourselves while we think; what we observe will be what the word means! —But this concept is not used like that’ (PI 316). As Wittgenstein acknowledges, ‘the puzzle is: If looking at thinking won’t give the answer, then looking at what will? Where else to look? What else to do?’ (WLPP 237). He provides the solution, however, for we need to look at our use of words. We need to investigate the grammar or use of the word ‘think’. ‘One cannot guess how a word functions. One has to look at its use and learn from that. But the difficulty is to remove the prejudice which stands in the way of doing this. It is not a stupid prejudice’ (PI 340). Our prejudice determines the form of our investigation and is not the result of our investigation. Thus our attempt to observe ourselves thinking is not

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merely an intellectual error, but is rooted in our misunderstanding of how our words function. He also connects the fascination which certain expressions exert upon us with misleading analogies. ‘No phenomenon is particularly mysterious in itself, but any of them can become so to us’ (RFGB 7e). He writes, for example, that ‘in our failure to understand the use of a word we take it as the expression of a queer process. (As we think of time as a queer medium; of the mind as a queer kind of being.)’ (PI 196). He recognizes the tendency to interpret our misunderstanding as an indication of extraordinary or queer entities in many of our philosophical puzzles. All such philosophical moves are based on our failure to understand our ordinary use of words. In emphasizing our attitudes and our first moves in philosophy Wittgenstein does not attribute our philosophical misunderstandings to errors, inadequately developed theories, or the absence of empirical information. Rather it is our misunderstanding of the use of our words which causes us to draw queer conclusions. He writes that: we mind about the kind of expressions we use concerning these things; we do not understand them, however, but misinterpret them. When we do philosophy we are like savages, primitive people, who hear the expressions of civilized [people], put a false interpretation on them, and then draw the queerest conclusions from it. (PI 194) During his ongoing investigation of ‘thinking’, for example, Wittgenstein writes: ‘This queer thing, thought’—but it does not strike us as queer when we are thinking. Thought does not strike us as mysterious while we are thinking, but only when we say, as it were retrospectively: ‘How was that possible?’ (PI 428)

It is noteworthy that what goes on in thinking practically never interests us. It is noteworthy but not queer. (Z88) Is thinking an extraordinary thing? Wittgenstein suggests that we want to answer affirmatively and he asks why we are tempted to give such a

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response: ‘We want to say, yes; and this is at the bottom of what we’ve got to talk about’ (WLPP 238). Is thinking an extraordinary thing or not? Why is it extraordinary? Does it happen rarely? Is the key to a lock extraordinary? The key is rare, but there is nothing extraordinary about it…. Thinking is a frequent occurrence yet we know so little about it. In fact we do not seem to know anything about it, nor do we know how it happens. This suggests that we want to find a mechanism. But as soon as you begin to analyse, there is nothing to be analysed. If one were not ashamed, one would admit this. (WLPP 120) We want to say that thinking is extraordinary and Wittgenstein asks if it is extraordinary because rare. He suggests (i) that the rarity of a thing does not necessarily make it extraordinary (and uses the example of the key to a lock) and (ii) that thinking is not a rare occurrence. Then he suggests that thinking might be extraordinary because we know so little about it. But such an attitude merely encourages us to look for the wrong kind of answer. According to Wittgenstein we want to analyse thinking but there is nothing to analyse. We label ‘thinking’ an extraordinary thing because we are conceptually confused, and we engage in inappropriate (and inevitably futile) forms of analysis or investigation. He suggests that it we were not ashamed we would admit this. He offers the following analogy: ‘A blood-pressure diagram—why don’t we think it queer? Only because we are constantly using such diagrams, and know what to do with them’ (WLPP 26). Wittgenstein investigates our notion of the queer, peculiar or extraordinary act of thinking further by comparing thinking to a flame or the phenomenon of thinking to that of burning. He attempts to investigate how such ‘mysteries’ arise; to give expression to our temptations when we are fascinated or bewitched by such ‘mysteries’; and to suggest a solution to our puzzles. He writes in Zettel: Compare the phenomenon of thinking with the phenomenon of burning. May not burning, flame, seem mysterious to us? And why flame more than furniture? —And how do you clear up the mystery? And how is the riddle of thinking to be solved? —Like that of flame? (Z 125)

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Isn’t flame mysterious because it is impalpable? All right—but why does that make it mysterious? Why should something impalpable be more mysterious than something palpable? Unless it’s because we want to catch hold of it. — (Z 126) Wittgenstein creates a mystery; that of the phenomenon of burning. As he writes, flame or burning may seem mysterious. And he asks why flame sometimes seems mysterious to us. One possible response is that it is impalpable. But this does not necessarily make something mysterious or extraordinary. Thus, he asks: ‘Why is flame or burning mysterious?’ and ‘How can we clear up this mystery?’ It is the relationship between these two questions which provides the solution. Just as with a riddle, we already know everything that we need to know, only we have to put things together in the correct way to see the solution (to answer the riddle or solve the puzzle). ‘The problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known’ (PI 109). flame, like thinking, seems mysterious to us because we look at it incorrectly or compare it to the wrong paradigm. We compare thinking and flames to objects (such as furniture, which we can literally grasp, and which we use in our ordinary lives) and then we find flame and thinking mysterious in comparison. We want to catch hold of them and are mystified when we cannot. Our confusion is conceptual. We look at thinking in a misleading way and our philosophical puzzle is in our opening description. We describe ‘thinking’ as extraordinary, peculiar or queer only when we look at it in the wrong way. As Wittgenstein writes with reference to the queer phenomena of knowledge or thinking: As for what the queer phenomenon of knowledge is—there is time enough for that. Mental processes just are queer. (It is as if one said: ‘The clock tells the time. What time is, is not yet settled. And as for what one tells the time for, —that doesn’t come in here.’) (PI 363) We feel that we will discover these queer processes at some later time, although our difficulty lies in our first step. Certain phenomena strike us as queer because we fail to remember the use of such words. Wittgenstein releases us from our fascination or bewitchment with certain phenomena, words and forms of expression through his attentiveness to the analogies inherent in our philosophical problems. His creativity in responding to

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misleading analogies (with new analogies and comparisons) challenges and changes our way of looking at things. Wittgenstein responds to the fascination or bewitchment which we feel concerning certain expressions by creating new and innovative comparisons and analogies. Consider, for example, the remark found in Culture and Value which states that ‘No one can think a thought for me, in the way no one can don my hat for me’ (CV 2e). If we take only the first claim, ‘no one can think a thought for me’, we can easily read it as a philosophical statement. It sounds like the kind of claim a philosopher would make. Taken on its own, as a philosophical statement or claim, it seems to be a claim concerning the nature of ‘thinking’ or the nature of ‘thoughts’. It is a statement about what can or cannot be done; a statement concerning the fact that others cannot think thoughts for me. The philosophical implication is that thoughts are something private, inner or hidden which others cannot think for me, and that thinking itself is an inner, hidden or mysterious process. Consequently, if no one can think a thought for me it is perhaps also the case that no one can know what thoughts I am thinking and, by implication, that I can never adequately make my thoughts known to others. As well, I cannot therefore think thoughts for others and, by implication, I can never know what they are thinking. Wittgenstein compares thinking a thought to donning a hat, writing that ‘no one can think a thought for me, in the way no one can don my hat for me’. By using this analogy everything that is mysterious about thoughts and thinking disappears. As a result, our investigation of the original claim changes in several important respects. First, when we hear the statement ‘no one can don my hat for me’ we do not immediately think that it is saying something important or significant about the nature of hats, or about the process of donning hats. (The statement is not making a claim that it is in the nature of hats that we cannot don them for others, or that it is in the nature of donning hats that no one can don them for me.) Further, we do not immediately think that the claim pronounces a philosophical truth about the difference between myself and others. Unlike the claim about thinking thoughts, we do not emphasize the fact that ‘no one can don my hat for me’ although it seems natural or acceptable to do so for the process of thinking thoughts. There is nothing particularly mysterious about not being able to don a hat for someone else. It is not philosophically perplexing, nor do we feel that it identifies an empirical weakness. (We do not immediately lament the fact that it is not possible to don a hat for someone else, nor do we feel as if we could try to don a hat for someone else and fail.) Rather, it is a grammatical statement about donning hats.

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The statement ‘no one can don my hat for me’ is likely, however, to raise questions concerning the context in which we would make such a statement or claim. Under what circumstances would this statement have meaning? It is not yet clear who would make such a claim, when and why they would make it and, therefore, what such a statement would mean. We could imagine, for example, making this statement when explaining to a child what it means to ‘don your hat’ (when contrasting the act of donning a hat to simply putting a hat on your head or allowing someone else to put a hat on your head). It is not an empirical claim but a grammatical statement concerning the expression ‘to don your hat’. It is grammatically meaningless to say that someone can don my hat for me. (We have no use for such an expression; not, however, that we could not possibly imagine a use for such an expression.) Wittgenstein’s analogy of donning hats and thinking thoughts forces us to raise similar questions concerning the speaker, context and meaning of the original statement (concerning thinking thoughts). When would we make such a statement or claim (outside of a philosophy classroom) and what would it mean? We could, for example, imagine a similar claim being made by someone who is in an oppressive situation and proclaims, ‘No one can think for me’, or ‘You cannot think thoughts for me’. Such a statement would be an act of defiance or an assertion of independence. Or, we could imagine trying to explain to a child that they are to think for themselves and not just accept what someone else says (or that they cannot be forced to think one way rather than another or, perhaps, that they must take responsibility for their own thoughts). In the philosophical interpretation of the statement ‘no one can think a thought for me’ the opposite of my thinking a thought seems to be that no one could think a thought for me. However, as the circumstances described above suggest, the opposite of my thinking a thought for myself is my not thinking for myself (or having someone else control my thoughts). And as such, the claim that only I can think a thought for myself can mean, at best, that I can think for myself (that I can think independently and responsibly, for example). The significant difference is not between myself and others, but between whether I can think for myself or not. And in such cases, the nature of thoughts, or the process of thinking, is not necessarily inner, hidden, private or mysterious. The claim ‘no one can think a thought for me’ is wrong if I do allow others to control my thoughts. Or it is grammatically meaningless, for I do not normally think a thought for me, I think (or think for myself). By comparing ‘thinking a thought’ to ‘donning a hat’ he challenges us to

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investigate the grammar of these expressions. By comparing the donning of a hat to the thinking of a thought, Wittgenstein shifts the focus of our investigation away from mysterious inner processes and back to language-use. It is a good example of a grammatical investigation, for he is not making an empirical claim about the similarity between thinking thoughts and donning hats. Another technique which Wittgenstein uses in response to misleading analogies is to substitute objects seen or painted for mysterious ‘mental’ objects. As discussed above, Wittgenstein identifies our philosophical tendency to approach ‘thinking’ as an activity which is analogous to activities such as ‘speaking’ or ‘eating’, only ‘mental’ and ‘mysterious’ (as yet unknown). He recognizes that such a philosophical attitude gives us something occult which we do not understand but hope someday to discover. We attribute our philosophical difficulties to the elusiveness of the mental states and processes themselves. He responds to this philosophical tendency, writing: There is one way of avoiding at least partly the occult appearance of the processes of thinking, and it is, to replace in these processes any working of the imagination by acts of looking at real objects. (BB4) For example, early in The Blue and Brown Books he introduces the following use of language: If I give someone the order ‘fetch me a red flower from the meadow’, how [are they] to know what sort of flower to bring, as I have only given [them] a word? Now the answer one might suggest first is that [they] went to look for a red flower carrying a red image in [their] mind and comparing it with the flowers to see which of them had the colour of the image. Now there is such a way of searching, and it is not at all essential that the image we use should be a mental one. In fact the process may be this: I carry a chart co-ordinating names and coloured squares. When I hear the order ‘fetch me etc.’ I draw my finger across the chart from the word ‘red’ to a certain square. But this is not the only way of searching and it isn’t the usual way. We go, look about us, walk up to a flower and pick it, without comparing it to anything. (BB3)

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One philosophical response to the question ‘How are they to know what sort of flower to bring as I have only given them a word?’ is that they have a red image in their mind which they use to compare with the flowers. Wittgenstein does not deny that there could be such a method of searching, but he changes the mental image to a coloured square. He writes that ‘it is not at all essential that the image we use should be a mental one’ and he therefore creates a scenario in which the image takes the form of a coloured square. Instead of a red image appearing before the mind’s eye, Wittgenstein substitutes seeing a red bit of paper or seeing a chart co-ordinating names and coloured squares (BB 4). He expands this method still further writing: We could perfectly well, for our purposes, replace every process of imagining by the process of looking at an object or by painting, drawing or modelling; and every process of speaking to oneself by speaking aloud or by writing. (BB4) Wittgenstein applies this method throughout The Blue and Brown Books, as well as throughout the Investigations. When speaking of mathematical calculations and following rules, for example, he writes, ‘I will, in this case again, replace any processes happening “in the mind” by processes of calculating on the paper’ (BB 13). And when he investigates what happens when we say something and mean it, he replaces a conscious process with spoken words: Supposing I had a habit of accompanying every English sentence which I said aloud by a German sentence spoken to myself inwardly. If then, for some reason or other, you called the silent sentence the meaning of the one spoken aloud, the process of meaning accompanying the process of saying would be one which could itself be translated into outward signs. Or, before any sentence which we say aloud we say its meaning (whatever it may be) to ourselves in a kind of aside…. There are, of course, real cases in which what we call meaning is a definite conscious process accompanying, preceding, or following the verbal expression and itself a verbal expression of some sort or translatable into one. A typical example of this is the ‘aside’ on the stage. (BB 34–35)

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Here meaning (a silent sentence ‘spoken’ to oneself inwardly) is rendered an ‘aside’ which is literally spoken on stage. The process of speaking to oneself is replaced by a process of speaking aloud (although, grammatically, still ‘speaking to oneself in the play through the aside). Wittgenstein also writes: I want to give you the following rule of thumb: If you are puzzled about the nature of thought, belief, knowledge, and the like, substitute for the thought, the expression of the thought, etc. The difficulty which lies in this substitution, and at the same time the whole point of it, is this: the expression of belief, thought, etc., is just a sentence; —and the sentence has sense only as a member of a system of language. (BB 42) By replacing ‘thought’ by the expression of thought our investigation shifts from mysterious processes to a system of language. There are several consequences to this shift in investigation. First, in applying this method, all that is mysterious or occult disappears. Secondly, when the mysterious nature of mental processes disappears, so too does their power to provide adequate explanations. Thirdly, having been released from our fascination with looking for, or hypothesizing, inner processes we are freed to investigate ‘meaning’ and ‘language’ in other ways. And finally, by acknowledging language-use, we come to a clearer understanding of the concepts of language and meaning themselves. As Wittgenstein makes explicit: let us adopt the method we just described of replacing this mental image by some outward object seen, e.g. a painted or modelled image…as soon as you think of replacing the mental image by, say, a painted one, and as soon as the image thereby loses its occult character, it ceases to seem to import any life to the sentence at all. (It was in fact just the occult character of the mental process which you needed for your purposes.) (BB5) We create mysterious mental images and processes which are analogous to (or based on) physical images and processes only different or mysterious. Wittgenstein’s method demonstrates that the mysterious mental images and processes which we create function effectively as explanations only because of their mysterious nature. Once we divest these entities or

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processes of their mysterious nature we also divest them of their explanatory power. Our temptation to create such entities leads us away from the tangible aspects of our language-use which, according to Wittgenstein, offer the possibility of resolving our difficulties. The method of rendering mental objects or processes ‘outward objects seen’ is used throughout the Investigations to focus our attention on the grammar or use of our words. In the opening remark Wittgenstein describes a use of language in which words are written on a piece of paper and exchanged for five red apples. Throughout his later writings, words become signs; definitions become fences; visual fields become real fields; sense-data become photographs; mental representations become paintings; pains become beetles-in-boxes; identifying private sensations becomes writing in a diary; written or spoken sentences become library books; language-games become card games; and philosophical puzzles become jigsaw puzzles. As well, scattered throughout the pages of the Investigations we find coloured squares, happy faces, cubes, wedges, duck-rabbit pictures, and scribbles; all of which are ‘outward objects seen’. We often fail to recognize the analogies in our thinking because they are very familiar. Wittgenstein introduces new analogies in order to challenge our philosophical complacency, as well as to offer us new and helpful ways of looking at things. Thus he does not simply identify and dismiss our familiar analogies. He himself uses analogies in a creative and instructive way. We find, throughout his later writings, numerous different analogies which occur repeatedly. Analogies involving journeys, landscapes, sketches, mirrors, pictures, tools, games, machines, money and music occur frequently. Other analogies are striking in their singularity. For example, he writes in Culture and Value, ‘You can’t build clouds. And that’s why the future you dream of never comes true’ (CV 41e). He remarks, ‘now you may question whether my constantly giving examples and speaking in similes is profitable. My reason is that parallel cases change our outlook because they destroy the uniqueness of the case at hand’ (AWL 50). Wittgenstein emphasizes the change in how we look at things. Analogies (examples, similes and parallel cases) allow us to escape the temptation to think that ‘this is how things must be’. As he remarks, ‘a good simile refreshes the intellect’ (CV le). Wittgenstein uses a variety of different but inter-related analogies throughout his later writings involving string, thread, weaving, cross-strips, and knots. He uses these analogies to challenge attitudes and ideas concerning philosophy and language. He speaks of language as woven into the actions of our

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lives (PI 7). And he describes his grammatical investigations as allowing us to ‘see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and crisscrossing: sometimes overall similarities, sometimes similarities in detail’ (PI 66). In other words, we do not see something that is common to all words or all uses of a particular word. According to Wittgenstein we also extend our concepts as if we were spinning a thread by twisting fibre on fibre. As he writes, ‘the strength of the thread does not reside in the fact that some one fibre runs through its whole length, but in the overlapping of many fibres’ (PI 67). He also describes concepts (such as grief and pretence) as patterns in the ‘weave of our life’. He writes, for example, that ‘“Grief” describes a pattern which recurs, with different variations, in the weave of our life’ (PI 174e). Similarly, he writes: Seeing life as a weave, this pattern (pretence, say) is not always complete and is varied in a multiplicity of ways. But we, in our conceptual world, keep on seeing the same, recurring with variations. That is how our concepts take it. For concepts are not for use on a single occasion. (Z 568)

And one pattern in the weave is interwoven with many others. (Z 569) Wittgenstein emphasizes the interwoven or interconnected nature of our use of words and concepts. He also uses similar analogies when he describes philosophy itself. When he describes the futility of certain forms of philosophical investigation (such as James’s introspection) he writes, ‘You think that after all you must be weaving a piece of cloth: because you are sitting at a loom—even if it is empty—and going through the motions of weaving’ (PI 414). And he describes philosophical confusion or disquiet as follows: 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 of our conception produces the greatest difficulty. So we try as it were to grasp the unlimited strips and complain that it cannot be done piece-meal. To be sure it cannot, if by a piece one means an infinite longitudinal strip. But it may well be done, if one

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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. (Z 447) The weaving analogy is similar to the journeying analogy which Wittgenstein uses throughout his later writings to describe philosophical investigations. His philosophical journeyings cover a wide field of thought, criss-crossing in every direction (PI ixe). Wittgenstein also describes philosophical problems as knots in a string. To solve philosophical problems he advises us to unravel the knots (and resolve our difficulties) rather than to pull them straight (and give answers).1 His own use of analogies (and other grammatical techniques) form patterns in the weave of his later writings. His grammatical methods begin and end in different places, and are woven into one another. The strength of his investigation does not lie in one thread (subject or line of thinking) running through the entirety of his writings, but in the various grammatical techniques which criss-cross, overlap and are spun out (as if fibre on fibre). His use of analogies is consistent with his own description of philosophy. He never underestimates the complexity and power of analogies, not only to mislead us but also to offer philosophical clarification.

Conclusion

Wittgenstein’s claim to be teaching a method of grammatical investigation throughout his later philosophy is confirmed in both his lectures and writings. He describes and demonstrates a method of investigation which is responsive, descriptive and creative in its use of detailed, complex and extraordinary examples. His art or method of investigation is rooted in a rich cultural and pedagogical tradition (which uses language as both the subject of analysis and the tool of that analysis, and recognizes complex and diverse forms of investigation). Wittgenstein seizes upon the philosophical and pedagogical methods of others for his work of philosophical clarification. His grammatical investigation is therefore part of a live tradition. As Hyde reminds us: a live tradition is neither the rhetoric nor the store of facts that we can learn in school. In a live tradition images speak for themselves. They ‘itch at our ears’ as Whitman says. We hear voices. (Hyde 1983:194) Wittgenstein’s images itch at our ears and throughout his investigations we hear voices. His grammatical method is both imaginative and dynamic and, while not sparing us the trouble of thinking, stimulates us to thoughts of our own. His method is creative, challenging and illuminating—and it requires practice. Its difficulty is the difficulty inherent in philosophical and pedagogical pursuits. To respond to Wittgenstein’s later philosophy is a philosophical labour and it is, as he recognizes, very much against the grain of some of us. If Wittgenstein’s use of ordinary language challenges a philosophical tradition which expresses itself in theory and explanation; if questions

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express grammatical confusion and are themselves open to question; if language-games must be played-out for their heuristic purpose to be fulfilled; if particular cases vary from the ordinary and unremarkable to the extraordinary and fictitious (and serve a multiplicity of purposes); and if analogies offer both philosophical confusion and clarification, then the impulse to summarize, theorize, explain or draw conclusions in response to his texts will be misguided. If we are attentive to his methodological descriptions and demonstrations the craving for a general comprehensive picture of the universe (or language or Wittgenstein’s own philosophy) will not be satisfied but will cease to exist. If we are attentive not only to the form of his words but also to the use made of his form of words our own participation will require the use, and not merely the repetition, of his grammatical remarks and methods. To search for the essence of grammatical investigation (or grammar itself) as something which lies behind (or hidden within) Wittgenstein’s remarks is to search for the essence of human language as something that does not lie open to view and become surveyable by a rearrangement (PI 92). It is not surprising, therefore, that criticisms raised in response to Wittgenstein’s texts express the same views about language which the texts themselves challenge philosophically and pedagogically. Wittgenstein’s methodological aims and practices are consistent, however, throughout his later writings and lectures. The difficulty of his grammatical method is matched by its creativity and playfulness, and the insights and innovations which permeate his later philosophy are strengthened by the integrity of his lectures and writings. According to Wittgenstein, we may not notice something because it is always before our eyes. ‘We fail to be struck by what, once seen, is most striking and most powerful’ (PI 129). We do not notice his methodological descriptions and demonstrations because they are always before our eyes. Once seen, however, this method is most striking and most powerful. Much of the secondary literature dismisses the composition, teaching and practice of grammatical investigation on the basis of methodological issues. If, however, we respond to the philosophical and pedagogical questions raised by Wittgenstein’s later philosophy we will discover that we have not yet begun to use his method (and his writings) to their full potential. In marked contrast to much of the secondary literature which reads his texts as the end of philosophical inquiry, or concludes that everything of interest and importance has been incorporated into conventional theories and explanations, Wittgenstein’s own writings suggest that we remain at the beginning of our philosophical and pedagogical investigations.

Notes

Introduction 1 2 3 4

Moore 1993:113 and Fann 1969:109–110. MS 119 (3.10.37) as quoted in Hilmy 1987:6. Several exceptional works draw our attention to this aspect of his writings. See, for example, works by Anscombe, Binkley, Cavell, Fann and M. McGinn. This study focuses exclusively on Wittgenstein’s later philosophy. The connections between his early and later works are important, but a detailed examination of their complex relationship awaits further study. The transcription of Wittgenstein’s lectures from 1930 to 1932, from the notes of John King and Desmond Lee, are a less detailed and comprehensive set of notes, although consistent with writings from this period. 1 Karl Kraus

1

2

3 4

Janik and Toulmin write that in Vienna philosophy was discussed in artistic, scientific, legal, political and musical circles. ‘Far from being the specialized concern of an autonomous and self-contained discipline, philosophy for them was multifaceted and interrelated with all other aspects of contemporary society’ (Janik and Toulmin 1973:25–26). For further descriptions of Vienna see Janik and Toulmin 1973, and Monk 1990. Several writers have, in general terms, acknowledged the connection between Kraus and Wittgenstein. They themselves, however, call for further analysis and discussion. See, for example, the works of Bodine, Engelmann, Field, Heller, Janik and Toulmin, and Ungar. For biographical information concerning Kraus see Iggers 1967, Field 1967, and Timms 1986. Iggers includes a comprehensive bibliography. The term ‘grammatical investigation’ was in the air at the time, and was later used by figures such as Franz Rosenzweig and Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy. Rosenstock-Huessy uses the term ‘grammar’ and speaks of a ‘grammatical

242

5

6 7

8 9

10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Notes

method’. For Rosenstock-Huessy grammar is the self-consciousness of language, just as logic is the self-consciousness of thinking. (See, for example, his 1939 article ‘In Defense of the Grammatical Method’ in Speech and Reality.) Rosenzweig also calls his method of inquiry ‘grammatical thinking’, following Rosenstock-Huessy. He contrasts a method of speech with abstract thinking and insists upon concrete situations and the importance of the spoken word. Although raising issues and using terms similar to those found in Wittgenstein’s later philosophy the works of both Rosenstock-Huessy and Rosenzweig differ in important respects. They are, for example, overtly religious in tone and content, and present philosophical (albeit grammatical) systems. I would like to thank Bob Haverluck for drawing my attention to these works. ‘Nestroy was, in the words of Egon Friedell, “the greatest, in fact the only, Austrian philosopher”’ (Janik and Toulmin 1973:86). And Nestroy was, for Kraus, ‘the greatest lyric philosopher the Germans had ever had’ (Iggers 1967:62). Josef Schachter, ‘Introduction’, in Engelmann 1967: ix. Engelmann himself edited a series of publications on the problems of art and philosophy, as well as writings about figures such as Karl Kraus and Adolf Loos. For a detailed discussion of Kraus’s influence on Wittgenstein’s early philosophy see Janik and Toulmin 1973. The similarities and differences between his early and later writings will resonate with readers familiar with both works. These complex connections will not, however, be addressed in this work. The relevance of the Tractatus to the works of Kraus involves its ethical dimension as well as its juxtaposition of language and silence. For more detailed discussion see works by Janik and Toulmin, Monk and McGuinness. All of these influences are important. Kraus is, however, important for our understanding of grammatical investigation. His writings present many aspects of grammatical investigation while also capturing and expressing the broader cultural context and activities of the times. Wittgenstein’s motto is discussed below. For further discussion see below. Not all aspects of Kraus’s work will be examined, nor will all similarities and differences be discussed. Emphasis will be placed on those aspects of Kraus’s work which offer insight into Wittgenstein’s method of grammatical investigation. See also Janik and Toulmin 1973:117–119. In an editorial dated Sunday 26 July 1914, Die Zeit abandoned its liberal principles and proclaimed the dawning of ‘a great heroic age’, according to Timms (Timms 1986:345). Die Fackel 404:9, as quoted in Timms 1986:276. For further discussion of Kraus and the imagination see Timms 1986:274–284. Die Fackel 1 April 1889:1, as quoted in Field 1967:18. Die Sprache: 341, as quoted in Zohn 1971:61. Beim Wort genommen: 116 and 165, as quoted in Zohn 1971:157–158. For a more detailed discussion see chapter 7 on particular cases. For further discussion of the significance of grammatical remarks see chapter 3.

Notes

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

243

For further discussion see chapter 3. These themes are developed and discussed throughout the following chapters. The use of particular cases and ordinary language are important grammatical techniques in Wittgenstein’s later writings and they are examined in detail in chapters 4 and 7. Die Fackel 1:3, as quoted in Zohn 1971:26. The Lichtenberg quotation is from J.P.Stern (1959) Lichtenberg: A Doctrine of Scattered Occasions: 164. The Kraus quotation is from his Die Sprache. 437. The entire quotation is from Zohn 1971:60. The Last Days of Mankind, as quoted in Field 1967:96. Werke, vol. 3:341, as quoted in Janik and Toulmin 1973:89. As Iggers writes, ‘many of the problems which faced Kraus still face us today…we find in Kraus a viewpoint fresher than ours. He was still greatly surprised by the evils which we have come to take for granted’ (Iggers 1967:229). Worte in Versen: 258, as quoted in Zohn 1971:59. Die Fackel, nos 657–667, as quoted in Zohn 1971:22. Beim Wort genommen: 121, as quoted in Zohn 1971:165. The first sentence of Kraus’s Die Dritte Walpurgisnacht, as quoted in Zohn 1971:127. Die Fackel, nos 809–905:168, as quoted in Zohn 1971:23. Berthold Viertel, Stimmen über Karl Kraus zum 60. Geburtstag: 40, as quoted in Zohn 1971:134. Houses of cards were used as metaphors in the art and literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to represent social and political structures and authority. MS 213, as quoted in Kenny 1982:18. For further discussion of the opening passages of the Investigations see chapter 6. For further discussion see chapters 3–8. 2 The Austrian School Reform Movement

1

2

3 4 5

While a prisoner-of-war in Como, Italy (and later at Cassino) Wittgenstein met Dr Ludwig Hänsel. According to Monk, ‘it was while he was held at Cassino that Wittgenstein made the decision that, on return to Vienna, he would train as an elementary school teacher’ (Monk 1990:153). Hänsel. was to become one of the leading Catholic educators in the Austrian School Reform Movement, and he remained one of Wittgenstein’s close friends. Controversies concerning the importance of Wittgenstein’s years as an elementary school teacher have centred on these two issues. See, for example, the debate between Bartley and Hargrove. For the purposes of this study, however, discussion will focus on Wittgenstein’s works themselves. Otto Glöckel, Das Tor der Zukunft 1917, as quoted in Papanek 1962:6. Die Quelle was edited by Eduard Burger, who was mentioned above. For this study, Luise Hausmann’s article ‘Wittgenstein in Austria as an Elementary-School Teacher’ (1982) will be taken as an authoritative text. Based on interviews with Wittgenstein’s students and colleagues, this article

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7 8 9 10

11 12 13

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Notes

offers detailed information, and is best able to account for the discrepancies and controversies which mar other accounts and interpretations. In one particular incident Wittgenstein took his Otterthal class to Vienna for three days at his own expense. ‘In addition to the visit to Schönbrunn, were a steamboat ride to Klosterneuberg and a visit to a school gym where the children were permitted to romp around on the equipment to their hearts’ content’ (Hausmann 1982:25). According to Bartley, ‘Wittgenstein often poked fun at the reform program’s more vulgar slogans and projects’ (Bartley 1974b:61). For further examples, and a discussion of Wittgenstein’s dictionary for elementary schools, see Burkhardt 1984b:30–41. Among the most important letters and memoirs are those by Malcolm, Engelmann and von Wright. Malcolm acknowledges that Wittgenstein could be a frightening person during these classes (often impatient and easily angered) but he attributes this severity to his passionate love of truth. ‘Primarily what made him an awesome and even terrible person, both as a teacher and in personal relationships, was his ruthless integrity, which did not spare himself or anyone else’ (Malcolm 1984:26). See chapters 3–8 for a detailed examination of Wittgenstein’s grammatical techniques. For a detailed discussion see chapter 4 on ordinary language. He was not concerned, for instance, with giving examples of atomic propositions. During his lectures of 1932–33 Wittgenstein remarks, ‘we [he and Russell] were at fault for giving no examples of atomic propositions or of individuals. We both in different ways pushed the question of examples aside’ (AWL 11). For walking and learning analogies see, for example, PI ixe, §107 and §123. Wittgenstein writes, ‘being forced to think forward in a straight line is for me a torture’ (MS 118, as quoted in Hilmy 1987:21). For further discussion see chapter 4 on ordinary language. For a discussion and examination of particular examples see chapters 4–8. See, for example, PI 1–32, 195, 244, 282, 360, 420, 200e, 206e; Z 412, 414, 416, 419, 469, 646, 703; RPP II 15, 171, 327; RFGB 6e; CV 17e, 71e. For a detailed discussion see chapter 6 on language-games. For further discussion see Cavell’s ‘Excursus on Wittgenstein’s Vision of Language’ (Cavell 1982:168–190). In Papanek’s study of the Austrian School Reform Movement he refers to ‘the abundance of new psychological understanding and theories, so manifold and significant in the Austria of the time of the school reform’ (Papanek 1962:xi). He mentions not only the Bühlers, but also Adler, Aichhorn, Birnbaum and the Freuds.

3 Wittgenstein’s grammatical investigation 1 ‘I can know what someone else is thinking, not what I am thinking. It is correct to say “I know what you are thinking”, and wrong to say “I know what I am thinking”. (A whole cloud of philosophy condensed into a drop of grammar.)’ (PI 222e).

Notes

2

3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12 13

14 15

245

Redpath, for example, writes of assisting Wittgenstein in translating the preface of a book which he was thinking of publishing (and which was published posthumously as the Investigations). Redpath writes, ‘I had not realized what an exhausting task it would be. We sat for several hours one day thinking out not only every sentence but pretty well every word, and Wittgenstein sometimes got very worked up when he (or we) could not find words or phrases which entirely satisfied him…. It gave one insight into Wittgenstein’s fanatical care for both accuracy and for style’ (Redpath 1990:72–73). MS 118 (12.9.37) as quoted in Hilmy 1987:20. For further discussion see chapter 4. For further discussion of the composition of Wittgenstein’s texts see chapter 4 and Savickey (1998) ‘Wittgenstein’s Nachlass’, Philosophical Investigations, 21:4. See, for example, his response to philosophical questions in chapter 5. See, for example, his description and use of ordinary language in chapter 4. ‘Troubles we get into in philosophy come through constantly trying to construe everything in accordance with one paradigm or model. Philosophy we might say arises out of certain prejudices…. They are prejudices in favour of certain grammatical forms’ (AWL 115). PI 187, 492, 574, 572; 199, 185e, 232, 458; 353; 122; 496. PI 90, 404, 185e, 307, 110. PI 574, 232, 251, 295, 458, 47. PI 371, 392, 251, 295, 47. PI 496, 497, 90, 230e, 307, 373, 520, 110. See, for example, CV 24e, 65e–66e, 82e, 12e, 16e, 39e. This study examines the art or method of grammatical investigation itself. The comparison of Wittgenstein’s philosophy to poetry, music and architecture awaits further study. For further discussion see chapter 4 on ordinary language. For examples and a discussion of conspiracy theories see Hilmy 1987:17– 18. 4 Ordinary language

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

One exception is Cavell’s article ‘On the Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy’ (Cavell 1976). When Wittgenstein does refer to certain schools of thought, he examines their grammar (or common forms of expression) rather than the particular claims that they make. See, for example, the discussion of §402 below. See the discussion of the ‘vernacular’ later in this chapter. MS 219:5, as quoted in Kenny 1982:22. PR V 47, as quoted in Kerr 1989:133. RPP I 630, as quoted in Kerr 1989:64. For a discussion of the differences between Wittgenstein, ordinary-language philosophers and defenders of the philosophical tradition see Cavell’s article ‘On the Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy’ (Cavell 1976). Suter makes a similar point (Suter 1989:22).

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9 Wittgenstein also writes that ‘it is wrong to say that in philosophy we consider an ideal language as opposed to our ordinary one. For this makes it appear as though we thought we could improve on ordinary language. But ordinary language is all right’ (BB 28). 10 MS 110:140, as quoted in Hilmy 1987:243. Moore refers to Wittgenstein’s ‘synopsis of trivialities’ and his claim to be telling his students ‘trivial things’; things which are already known (Moore 1993:114). 11 The context of everyday life may appear trivial but it is not. Both Aidun and Rizvi suggest that Wittgenstein’s concept of grammar might best be conceived as something broad rather than deep, thereby substituting ‘breadth’ for ‘depth’ grammar. 12 Wittgenstein’s remark also captures a sense of struggle and difficulty, as if we were trying to stay afloat. The difficulty is to keep our heads up so that we can breathe. 13 MS 135:12, as quoted in Hilmy 1987:13. 14 For further discussion see chapter 6 on language-games. 15 ‘Goody has pointed out that an entirely oral language which has a term for speech in general…may have no ready term for a “word” as an isolated item, a “bit” of speech…. (Early manuscripts tend not to separate words clearly from each other, but to run them together)’ (Ong 1982:62). 16 The role of the interlocutor in Wittgenstein’s writings is discussed below. 17 Wittgenstein’s own writings do not aspire to this false ideal. For a detailed discussion see the next section. 18 As remarked earlier, this philosophical insight into the visual aspects of written language (especially with Wittgenstein’s explicit references to dictionaries) can be seen as originating in his experiences as an elementary school teacher and in his experiences in writing a dictionary for elementary schools. 19 Wittgenstein also raises the issue of where to begin writing. This issue is discussed below. 20 Mikhail Bakhtin’s words refer to the novel in their original context. The usefulness of many of Bakhtin’s concepts for further describing Wittgenstein’s later writings will here only be acknowledged. Wittgenstein may well have been aware of Bakhtin’s ideas, or have come into contact with them, through his friendship with Nikolai Bakhtin, Mikhail’s older brother. According to Maurice Friedman, it was Nikolai’s work in linguistics which greatly influenced his brother’s work. Eagleton also confirms a connection between Wittgenstein and the Bakhtin brothers in his article ‘Wittgenstein’s Friends’ (1982). 21 ‘Oral singers are likely to favor striking visual imagery…not merely because these are aesthetically pleasing, but also because they serve as storage and recall devices’ (Ong 1967:25). 5 Questions 1 MS 124:278, as quoted in Baker and Hacker 1983:478. 2 We can hear in Wittgenstein’s remarks echoes of a remark made by Kraus concerning questions of ‘time’. Kraus writes that ‘people write about time and space as if they were things which have not yet found any application in practical life’ (Pro damo et mundo: 59, as quoted in Iggers 1967:201).

Notes

3 4

5 6 7

247

For a detailed discussion of the opening passages of the Investigations see chapter 6 on language-games. This is the question which both Russell and Wittgenstein fail to ask in their earlier works (as Wittgenstein acknowledges in his lectures [AWL 11]). Where Wittgenstein views the issue as one of merely giving examples of such primary elements while writing the Tractatus, he now identifies it as a form of philosophical or grammatical confusion. PG 381–382, as quoted in Kerr 1989:51. For a detailed discussion of Wittgenstein’s grammatical methods and orality see chapter 4 on ordinary language. Wittgenstein writes, ‘if you put the metaphysical problem and stick to it in the form in which it first arises…you feel it is insoluble’ (LSD 366). 6 Language-games

1 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11 12

For further discussion of philosophy and play see Geneva 1995:123–128. For further discussion see chapter 4 on ordinary language. It is worth noting that §1 is not a language-game. Wittgenstein introduces and subsequently refers to §1 as an example of a use of language (PI 1, PI 5, BB 69). This shopping example presents a description of a particular use of language which is introduced, described and completely contained within §1. Wittgenstein’s example is not developed through a series of remarks, as are many of his language-games. The pedagogical purpose or role of the example in §1 differs from that of language-games. Wittgenstein first uses the term ‘language-game’ with reference to §2 (PI 7). These questions will be answered below. For further discussion see below. This suggests that his response to Augustine is different in form and aim from standard forms of philosophical criticism. This difference suggests that in merely criticizing and dismissing Augustine we will not learn anything. See the discussion of §32 below. See the discussion of §13 below. Wittgenstein uses the word ‘signify’ as synonymous with ‘mean’ in order to play out a further move in this grammatical game. Later he writes that ‘the word “to signify” is perhaps used in the most straightforward way when the object signified is marked with the sign…’ (PI 15). Baker writes, ‘the more neutral, though less literal, translation of “die Sprache” as “what is said” or “what we say” might have the merit of encouraging further thought about what Wittgenstein might have meant’ (Baker 1992:119). MS 119, as quoted in Hilmy 1987:148. As Wittgenstein says elsewhere, ‘you will notice that in the two languages which we have described there is in a particular sense no “understanding”. There is nothing corresponding to asking for the name of a thing or giving it a name. The philosophical question about meaning would not arise for the philosophers of our tribe’ (AWL 103). 7 Particular cases

1

MS 131:51, as quoted in Hilmy 1987:72.

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Notes

2 This example is used by Wittgenstein to help clarify a grammatical investigation of ‘understanding’. It also serves to clarify concepts such as ‘thinking’, which we are also tempted to approach as ‘mental processes’. It is chosen here as an example because of its detailed and extended use in the Investigations. 3 The pronouns ‘he’ and ‘his’ have been replaced throughout this section by ‘they’ and ‘their’. 8 Analogies 1 MS 158, as quoted in Baker and Hacker 1983:33.

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Index

abstraction, corruption of language through 21 active learning 51, 61, 62 active voice 144–5 aesthetics 101 ambiguity 18, 19, 29 Ambrose, Alice 4 analogies 211–38, 240; see also imagery; metaphor analytic philosophy, Austrian cultural tradition 2 Anscombe, G.E.M. 4, 28–9, 80, 97, 204–7, 208 aphorisms 2, 10, 18–19, 28, 29–30 Arbeitsschule 2, 50–1 argumentation 30, 97, 213 art: grammatical investigation as 101; pedagogy relationship 101–2 assertions: grammatical investigation 30, 97; ordinary language 108–10, 111–12; particular cases 189–90; philosophical questions 145–6 Augustine, St: language-learning 69, 159–61, 164–7, 169, 175–6, 179– 80; orality to literary transition 119–21, 127; respect for 46; time 131–2, 135, 136 Austrian cultural tradition 2, 7, 10, 77, 99 Austrian School Reform Movement 2, 49–76 authenticity 20–1

Baker, G. 91, 174 Baker, G.P. 42, 60, 80, 81, 163, 167, 171–2 Bakhtin, M.W. 120, 124, 125 Bakhtin, Nikolai 86 Barnett, W. 153, 154 Barrett, W. 62, 104 Bartiey, W.W.III 49, 54, 55, 71–2 behaviour, knowledge of sensations 26 behaviourism 24, 25, 208 Benjamin, W. 15, 16, 33–4 Berger, Georg 53 Berger, J. 129 Binkley, T. 95, 103, 178 Black, M. 153 The Blue and Brown Books (BB) 4; analogies 211–12, 218; bodily activity analogy 215; child psychology 72; descriptive method 88; examples 95; generality 181–2; language-games 156–7, 176; literary style 80; locality of thinking 196, 197; mental processes 216, 233–4; metaphysical assertions 109, 189; ordinary language 107; particular cases 183, 184, 186; publication of 85; questions 133, 134, 135, 136–7, 146; reading 200, 205; sentences 222; speaking aloud 234–5; thinking/speaking 186–7

260

Index

Bodenständigkeit 2, 52 bodily activity analogy 215–19 Bodine, J. 21 Bolton, D. 116–17 Bouveresse, J. 10 Braithwaite, R.B. 84 Brecht, Bertolt 47 Bühler, Charlotte 72 Bühler, Karl 72 Burger, Eduard 51, 62 burning analogy 229–30 Buxbaum, Eduard 55 calculus analogy 213, 214 capitalism 12 Carnap, R. 102 Cavell, S.: children 69, 71; confusions 46, 47; culture 43, 48; education 155–6; philosophy 111, 113; questions 150; the vernacular 118 certainty, knowledge relationship 25, 26 children 73–6; child psychology 71–2; education 51–2, 54, 55; languagegames 157, 166; language-learning 69–70, 71, 76, 119, 166–8 Churchill, J. 152–3 civilization, spirit of 40–3, 60 clarification 2, 46, 97–8, 99, 196–7, 207; descriptive method 90; dictionary techniques 57; grammatical method 68; ordinary language 106; particular cases 182–3; philosophical 77, 78; private-language argument 23; progress 43; questions 135, 137, 138– 9, 141, 146, 150; Wittgenstein’s influences 9–10, 22 cliché 11–12, 13, 15,18, 27, 35 common sense 105, 110–11 common usage 20 communality of philosophy 60–1 composition, form of 77, 80–1, 82, 102 condensation metaphor 78, 79 confession 46 Confessions (Augustine) 46, 69, 119– 20, 132, 159, 176, 180 confusion 2, 45, 46–7, 78, 230;

analogies 211, 212, 218–19, 226; grammatical 91–2, 100, 131, 141, 145, 197; language-learning 175; ordinary language 106; questions 131, 133–4, 142, 146, 148; reading investigation 207; thinking 215; weave analogy 237–8; see also misunderstanding conspiracy theories 102–3 context, philosophical statements 190, 191–2 corruption: language-use 2, 15, 17, 20–1, 32–7, 43–5; moral 32–3 Coveos, C.M. 94 criticism: adversarial 213; of Wittgenstein 29, 102–3 culture: Austrian tradition 2, 7, 10, 77, 99; grammar relationship 34–5; Kraus 17; oral 118–19; spirit of civilization 40–3 Culture and Value (CV): aphorisms 29; audience 60; cloud analogy 236; fictitious cases 198; historical development 208; meaning 116; mirror metaphor 31; ordinary language 105; particular cases 184; pedagogy 101; plagiarism 85–6; sentences 43, 79; similes 237; spirit of civilization 40–1; struggle with language 28; teaching method 62; textual language 121–2; thinking 196; thoughts 231; walking metaphor 64, 65; Wittgenstein’s influences 9 dangerous phrases 45 deduction 88–9 definition 122; ostensive 167, 174–5 demonstrative pronoun 140–1 depth grammar 115–16 derivatives 57 description 88, 89–91, 92–4, 96, 170– 2 descriptive method 88, 89–90, 91–2, 93–4, 96 dialectical exchange 126–7 dictionary 55–8, 67, 118

Index

Die Dritte Walpurgisnacht (The Third Walpurgis Night) 39 Die Fackel (The Torch) 7, 8, 9, 11, 17, 37, 40, 45 discourse: active response 124; political 17 disputes, philosophical 109–10 doubt 26 Drury, M. O’C. 44, 47, 86, 95 education 2, 49–76; imagination 155– 6; oral culture 118–19; reading relationship 199–200 empirical questions 143 Engelmann, P. 8, 9, 20, 32–3, 50, 130 environment, rooting education in 2, 52, 54, 63–4 episodic structure 127–8 essence of language 107–8, 159–60, 162, 163, 176, 177–80 ethics 34 examples 5, 67–8, 94, 95–6; see also particular cases ‘experiences of understanding’ 205 explanation 88–9, 90–1, 96, 161, 179 expressions: analogies 212, 223; different forms 225, 226; misunderstanding 227–8; multiple uses 192–3; ordinary language 109, 110; pain-behaviour 24–5; particular cases 184–5, 186, 188; of thought 212–13 false ornamentation 20, 21 Fann, K.T. 49, 59, 100–1, 105, 130 fascism 40, 41 ‘fetish of language’ 16 fictitious cases 181, 197–9, 205, 207, 208, 209 Field, F. 7, 10, 17, 36, 37, 38 First World War: atrocities 47; corruption of language 35; ‘great times’ cliché 11–15 flame analogy 229–30 form of composition 77, 80–1, 82, 102 form of words 1, 77, 240 ‘forms of life’ 112, 118, 153, 209

261

Fuchs, Oskar 53, 54 game analogy 158–9, 213, 214 Geach, Peter 4 generality 181–2, 183, 204–5, 214 German language 34, 36 Gesamtunterricht 52 the given 112 Glöckel, Otto 50, 51–2, 53, 55 grammar: clarity 96, 97–8, 99; culture relationship 34–5; depth 115–16; description 94; essence of language 179; intermediate cases 193–4; locality of thought 196, 197; metaphysical assertions 108–9; questions 135, 137, 138–9; textual emphasis 121; uses of 99–100 ‘great times’ cliché 11–15, 18 guessing thoughts 193–5 Hacker, P.M.S. 42, 60, 80, 81, 163, 167, 171–2 Hargrove, E.C. 54, 72–3 hat analogy 231–3 Hausmann, L. 53, 54, 55 Havelock, E. 119 Heller, E. 16, 17–18, 28, 33 helplessness 188 heuristic models 152–3 Hilmy, S. 65, 152 Hitler, Adolf 37, 38 hope 74 Hubner, Adolf 57 Huizinga, J. 155 humour 13–14, 114, 156 Hyde, L. 102, 239 hypocrisy 8, 18, 20 Iggers, W.A. 17, 18, 38, 39 Illich, I. 117, 118, 120 imagery: journeying 128–9, 238; landscape 64–6, 81, 128–9; visual 125; see also analogies; metaphor imagination 13, 102, 155 immediate private sensations 25 imprecision, linguistic 18, 19, 20 incorporeal processes 216 influences 9–10

262

Index

inner processes, children 75 integrated learning 66–7 intention 26–7 interlocutors 126–7, 161, 162, 177–8, 179 intermediate cases 97, 181, 193–5, 197 introspection 120, 133 irony 22 Jackson, A.C. 4 James, William 222 Janik, A. 8, 32 jokes, grammatical 114–15 journeying imagery 128–9, 238 justice: Kraus 33; Wittgenstein 44–5 Kenner, H. 123 Kenny, A. 76, 130–1, 151 Kerr, F. 112, 127, 146, 163, 189 knowledge: language-games 153; philosophical questions 134–5; private sensations 25–6; queerness of 230 Koderhold, Emmerich 53 Kraus, Karl 2, 7–18, 77, 119 landscape imagery 64–6, 81, 128–9 ‘The Language of Sense Data and Private Experience’ (LSD) 150, 226 language-games 62, 69, 70, 75, 152– 80, 239–10; active/passive voice 144–5; ‘forms of life’ 112; meaning 137 language-learning 3, 159–60, 161, 165, 175–6, 179–80; children 69– 70, 71, 76, 119, 166–8; oral culture 118–19, 120; textualization 120–1 language-reform 106–7 language-use: corruption of 2, 15, 17, 20–1, 32–7, 43–5; descriptive method 93–4; game analogy 213, 214; meaning of words 160–1, 166; mental processes 207, 208; ordinary 108, 116–17; privatelanguage argument 23–7;

textualization 120–3; verbal expression 25; the vernacular 118 Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol I (LWPP I) 89–90, 93, 147, 189, 194 learning: by doing 50–1, 54, 55, 62; integrated 66–7; through play 155; see also language-learning lectures 3–1, 58–60, 100–1 Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief (LC) 1, 124 Leonardo da Vinci 31 Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph 34 literacy 119–21 locality of thinking 195–7 logicians 191 Loos, Adolf 9, 34 lying 74–5, 186 MacDiarmid, H. 17 MacDonald, Margaret 4 McGuinness, B. 30, 97, 128, 150 madness 47 Malcolm, N.: Augustine 180; Braithwaite incident 84–5; dangerous phrases 45; examples 68; fictitious cases 198; lectures 58, 59; method 81; Philosophical Investigations 87–8; progress 41– 2; questions 130 meaning: concept of 163, 164, 167, 176; explanation of 136–8; language-games 158; particular cases 187; speaking aloud 234–5; teaching 96; words 117, 137–8, 160– 1, 166, 169–73, 214–15 measurement, philosophical questions 138–9 mental processes: object substitution 233–4, 235, 236; queerness of 230; reading 201–2, 203–4, 207–8; thinking 193–4, 195–6, 216–18, 225, 227 mental states 216, 217, 233 metaphor: mirror 22, 31;

Index

precipitation 78, 79; walking 64–5, 128–9; see also analogies; imagery metaphysical language 105, 107, 108– 9, 189–90 method 77, 81, 99, 239, 240; descriptive 88, 89–90, 91–2, 93–4, 96; examples 5; form of words 1; language-games 153–4, 156, 157–8; Socratic 59, 130, 147; teaching 2–3, 94, 95, 100–1, 102, 103 Mind 84 mind: locality of thinking 196–7; reading 201 mirror metaphor 22, 31 misunderstanding: analogies 211–12, 214; forms of expression 227–8; ordinary language 106; particular cases 183–4; see also confusion money analogy 214–15 Monk, R. 8, 54 Moore, G.E. 99, 101, 131, 149 moral corruption 32–3 music analogy 224, 226 mysteriousness 227, 228, 229–30, 235, 236 names: language-games 172–3, 174– 5; sensations 24, 25 natural history 208–9 Nazism 36–9; see also Third Reich Nestroy, Johann 8, 10, 40, 42, 119 newspapers 21, 22 Nieli, R. 76 ‘Notes for Lectures on “Private Experience” and “Sense Data”’ (LPE) 106, 149–50, 186, 188 objects: ordinary 63–4; substitution of 233–4, 235, 236 Ong, W. 117, 119–20, 121–2, 124, 126–7, 128, 129, 155 opinion 16, 96 orality 118–19, 123–4, 126, 127–8, 147 ordinary language 20–1, 30, 63, 104– 29, 158, 239 ornamentation 20, 21 orthography 55

263

ostensive definition 167, 174–5 ostensive teaching 70–1 other minds 188–9, 190 pain, expression of 24–5, 26 Papanek, E. 51, 52 parallel cases see analogies particular cases 181–210, 240; see also examples passive voice 144–5 pedagogy 2–3, 50, 59, 76, 77; art relationship 101–2; play 155; questions 147–8 perfection of language 114 persuasion 124–5 philosophers 205–6 Philosophical Grammar (PG) 93–4, 106 Philosophical Investigations (PI) 1, 3, 7, 48; analogies 211; Augustine 69; children 70, 74, 75; criticism of 80; culture 40, 43; definitions 122; depth grammar 115; description 88, 90–1; destruction 45; examples 94, 95; expressions 228; fictitious cases 198, 199; ‘forms of life’ 112; generality 214; grammatical clarity 97, 98–9; guessing thoughts 193, 194, 195; incorporeal processes 216; integrated learning 66; journeying analogy 238; landscape imagery 128; language-games 154, 156, 157, 158, 159–61, 163–4, 165–79; language-learning 120; language-reform 107; learning from the environment 63; meaning 137; mental processes 216–17, 218; motto 40, 41–2; natural history 208–9; Nestroy quote 10; object substitution 236; ordinary language 30, 108, 109, 113–14, 116; particular cases 182, 185, 188–9, 190; pedagogical emphasis 50, 61–2; possibility 44; preface 77–8, 86–7; private-language argument 23–7; psychology 72;

264

Index

publishing issues 83, 84; queerness of knowledge 230; questions 130–1, 132, 140–5, 150–1;

psychology, child 71–2 publishing issues 83–5, 86 punctuation 28–9

reading 199–204; recalling to mind 136;

questions 130–51, 162–3, 239 quotation 33, 34, 38

remarks 79, 81, 125; rules 213; slogans 126; structure 127; struggle with language 28; theses 111; thinkings 5, 218, 219, 221, 225, 227; walking metaphor 65; weave analogy 237; wordless thoughts 222–3 Philosophical Remarks (PR) 40, 86 philosophy: abstraction 21; aim of 113; argumentation 213; assertions 30, 97, 108–10, 111–12, 145–6, 189–90; communality of 60–1; depth of 114–15; descriptive method 88–9, 91; examples 191; generality 181–2, 183; landscape imagery 129; ordinary language 104–5, 106, 107; play relationship 155, 156; questions 146–7, 148, 150–1; textualization of language use 120–2, 124 ‘Philosophy’ (P): analogies 212; descriptive method 91–2, 93; expression of thought 212–13; grammatical connections 192; injustice 44–5; ordinary language 117–18; particular cases 181; questions 149, 150; remembering 136 plagiarism 83, 84, 85–6 Plato 75, 147 play 155–6 poetic justice 32–3, 34 politics, Kraus 16, 17 precipitation metaphor 78, 79 precision, linguistic 17–18, 19, 22 primitive language: language games 152, 155, 157, 164–7, 172, 176; objects 163; training 70; words 73 privacy 25, 27 private-language argument 23–7 progress, European/American culture 41–3 propaganda 15, 20, 35, 37

Ramsey, Frank 87 reading: fictitious cases 199–204, 205–8; Krausian aphorisms 18–19; silent 120; Wittgenstein 28, 29 reading-machines 199, 200, 202, 203– 4, 205, 207 realism 213 recall to mind 136 Redpath, T. 58–9, 122, 125–6, 148–9 reference 24, 25, 153 reforming language 106–7 remarks 29, 79, 80, 81, 82, 110, 125 Remarks on the Foundations of Metaphysics (RFM) 66, 147 Remarks on Frazer’s ‘Golden Bough’ (RFGB) 116, 228 Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol II (RPP II) 74, 75, 198 remembering 136, 188 reminding 135, 136 representation, perspicuous 97–8, 99 response 124–5 Rhees, R. 174 Ricks, C. 122 Rosner, Norbert 54–5 rules 213, 214 Russell, Bertrand 141, 176 satire 21–2, 30–2, 38, 44, 45–6 Schopenhauer, Arthur 65, 125 sensations, private-language argument 23–7 sentences: Kraus 16; thought comparison 222 seriousness 13–14 Shah, Kanti 4 Shanker, S.G. 152 shared language 46 signification 137–8, 169–70, 171, 172–3

Index

silence 8–9, 14–15, 36, 37, 40 silent reading 120 Skinner, Francis 4 slogans 17, 20, 125–6 socialism 40, 41 Socratic method 59, 130, 147 soul-less tribe 198, 199 speech: asides 234–5; languagegames 174; orality 118, 119, 123, 124; thinking relationship 186–7, 219, 220, 221, 223–6 Sraffa, P. 87 statements 109–10, 136 Stern, J.P.: Kraus 10, 11, 17, 19, 20, 21; moral struggle 32; Nazi Germany 36, 37, 40 Sterne, Laurence 122–3 surface grammar 115–16 teaching 50, 53–5, 61–2, 70–1, 73; examples 95–6; language-games 154; method 100–1, 103; ostensive 167–8; questions 147–8; style 3–4, 58–60 technical language, Kraus 21 textualization of language 119–23 Theaetetus 75, 141, 176–7 thinking 5, 114; bodily activity analogy 215–19; extraordinary nature of 228–9; flame analogy 229–30; guessing thoughts 194–5; hat analogy 231–3; ‘in a flash’ 219– 21, 226–7; locality of 195–7; particular cases 185, 186–7; philosophical questions 132–3, 134; speech relationship 219, 220, 221, 223–6; wordless thoughts 222–3 Third Reich 2, 36–9, 45 time, philosophical question of 131–2, 135, 136, 138–9 Timms, E. 11, 13, 14, 20, 21–2, 35, 44 Toulmin, S. 8, 32 Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (TLP) 8–9, 42, 49, 83 training, language-learning 70–1, 167–8, 175, 179 Tristram Shandy (Sterne) 122–3

265

uncertainty, intentions 26–7 understanding: ‘experiences of’ 205; Kraus and his public 19–20; reading 202, 204, 206 Ungar, F. 33 ‘unperceived physical proceedings’ 195 verbal expression 24–5, 234–5 verbal learning 155 verbs, active/passive 144–5 vernacular 117–18, 119 Vienna 7, 40, 54 Viertel, Berthold 40 visual imagery 125 vocabulary 104–5 voice, active 144–5 Von Wright, G.H. 30, 41, 58, 82, 102 walking metaphor 64–5, 128–9 ‘weave’ analogy 237–8 Wittgenstein, Hermine 53–4 Wittgenstein’s Lectures Cambridge 1932–35 (AWL) 4; analogy 236; children 73–4; common sense 110; confusion 106, 207; context of philosophical statements 191; examples 95–6; grammatical connections 192; landscape imagery 65–6; language-games 152, 154, 157, 169; learning 70; mental cramp 165; method 1; money analogy 214–15; multiple uses of words 193; natural history 209; objects 63–4; ordinary language 94; psychology 71; pure thought 222; questions 132–3, 147; Schopenhauer 125 Wittgenstein’s Lectures on the Foundations of Mathematics 1939 (WLFM) 92, 96 Wittgenstein’s Lectures on Philosophical Psychology 1946–7 (WLPP) 4; description 89, 93; fictitious cases 198, 199; language-games 174; meaning 138; measuring time 139;

266

Index

new words 107; other minds 190; particular cases 183–4; questions 131, 132, 134, 135, 148, 150; reminders 188; thinking 218, 220–1, 223–5, 227, 229; words 111 wordless thoughts 222–3 words: clarification of 97; description 92–4; dictionary order 56– 7; falseness of clichés 15; First World War 35; form of 1, 77, 240; grammatical questions 143; importance of 108; Kraus 10, 14–15, 17; language-games 154, 157–8, 170–2; language-reform 107; meaning 117, 137–8, 160–1, 163, 166, 169–73;

misunderstanding 227–8; money analogy 214–15; multiple uses of 192–3; particular cases 182–3, 184–5; philosophical assertions 111–12; reading 200; sensation reference 23–1, 27; surface grammar 115–16; teaching 73, 167–8; thought relationship 222; use of 187; ‘weave’ analogy 237 Wörterbuch für Volksschulen (WV) 55–8, 67 Zettel: education 70, 71, 72; flame analogy 229–30; philosophical disquiet 237–8; thinking 114, 195, 228; ‘weave’ analogy 237; words 92–3 Zohn, H. 17, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39