Language fundamentally consists of words symbolizing objects. Sentences are combinations of these symbols. Every word has a meaning, representing an object or concept. Augustine's view of language acquisition emphasizes observing elders and associating their words with actions and objects. This understanding is based on body language and vocal tones expressing desires or rejections.
This perspective suggests language learning primarily involves nouns, with other word types considered secondary. However, language use extends beyond this framework. For instance, in a shopping scenario, a person uses a list of words ("five red apples") to communicate specific needs. Here, the focus isn't on the word's meaning but its usage in context.
In a more primitive language, like the one used by a builder and assistant using words like "block," "pillar," "slab," and "beam," the language serves a specific, functional purpose. It is a system of communication but does not encompass all aspects of language.
Ostensive teaching, where words are associated with objects, plays a role in language learning. However, the understanding of words also depends on the context and training. For example, the word "slab" gains meaning not just from pointing to a slab but from the actions and contexts surrounding its use.
The concept of a "language-game" is introduced to describe these uses and learning processes of language. Language-games show the varied and practical ways language is intertwined with actions.
The expansion of language, including additional words and rules, demonstrates the complexity and adaptability of language systems. In this expanded system, learning involves both memorizing and understanding the application of words in specific contexts.
In summary, language is a complex system of symbols and actions, learned through a combination of observation, association, and contextual usage. The meaning of words is not just in their direct representation of objects but also in their functional use within a language system.
In language, words signify through their usage, which can be as diverse as tools in a toolbox. A word's function isn't inherent in its form but in how it's employed in various contexts. For instance, the word "slab" in a builder's language signifies a specific object, but this significance is derived from its practical application, not just from a direct correlation with the object.
The usage of words like “a”, “b”, etc., in a language system can be akin to numbering, distinguishing their role from words that directly refer to physical objects. The function and meaning of words are not uniformly aligned; they vary significantly based on context and application.
Words in a language can be compared to components of a machine, like a locomotive's levers, each with a distinct function and operation mode. This analogy illustrates the diverse and specific roles words can play in a language system.
The statement “Every word in language signifies something” is vague without specifying the kind of signification or context. Words can have meaning in a specific language game or system, but this meaning is not universal or inherent to the word itself outside of its context.
Naming or signifying can be as simple as attaching a label to an object, but this process varies in complexity depending on the language system. Tools with labels, color samples in a builder's language, or the use of the word “the” as a sample in teaching pronunciation are all examples of how naming or signifying works in different contexts.
Ultimately, the classification of words into types depends on the purpose of the classification and personal inclination, much like classifying tools or chess pieces. The structure and completeness of a language are flexible and can evolve to include new symbols and notations, much like a city growing and changing over time.
Language can consist of various forms, like orders, reports, or questions, each forming a different aspect of life. The function and meaning of a word or sentence, such as “Slab!” in a builder's language, depend on its use within a specific language game. The meaning is not always a direct translation or extension of a sentence but is shaped by the context and purpose within the language system.
In language, meaning is not inherent in words themselves but in their usage within specific contexts. A command like "Bring me a slab" can be perceived as a single word or as a sequence of words, depending on the context and the speaker's intention. The differentiation lies in the language game being played, not in the utterance itself.
The function of a sentence, whether as a command, a statement, or a question, is determined by its role in the language game, not necessarily by its structure or form. The same sentence can serve different purposes based on how it's used in various contexts. For example, the difference between the statement "Five slabs" and the command "Five slabs!" is primarily in their application within the language game.
The notion that every assertion contains an assumption, as proposed by Frege, is a reflection of the possibility of structuring language in certain ways, like writing every statement as "It is asserted that..." However, this structure doesn't fundamentally alter the nature of the statement or its role in communication.
The variety and flexibility of language are exemplified by the countless forms it can take, from commands to questions to storytelling. This diversity reflects the multiple functions and uses of language in human life. Language is part of our activities and forms of life, and its complexity cannot be reduced to a single function or structure.
Naming objects is just a preliminary aspect of language use. The act of naming prepares for further language use, which can vary widely in function and context. In different language games, the same words can serve different purposes, from naming to commanding to questioning.
Ostensive definition, where a word is defined through direct demonstration, can be interpreted in various ways depending on the context and the understanding of the person receiving the definition. The interpretation is revealed through the use of the word in subsequent communication.
In summary, language's meaning and function are not fixed but depend on its usage within the complex and varied framework of human activities and forms of life. Understanding language requires recognizing its diversity and adaptability across different contexts and purposes.
Ostensive definitions clarify a word's use or meaning within the context of a language's overall structure. For instance, explaining a color word like “sepia” through pointing is effective if the concept of color is already understood. However, this method can be ambiguous and open to misinterpretation, yet it remains a valid approach to defining words.
In language learning, some knowledge or skill is needed before one can meaningfully inquire about a word's name. For example, understanding chess requires more than just knowing the names of the pieces; it involves grasping the game's rules and the role of each piece.
In language-game (2), the relation between a name and the thing named involves various elements, like associating the name with a visual image of the thing or using the name when pointing to the object. However, words like "this" in ostensive definitions don't function as names in the usual sense. They don't follow the pattern of being defined as "That is N" or "This is called 'N'."
The temptation to treat words like "this" as names arises from a misunderstanding of naming as an esoteric connection between a word and an object. This misunderstanding is evident when philosophers intensely focus on an object and repeatedly utter a word, creating a peculiar use of language that deviates from its everyday function.
The idea that a name should signify something simple stems from the misconception that the meaning of a complex object's name becomes void if the object is disassembled or altered. This leads to the flawed conclusion that the real names in language must refer to indivisible simples. However, this view ignores the fact that language functions effectively even when names refer to complex objects, and the meaning of sentences remains intact despite the changing state of the objects they refer to.
In summary, understanding language involves recognizing the contextual and flexible nature of definitions, the prerequisite knowledge for meaningful language use, and the distinction between the ordinary function of words and philosophical abstractions. Language is not strictly about naming simples but about effective communication within various contexts and practices.
The concept of "meaning" in language is often misunderstood. Meaning is not equivalent to an object that corresponds to a word. The death of a person, for example, doesn't imply the death of the meaning of their name. In language, the meaning of a word is tied to its use, not solely to an entity it may represent.
In a language game, a tool's corresponding sign (like “N”) retains its meaning even if the tool breaks or ceases to exist. The sign's meaning is dependent on the rules and conventions of the language game, which can adapt to include signs for non-existent or broken tools.
A word like “X,” never used for a tool in the language game, can still have meaning if the game's rules assign it a role, like responding with a specific action when it's given.
In many cases, the meaning of a word is its use in language. For instance, the meaning of a name can be explained by pointing to its bearer, but this act of pointing does not transform the demonstrative word into a name.
The idea that names signify simple, indivisible entities arises from a misunderstanding. Reality's constituent parts can't be strictly defined as simple or composite without context. The complexity of an object like a chessboard depends on the perspective and language game in play.
In a language game designed for describing colored squares, names might correspond to colored squares. These elements can be considered simple within this specific game, but their simplicity is relative to the game's rules.
Naming and describing are not equivalent actions. Naming prepares for description and has meaning only within a language game. A name by itself, outside the context of a language game, doesn't constitute an action or carry meaning.
Elements in a language game can't be said to exist or not exist in the traditional sense. Their "existence" is defined by their role in the game, similar to how the standard meter in Paris defines length. An element in a language game serves as a means of representation within that game.
In summary, understanding language and meaning requires acknowledging the contextual nature of words and their roles within specific language games. The meaning of a word is defined by its use and function in communication, not just by an external entity it might represent.
A sign's correspondence to an element in a language-game isn't based solely on mental association or consistent usage. For instance, if a user of the language mistakenly uses “R” for a black square, determining this as a mistake depends on the established norms of the language-game.
The use of tables or paradigms in teaching and using the language can be thought of as tools or rules within the language-game. These tools help in translating signs into representations (like colored squares) and vice versa. The rules in a language-game can vary widely in their role and application.
The concept of rules in a game is multifaceted. They can be explicit instructions for learning, intrinsic to the game, or inferred from observing the game. Understanding whether a player's action is correct or a mistake involves interpreting their behavior within the context of the game.
The idea that the meanings of words are indestructible is a misunderstanding. It's incorrect to think that the meaning of a word like “red” is independent of the existence of red things. The meaning of words is tied to their use in language, which can change or cease. For example, if we forget what “red” refers to, the word loses its meaning for us, akin to losing a paradigm in language.
Restricting the term “name” to non-existential statements leads to confusion. Statements like “Red exists” or “Red does not exist” are actually about the use of the word “red,” not about the nature of the color red. These statements are metaphysical interpretations that confuse the nature of red with the function of the word in language.
The idea that names signify indestructible elements of reality stems from a particular picture of reality we construct from our experiences. We see objects as composed of parts, some changeable and some not, and from this, we form an image of reality with indestructible elements. However, this image is a product of our language and thought, not a direct representation of reality as it is.
When saying "My broom is in the corner," this statement doesn't necessarily dissect into statements about the broomstick and brush. It could be replaced by a more detailed description of each part's location, but the original statement operates at a level of generality that doesn't require such specificity. This distinction illustrates how language can function effectively without always needing to be broken down into its constituent parts.
In language games, we can have two modes: one where composite objects like brooms have names, and another where only parts are named, with wholes described through these parts. An order in the latter mode isn't necessarily a more fundamental form of the order in the former. Both achieve the same end, albeit through different means. The 'analysed' form isn't inherently superior; it simply offers a different perspective.
This leads to a broader philosophical question about the nature of language. The essence of language, or of a language game, isn't found in a common element shared by all instances. Rather, language is characterized by a network of overlapping and criss-crossing similarities, akin to family resemblances among members of a family. These resemblances aren't based on a single common thread but on a series of interconnected, overlapping features.
This concept applies to games, numbers, and other categories. The boundaries of these categories aren't fixed but are flexible, based on their use and the context in which they're employed. For example, the concept of a game doesn't have strict boundaries but is understood through a range of activities that share family resemblances.
Therefore, understanding a concept like a game doesn't require strict definitions or boundaries. It's about recognizing the fluid and overlapping nature of how we use language and how these uses relate to each other in various, often subtle, ways. This understanding underscores the complexity and richness of language, highlighting that it functions not through rigid rules but through a more dynamic and interconnected web of meanings and uses.
In philosophical investigations, the concepts of games, language, and the use of words are explored with an emphasis on the flexible, context-dependent nature of language. Wittgenstein challenges the idea that precise definitions are necessary for understanding concepts like 'game' or 'chair.' Instead, he argues that understanding comes from recognizing the various ways these terms are used in different contexts, akin to family resemblances.
The statement "My broom is in the corner" is not necessarily a detailed account of the broomstick and brush's positions but a more general description. The complexity of language is such that a single statement can encapsulate a variety of meanings without needing to be explicitly analyzed into constituent parts.
In language games, orders can be given with different levels of specificity, either naming composite objects like 'broom' or describing objects through their parts. Neither method is more fundamental; they simply represent different ways of conveying information.
When we say "There is a chair," and it seems to disappear and reappear, this challenges our understanding of the word "chair" and its application. The disappearance doesn't negate the chair's existence; rather, it prompts us to consider the circumstances under which we apply this term.
Logic, as F. P. Ramsey suggested, is normative, but this doesn't imply that language users are always engaged in a game with fixed rules. The idea of an 'ideal' language is a misconception. Logic is not about creating an ideal language; it's about understanding the use and function of our existing language.
Determining the rule by which someone proceeds in language use involves observing their word usage or asking them directly. However, rules are not always clear, and definitions can change. The meaning of "the rule by which he proceeds" is thus not always straightforward.
Language can be compared to a game where rules are sometimes made or altered as we go. A rule in language, like a sign-post, does not always remove doubt; its interpretation can vary.
In language games, using a table or a rule for interpretation can be modified, showing that rules and their application can change. The explanation of words like “Moses” or “Egypt” can always be questioned further, down to even the simplest terms. An explanation helps us understand only to the extent that it removes a specific misunderstanding, not all imaginable ones.
The concept of exactness in language is relative and context-dependent. What counts as 'exact' in one scenario may not in another. There's no single standard of exactness; it's determined by the purpose and context of the communication.
Logic's perceived depth and universality stem from its aim to understand the essence of things, not to discover new facts. It seeks to clarify what's already visible but not fully understood, similar to Augustine's reflection on time: clear until we try to explain it. Logic is about reminding ourselves of what we know but struggle to articulate.
Our investigation, rather than probing phenomena, explores their possibilities and the nature of statements about them. This is a grammatical inquiry, aiming to dispel misunderstandings in language use, often through expression analysis. Misconceptions about language's essence - as something hidden requiring revelation for complete clarity - lead to the notion of an ultimate, exact expression. However, this pursuit overlooks the already apparent essence of language and its straightforward functionality. The essence, mistakenly viewed as hidden and requiring extraction, fuels questions about the fundamental nature of language and propositions. Misinterpretations of language logic make propositions seem extraordinary, whereas they are quite ordinary. Thought, too, is seen as unique, capable of reflecting both reality and its absence. This gives rise to a perceived special relationship between thought, language, propositions, and the world, yet without a clear application for these concepts. The supposed essence of language is not profound but should be as ordinary as everyday objects. Our language, in its current form, is already orderly and makes sense, even in its vagueness. The pursuit of a perfect language is unnecessary; sense and order exist even in ambiguity. An indefinite boundary or enclosure still serves a purpose, contrary to the belief that it achieves nothing.
The role of ideals in language is often misunderstood. We are dazzled by the idea of purity, which hinders our understanding of words like "game." Language games can still exist despite some vagueness in rules.
Logic is perceived as needing to be devoid of vagueness, reflecting a misplaced belief in the necessity of finding the ideal in reality. However, the ideal logic appears more as a background framework, which we think we see but don't fully understand.
The concept of the ideal in logic is like glasses we never take off, shaping our perception without us realizing it. We often mistake the method of representing something for the thing itself, and this leads to believing we perceive a universal state of affairs.
We become dissatisfied with ordinary propositions and words because they don't match the supposed purity and clarity of the ideal. This dissatisfaction stems from a misinterpretation of language forms, and we wrongly assume that thinking and language must be something unique and sublime.
We should not view language as a phenomenon separate from its everyday use. The real task of philosophy is to clarify language and its usage, not to provide new information. This involves organizing what we already know and battling against the confusion caused by language.
Philosophical problems often seem profound because they are rooted deeply in our language forms. The depth we feel in philosophy is akin to the depth we feel in a grammatical joke; it arises from a misinterpretation of language.
Our perception is often held captive by pictures or analogies in our language, making us think we are grasping the essence when we are only circling around our own frame of reference.
Philosophy's task is to return words from their metaphysical use back to their everyday use. This involves questioning whether words like “knowledge,” “being,” and “object” are used in their original language games.
The importance of philosophical investigation lies in its ability to clear misunderstandings and dismantle misconceptions, much like clearing rubble to reveal the solid ground of language beneath. It helps us recognize and correct the nonsense and confusion arising from the misuse of language.
When discussing language, we must use everyday language, which seems too coarse for philosophical concepts, yet we manage to communicate effectively with it. This indicates that philosophical explanations are inherently rooted in everyday language, showing that deeper insights about language can be derived from its ordinary use.
The meaning of a word isn't separate from the word itself; it's more akin to its use than a distinct entity. Philosophy doesn’t require a specialized language; it deals with the language we use daily.
The idea of a second-order philosophy for discussing philosophy itself is unnecessary. Philosophy is more like orthography, which includes its own name in its study without being second-order.
Understanding language hinges on a clear view of word usage. Our grammar lacks clarity, necessitating the invention of intermediate cases for better understanding. This approach aims for a perspicuous representation to see connections and understand language better.
Philosophical problems often arise from not knowing our way about our language. Philosophy's role isn't to change language but to describe its actual use, leaving things as they are. It also doesn't aim to resolve contradictions through discoveries in logic or mathematics but to clarify the state of affairs that causes confusion.
Philosophy's task is to put everything before us without explanation, as the problems often arise from things hidden in plain sight due to their simplicity and familiarity.
The goal of philosophy isn't to refine language with new rules but to achieve clarity by making philosophical problems disappear. This is done not by proposing a single philosophical method but by demonstrating a method through examples, leading to the resolution of problems.
Finally, understanding a word like "cube" involves more than just associating it with a mental image. The meaning of a word is closely tied to its use in language, and while a mental image can guide our understanding, it doesn't rigidly determine it. The meaning of words is flexible and can adapt to different contexts and uses.
The mistake in thinking a picture forces a particular use stems from overlooking other possible interpretations. We're under a psychological, not logical, compulsion, influenced by typical uses of a picture. Recognizing alternative applications is crucial; the belief that a picture dictates a single use arises when we only consider one possibility. The same picture can come to mind, but its application may vary, affecting its meaning.
Even when a method of projection is considered alongside a picture, like a cube with lines indicating perspective, this doesn't guarantee a fixed application. Different uses can still be imagined. Understanding an application involves both the mental picture and how it's used over time. There can be a clash between the anticipated use of a picture and its actual application, categorized as normal or abnormal cases.
In language learning, like understanding numerical sequences, there are both normal and abnormal reactions. A systematic error might be perceived as a misunderstanding. The learning process might end if the pupil cannot adapt to the standard method, and teaching may adjust to accommodate the pupil's method.
In philosophy, changing someone's perspective is like presenting a new picture or analogy, altering how they view a situation. Understanding a system, like a numerical sequence, depends on the learner's response to explanations and demonstrations.
Understanding a rule or system doesn't merely involve applying it to a specific extent; it's not just a state that leads to correct use. It's more about the capability to apply the rule correctly in various contexts. This understanding is a disposition, a readiness to apply the rule correctly, rather than a constant state of mind.
Knowing something like the ABC is a disposition, a state of readiness in the mind or brain, enabling us to demonstrate that knowledge when needed. It's not a continuous state of consciousness, but a potential manifested in specific situations. This distinction highlights the difference between active states of consciousness and the latent capacity to use knowledge appropriately.
The grammar of "knows" is related to "can," "is able to," and "understands," indicating mastery of a technique. This understanding can emerge suddenly, as in the example of B recognizing the pattern in a series of numbers. This sudden understanding, or knowing how to continue, isn't just about a formula occurring to B; it's more than the formula or its mental accompaniments.
Understanding isn't merely a hidden mental process behind observable actions. It's more about the circumstances in which we say "Now I know how to go on." Understanding is not a mental process in the same way as hearing a tune. It's more about being in a position to apply a rule or formula correctly in relevant circumstances.
In learning to read, both a beginner and a practiced reader might say the word "cat," but the word "read" applies differently to each. For the beginner, reading might seem like a special conscious activity, but for the practiced reader, it could be automatic. This suggests that the mental processes or mechanisms behind reading are hypothetical models that explain observable behaviors.
In the case of a reading machine, reading is defined by reacting to written signs in certain ways, independent of any mental or mechanical processes. The transition from not reading to reading is a change in behavior, not necessarily a change in mental state. Our understanding of what happens in the brain and nervous system is limited; our confidence in a reading connection being established is based more on convincing forms of explanation rather than definitive knowledge.
The act of consciously reading from letters is often seen as the real criterion for reading. However, this can be misleading, as illustrated by the example of someone pretending to read Cyrillic script. The sensations experienced while reading and the sensations during pretense are distinct, indicating that conscious experience is a crucial aspect of reading. This distinction shows that understanding and learning are complex processes involving both external behaviors and internal experiences.
The idea that reading is a "quite particular process" can be misleading. Reading involves recognizing and interpreting symbols according to learned rules, but the internal experience can vary. For example, if someone reads fluently but feels like they're reciting from memory, we might still consider this reading. Alternatively, if someone responds to unfamiliar symbols as if they were reading, we might question whether this is truly reading or creating an ad hoc alphabet.
Reading isn't just about a mental process or the sensation of being influenced by the letters. The act of reading can be described in many ways, from following a learned rule to the automatic association of symbols with sounds. The sensation of reading is influenced by familiarity with the symbols and the context in which they're encountered.
The definition of reading can change depending on the situation and the individual's experience and learning process. There is no single, essential mental process that defines reading. Instead, reading is a complex activity that involves both learned behavior and subjective experience. The feeling of being influenced by letters or symbols is just one aspect of this multifaceted process. Reading involves not just recognizing symbols but also understanding and interpreting them, which can occur in various ways depending on the reader's experience, training, and context.
Understanding the use of words like "knows," "can," "understands," and "fits" requires recognizing their varied applications in language. These words don't always refer to a single, clear-cut mental state or process; their meanings are shaped by the context and specific language games in which they are used.
For instance, when someone claims to know how to continue a series of numbers, this statement isn't just a description of a mental state. It's more like a signal, validated by their subsequent ability to continue the series correctly. The correctness of the claim is judged by what follows, not by the presence of a particular mental state at the moment of speaking.
Similarly, the ability to do something, like lifting a weight or fitting an object into a space, can change over time. The criteria for these abilities are complex and context-dependent. For example, a person might initially be able to lift a weight but then become unable to do so. The judgment about their ability depends on various factors, including the circumstances and the individual's condition.
These complexities in language usage demonstrate that philosophical problems often arise from misunderstandings of how words function in different contexts. Resolving these problems requires a deep understanding of the role these words play in our language. Simple definitions or claims about indefinability usually fail to address the underlying issues. Instead, it's necessary to examine the diverse ways in which words are employed in language games and everyday communication.
The concept of meaning or understanding something, like a mathematical formula or a machine's operation, is often perceived as if the entire application or action is already present in the initial concept or symbol. This perception can lead to the mistaken belief that understanding or meaning involves grasping the entirety of an application in a single, definitive moment.
In the case of the series "add n" (where n is a constant number), the belief might arise that when giving the instruction, one's mind has somehow already traversed all possible steps. This view implies that the instruction contains a kind of pre-determination of all future actions. However, what really happens is that the instruction is used within a certain framework of rules and training, and its application depends on how it is interpreted and applied in practice.
When someone suddenly recalls a tune or figures out how to continue a mathematical series, it might feel as if the entire sequence or melody is present in their mind. But this feeling does not necessarily mean the entire content is literally present in that moment. It might just mean they are now in a position to perform or continue the task.
Similarly, the action of a machine, or a diagram of it, might seem to contain all its future movements. This feeling arises because we often overlook the physical possibilities of the machine failing or being used differently. We use the machine or its representation to symbolize a specific action, but this symbolic representation is different from the machine's actual physical capabilities and limitations.
In all these cases, the language we use ("I can go on", "I know how to do it", "the machine does this") often leads to a sense of absolute determination or understanding. However, these expressions are better understood as part of language games where their meaning is tied to specific contexts, rules, and applications, rather than to an all-encompassing, pre-determined understanding or capability.
Philosophy prompts thoughts about inherent possibilities in machines, stemming from our language use. We speak of machines possessing movement possibilities, conceptualizing them as almost tangible yet distinct from physical conditions. These possibilities are likened to shadows of actual movements, elusive yet intimately linked. Our language elevates these concepts, yet in practice, we use "possibility of movement" in straightforward, empirical contexts. Philosophical confusion arises from misinterpreting language, akin to a primitive misunderstanding of a more advanced culture.
Understanding language and rules involves recognizing their use and practice, not just intellectual grasping. For instance, understanding a game like chess is not just knowing the rules but mastering the techniques through practice. Similarly, obeying a rule is a practice, not just a mental acknowledgment, emphasizing the communal aspect of language and rule-following. These ideas challenge the notion of private language and emphasize the communal, practice-based nature of language and rule understanding.
Language is a complex labyrinth, changing perspective as we approach it differently. Inventing a game that is never played is feasible, yet the existence of a game no one has ever played in a world without games is questionable. The concept of intention in mental processes doesn't necessarily require an existing custom or technique. For example, two people could theoretically play chess in a world without games, but chess is defined by its rules, raising questions about how these rules exist in the mind.
Following a rule is similar to obeying an order; it's a learned response. Understanding a rule or an order depends on common human behaviors as a reference system. Regularity in language and actions is key to defining concepts like "order" and "rule." Teaching concepts involves examples and practice, not just definitions. Understanding extends beyond examples, yet the feeling of having more understanding than what is explained is questionable.
In patterns and series, our reasons for continuation may eventually run out, leading to action without explicit reasoning. Intuition is not always necessary or reliable in continuing a pattern. Identity, especially the concept of a thing being identical with itself, is an example of a seemingly infallible yet practically useless proposition. It involves imagining a thing fitting into its own shape, highlighting the imaginative play rather than providing substantive information.
Obeying a rule, if not about causes, concerns justifications for following it a certain way. When justifications are exhausted, one may simply state, "This is what I do." Definitions, sometimes sought for their form, may not always support substantial content. The idea of a series extending infinitely, like rails, symbolizes the unlimited application of a rule. However, this symbol is more mythological than practical in understanding rule use.
The notion that a rule guides one's actions without choice or conscious deliberation is key. The difference between being causally determined and logically determined is highlighted here. Understanding a rule is like understanding a language: it's not about inspiration or subjective interpretation but about shared training and common reactions.
The idea of feeling compelled by a rule, "But surely you can see...?", exemplifies this obedience. Yet, this is not akin to inspiration, which lacks teachability and uniformity. Even in areas like arithmetic, where personal methods could theoretically vary, actual practice involves uniformity and agreement, not individual inspiration.
The phenomenon of calculating prodigies who can't explain their process raises questions about the nature of calculating and rule-following. Is it the outcome or the understanding of the process that defines calculation? Similarly, someone using a line as a rule in an unteachable, irregular way challenges our understanding of what constitutes following a rule.
In conclusion, the essence of rule-following is not about pre-determined consequences or individual inspiration, but about shared understanding and practices that are "a matter of course" in a given community.
Obeying a rule like identifying colors upon hearing their names involves associating words with mental images. However, this doesn't require additional criteria to identify the color associated with a word. Conflicts rarely arise in mathematics over whether a rule has been obeyed, indicating a fundamental agreement in the language and practice of the discipline.
Agreement in language isn't just about opinions but reflects a shared form of life. For communication, agreement in judgments, not just definitions, is essential. This doesn't eliminate logic but shapes its application.
Humans can self-reflect and talk to themselves, raising questions about private languages. Could one develop a language solely for private sensations? It would mean words referring exclusively to personal, immediate sensations, incomprehensible to others.
Words referring to sensations are typically learned through association with natural expressions and behavior. For example, a child learns the word "pain" through social interactions, not as a direct description of the sensation but as a replacement for crying.
The notion that sensations are private (only I know my pain) is questioned. Others often recognize when we're in pain, and the concept of 'knowing' pain is more about experiencing it than understanding it in a traditional sense.
The uniqueness of intentions and sensations leads to the idea that they are deeply personal and incomprehensible to others. Yet, this uniqueness doesn't necessarily make them inexpressible or unknowable to others.
Language about inner experiences, like pain, hinges on whether these experiences can be adequately represented and understood by others. If sensations don't have natural expressions, could a private language of sensations be developed, and would it be understandable to others? This exploration reveals the complexities of language, perception, and the expression of subjective experiences.
Imagining a world where humans show no external signs of pain poses challenges for language and understanding. If a child invents a word for an internal sensation like 'toothache' without external manifestations, the word's meaning remains inaccessible to others. The act of naming a sensation presupposes a language framework, where the word fits into an established grammar.
Keeping a private diary using a sign like “S” for a recurring sensation presents issues. Without an external reference, the connection between the sign and sensation relies solely on internal focus, lacking objective criteria. This internal process makes the concept of correctness inapplicable.
A private language for sensations conflicts with the shared nature of language. Terms like 'sensation' belong to a common language, understandable by all. Emphasizing a word like 'this' in "this pain" doesn't establish a unique criterion of identity for private sensations.
Creating a private definition or associating a word with a sensation internally raises questions about the method and purpose of such practices. Justifying this internal association is problematic since justification typically involves something independent, not just personal memory or imagination.
Experimenting or justifying something purely in imagination, like testing bridge dimensions or moving clock hands in one's mind, doesn't have the same validity as physical experiments or observations. Similarly, a private language, like a hand giving money to the other hand, lacks the practical consequences and shared understanding of public language and actions. These examples illustrate the complexities and limitations of private language and internal justifications in contrast to the communal nature of language and shared experiences.
Criteria exist for understanding, misunderstanding, and not understanding a word. Misunderstanding may be termed subjective understanding. A private language, understood only by the speaker, would involve sounds or signs meaningful solely to them.
Consider using the sign “S” in a diary to indicate a sensation correlated with a rise in blood pressure. The actual identification of the sensation becomes irrelevant as long as the correlation holds. This challenges the notion of a mistake in identifying the sensation, as the utility of the sign doesn’t rely on its precise identification.
The use of “S” for a sensation is determined by its role in the language game, not by an intrinsic connection to a particular sensation. The assumption of a consistent sensation each time “S” is written is not necessarily critical.
If someone inconsistently uses the word ‘pain’ but in a contextually appropriate manner, it questions the role of understanding and definition in language. This situation resembles a disconnected, non-functional wheel in machinery.
The concept of private experiences, like sensations of color, raises questions about their universality and individuality. It’s unclear whether the word “red” signifies a universally shared experience or something unique to each person.
The feeling of knowing a color intimately or having a private impression of a color is different from publicly identifying it. This distinction suggests a separation between the personal experience of a color and its public identification.
Statements like “I know how the color green looks to me” make sense, but their application and significance can vary. Similarly, saying “I know how tall I am” while touching the top of one's head is a curious use of 'knowing'.
A picture representing a scene can inform others and simultaneously be a unique representation of the artist’s imagination, holding a meaning for the artist that it doesn't for others.
The notion that sensations like pain are inseparable from pain behavior is tied to the concept that only beings capable of such behavior (or resembling such beings) can be said to have sensations. This idea extends to the language of fairy tales, where inanimate objects like pots might talk, not in a nonsensical manner, but in a contextually different sense from reality.
Playing with dolls and ascribing pain to them is a secondary use of the concept of pain. It's distinct from primary, literal applications, illustrating how language and concepts adapt to different contexts and games, like children playing with trains. This adaptability of language and concepts underscores their varied meanings and uses across different contexts and forms of life.
The concept of living beings feeling pain is not simply a transfer of our own sensations to external objects; we don't ascribe feelings to inanimate objects like stones. Imagining turning to stone while in pain raises questions about the bearer of pain and its ascription to non-human entities.
Only beings that exhibit human-like behavior can meaningfully be said to have sensations. The relationship between a body (or soul) and sensations is complex. We might say pain is felt by a person, not just by a body part, based on our reactions and interactions with the person in pain.
Understanding the object of pity, such as in empathizing with someone in pain, is an intuitive human response. It doesn't necessarily require a logical analysis of the situation. We react to living beings differently than to inanimate objects or corpses, and this is part of our natural, instinctive responses, not just a matter of observable physical movement.
The idea that one might doubt whether they are in pain suggests a confusion about the language game involving the expression of sensations. Pain, as a concept, is tied to our standard uses and reactions in specific language games. Doubting one's own sensations like pain would be seen as a strange and unrelatable reaction, as it is a fundamental part of our language and understanding of human experiences.
The 'private language' argument, illustrated with the beetle-in-the-box analogy, shows that even if everyone had a private, inaccessible sensation (the 'beetle'), this would not affect the use of the word in our language games. The actual content of the box (or the private sensation) is irrelevant to the function of the word in our language. The word does not name a private object; its meaning is not tied to a specific, private sensation but to its use in shared human practices and language games. This emphasizes that language is a communal activity, and its meanings are established in public, shared contexts, not in private experiences.
The idea that someone is describing a private mental image when they speak of their sensations is problematic. If we don’t know what kind of thing they are experiencing, it’s unclear why we assume they have something before them at all. It’s like saying someone has "something," without knowing if it's tangible or intangible.
The statement "I know only from my own case" isn’t an experiential claim but more a grammatical one, reflecting our language use rather than conveying new information. It could be seen as an exclamation or an allegorical painting, representing how we think about our grammar and use of language.
When we say there's something accompanying our expression of pain, it's not clear whom we’re informing or under what circumstances. This is like insisting something must be boiling in a picture of a boiling pot, which confuses the representation with reality.
The temptation to say "this is the important thing" while pointing to our sensation illustrates our inclination to say something that doesn’t actually convey information. Philosophical temptation doesn't necessarily mean being compelled to accept a particular assumption or having direct knowledge of a state of affairs.
Language about sensations, such as pain, involves more than just describing an inner picture. It’s about participating in a language game where the expression of the sensation plays a crucial role. The image of pain isn't a literal picture; it enters the language game in a different way.
The difference between pain-behavior with pain and without pain is substantial, but this doesn’t mean the sensation is a nothing. Rather, it’s neither a concrete something nor a nothing. Our language about mental processes and sensations doesn’t always function in the same way; it serves various purposes beyond conveying thoughts.
Remembering isn’t just an inner process to be observed; it’s a part of our language use. Denying mental processes would be like denying that we remember, which isn’t the case. The philosophical problem arises when we leave the nature of processes and states undecided and then get trapped in a particular way of looking at them.
Philosophy aims to clarify and resolve confusion, like showing a fly the way out of a fly-bottle. Statements of pain and responses to them, like “It’s not so bad,” are part of a language game involving attitudes and reactions, not just an acknowledgment of something behind the outward expression. The goal is to understand and navigate these language games more clearly.
The difference between physical sensations like pain and seeing something like a broken tooth is significant. Imagining pain can be as simple as making a facial expression, but does this truly capture the essence of pain? The private exhibition of pain or any sensation is an illusion because it lacks the direct, tangible experience.
We can imagine a world where touching certain surfaces causes pain, similar to seeing colors. In such a world, we would speak of pain-patches as we do of color patches, indicating that our language games adapt to our experiences.
Understanding or exhibiting pain is akin to showing colors or shapes. It’s not about representing an internal sensation but participating in a shared language game.
Studying one's headache to understand the philosophical problem of sensation misunderstands the nature of philosophical inquiry. It's not about introspection of a specific sensation but understanding how language about sensations works.
Could someone understand 'pain' without experiencing it? This question shifts from empirical to grammatical. The meaning of 'pain' is tied to its use in our language games, not just to personal experience.
Understanding thought is not just about observing our thinking process. Thinking is part of language use, not merely an internal process to be observed. The analogy of pain as a cry and thought as a proposition is misleading because it oversimplifies the complex nature of language and mental processes.
Thinking and speaking often occur simultaneously, without a clear separation. The speed of thought, like the lightning-like thought, is akin to quickly working out an algebraic formula. The certainty in thinking or continuing a series is not always based on induction but often on our successful past experiences and the language games we participate in.
The question of whether one can think without speaking leads to examining what we include in the concept of 'thinking'. Observing oneself to understand thinking is an oversimplification. The definition of thinking is learned through our use of the word in various contexts. The idea of making a mistake in thinking involves questioning whether a particular mental activity counts as 'thinking', indicating the flexibility and context-dependence of our language games.
Thinking in language doesn't involve separate 'meanings' alongside verbal expressions. Language itself serves as the vehicle of thought. This challenges the idea that thinking is merely an accompaniment or internal process that parallels speech.
When we think, it's not always clear what constitutes the thought before it is expressed. Various processes can occur: we might surrender to a mood, visualize a picture, translate between languages, or even start with a gesture and find corresponding words. The nature of thought before its expression can vary significantly.
The intention behind constructing a sentence isn't separate from the act of speaking. Intention is rooted in the context, customs, and institutions that surround us. For instance, the intention to play chess presupposes the existence of the game's rules and techniques. Similarly, the intention to construct a sentence is enabled by our knowledge of the language.
Thinking is often mistakenly viewed as an incorporeal process that gives life to speech. However, this perspective is misleading. Thinking and speaking are not separate entities, where one can exist without the other. Thinking is deeply intertwined with the language we use and cannot be detached as an independent, incorporeal process.
In essence, thinking is not an abstract, disembodied activity that occurs independently of language. It is a complex, context-dependent process that is inextricably linked to the language and practices of our daily life. The grammar of 'thinking' differs from that of physical actions like 'eating,' highlighting the unique nature of mental processes in our language and understanding.
Understanding how a word functions requires observing its use, not guessing. Prejudices can obstruct this learning process, but they are not inherently foolish; they stem from deeply ingrained ways of thinking.
Thinking is compared to speech with and without thought, similar to playing music with and without thought. The act of thinking is not merely an internal accompaniment to speech; it's a more complex interaction.
The case of a deaf-mute, as cited by William James, raises questions about the nature of thought before language. Ballard's recollections of early thoughts about God and the world suggest that thoughts can exist without language, but the translation of these non-verbal thoughts into words is not straightforward. These memories represent a unique phenomenon, and drawing conclusions about past experiences from them is challenging.
Our expressions of memory are our reactions to remembering, not separate internal processes. Imagining people who only think aloud, like those who can only read aloud, helps to understand the relationship between thinking and speaking. Our criterion for someone thinking to themselves is based on what they report and their behavior.
The proposition “What sometimes happens might always happen” misleads us into misunderstanding the logic of our expressions. Not all orders are obeyed, but if no orders were ever obeyed, the concept of an 'order' would lose its meaning.
Understanding whether someone talks to themselves inwardly in a vocal language is ambiguous. The information might seem understandable, but its practical application and true understanding are questionable.
Supposing someone else feels pain as we do doesn't clarify the experience. It's similar to saying "It’s 5 o’clock here, so it’s 5 o’clock on the sun," which doesn't make practical sense. The word 'pain' has a clear grammar, but applying it to inanimate objects like a stove doesn't work.
The concepts of 'above' and 'below' in relation to the Earth illustrate how our understanding is challenged by reflection. These concepts are clear until we consider their application globally, revealing limitations in our usual ways of thinking.
The law of excluded middle, stating "either this or that, with no third possibility," often doesn't help in philosophical problems because it doesn't tell us how to apply the picture it presents. This is seen in the dilemma of whether someone has a specific experience or not. The statement seems clear, but it doesn't actually guide us in understanding the experience. Philosophical confusion often arises from being unable to look beyond such seemingly definitive but practically unhelpful pictures.
Understanding the function of a word requires examining its use, not guessing. This process can be challenging due to deeply ingrained linguistic conventions.
Language functions differently in various contexts. For example, the distinction between criteria and symptoms in grammar shows how language can adapt based on situations and contexts.
The concept of information in language is complex. For instance, saying "My eyes give me the information that there is a chair" is a metaphor that may mislead our understanding of perception and language.
The notion that a dog or a chair might think or talk to itself raises questions about the nature of thought and speech. It's not about whether we know the inner workings of a dog or a chair, but about how these concepts are applied in language.
The idea that 'meaning' is something private and intangible, akin to consciousness, is a linguistic dream. It's a misconception that detaches meaning from its practical use in language.
The ability to think without speaking, as in the case of deaf-mutes, challenges our understanding of the relationship between thought and language. It's not clear how internal, unspoken thoughts are structured or function.
Understanding a word or concept often involves clarifying its use in language rather than identifying an internal or mental process. For instance, doing a sum in one's head is a real process, but it's not necessarily a mirror of doing it on paper.
The nature of imagining and mental processes is not about identifying a corresponding physical process but understanding how these terms are used in language. This perspective shifts the focus from searching for a mental or physical equivalent to examining the practical application of language.
Understanding essence through grammar involves recognizing that language shapes our conception of reality. The rules and structure of language determine how we perceive and classify the world.
The distinction between criteria and symptoms in language demonstrates how language can shift between serving as evidence (criteria) or mere indications (symptoms). This shift can sometimes lead to the misconception that language only offers symptoms.
In understanding propositions, verification is a method of asking what a proposition means. This approach contributes to the grammar of the proposition, shaping its essence and application.
Teaching someone to read silently involves more than just observing outward behavior. The internal processes of silent reading aren't directly accessible, making it challenging to ascertain whether someone is truly reading to themselves.
The criterion for saying something to oneself isn't observable physiological processes like movements in the larynx. The use of words like "to say to oneself" is learned through language practice, not by pointing to physical processes.
The question of what it's like to think, imagine, or do sums in one's head goes beyond identifying physiological processes. Understanding these concepts involves exploring how they function in language and their application in various contexts.
The difficulty in philosophy often lies in the temptation to simplify complex linguistic relationships, like assuming that mental images can be easily pointed out or described. The challenge is to recognize the depth and complexity of these linguistic relationships and to resist oversimplifying them.
Philosophy often involves examining the use of language and the rules governing it, revealing the essence of concepts. This process can be challenging due to preconceived notions about how language corresponds to reality.
The use of language in describing experiences or mental images is complex. For instance, the idea that an image must perfectly represent its object, being a "super-likeness," is misleading. Images are not necessarily more accurate than pictures; their relationship to what they represent is governed by the rules and conventions of language.
The discussion of whether a machine or an inanimate object like a stone could have consciousness or thoughts challenges our understanding of mental processes. These scenarios prompt us to reflect on the nature of consciousness and the limitations of our language in describing it.
Imagining another person's pain involves more than just picturing their internal experience; it often includes imagining their external behavior and circumstances. This act of imagination is part of a language game, where understanding and empathy are expressed through language and behavior.
The relationship between thinking and speaking, and the role of imagination in understanding, is not straightforward. Imagining something does not guarantee a direct correspondence with reality. Understanding a concept involves examining how it functions in language, not just identifying an internal or imagined counterpart.
The idea that we can have private experiences or images that others do not share is scrutinized. The concept of a "visual room" illustrates this: it's a way of speaking or a new perspective, not a discovery of an actual private space.
In philosophy, disputes often arise from misunderstanding the role of language. Idealists, Solipsists, and Realists may argue about the nature of reality, but their disagreements often stem from different interpretations of how language describes the world.