Literature and philosophy both attempt to capture the conditions for the possibility of meaning and conversation. Literature offers the material for real conversation—the actual life we wish to talk about. It however seems itself immune to conversation (it is conceptually unclear what a response to a poem or a novel might be). Philosophy, on the other hand, invites conversation and argument, but cannot touch actual life.
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Philosophy is unlike science in the following way: In science there is a single project of clarifying our collective Mind. In philosophy, each one is trying to clarify his or her own mind—as if they were a solitary intellectual island. Part of what may be confusing here is that the best way of clarifying one’s own mind is to discuss things with others. This is indispensible really; there is no way of doing philosophy alone. But—be honest about it!—when you do philosophy, the pretence is there: the pretence that your mind is (a good representative of) the collective Mind. Actually, there is a double pretence: sometimes that we are thinking completely alone, and sometimes that we are thinking completely together, completely sharing in one collective Mind. – We move in philosophy between those two pretences. The pretence here—the illusion and confusion—is about what having a mind amounts to: about the very idea of thinking completely alone, and about the very idea of completely sharing in one collective mind (which is just the other side of the solipsistic coin).
Philosophers like Plato seem to think sometimes that if people only saw what they need to do, they would immediately start doing it.
This is, of course, fooling themselves, but in שa way, we might have to fool ourselves in this way. We need to “forget” how hard it is to do what we need to do, and what we ask them to do: search their souls. We need to forget that there is no foolproof prescription that can be given here for people to follow blindly. When you ask people to search their soul, it is almost bound to sound offensive to them, and be frustrating to you. You have to make them want to do it themselves. And more: you have to make them feel (think is not enough) that they will not be able to do without it. Then, you also have a duty not to leave them alone. In discussing meaning, especially in devising theories of meaning, the category of meaning is often treated as a waste basket. That is, it is not treated as a clear category, or used as a distinct notion, but includes a heap of unsorted stuff.
How does that happen? - In accounting for meaning, we try to isolate the phenomenon of meaning. For that end we distinguish between what a sentence means and what it does. But when we make this distinction, we almost always (possibly always) have a clearer idea what we intend by “does” than by “means.” The unclarity runs deep: We somehow forget that ‘to mean something’ is to do something. Meaning is a subcategory of doing, and Logic treats of action, not of meaning. Our distinction was therefore not completely successful. We did not really isolate the phenomenon of meaning properly. As a result of this forgetfulness, “meaning” becomes a general name for all the other things that a sentence does - all the things beside what it “does,” the things about which we don’t have any clear idea. Namely, it becomes a waste basket. We hide that unclarity by assuming that there is such a thing as “the normal use of language,” or “the normal way to mean.” This is supposed to give us a (feeling that we have a) distinct notion of meaning. (Actually, there are supposed to be two such “normal” uses of language: one to state factual truths, and another to express values.) The only thing that we know about this “normal” way of using language is that it is normal. That is, we think we latched on to some idea, but we haven't made sure it has any content. The truth is that we have an idea without content; that is, we have no idea. And so, this “idea” doesn’t really give us any distinct notion regarding what we intend by “meaning something.” In particular it doesn’t give us any clear idea what we do with the true-false distinction. We differentiate between kinds of evaluative propositions: we distinguish between aesthetic judgments, moral judgments, and judgments of taste. We set apart morality and manners, what is moral and what is legal, acting morally and acting tactfully; even religion and morality are sometimes told apart.
But these are almost never truly distinctions. That is, we almost never have any clear idea about the categories we are distinguishing, and most of the problem is that we don’t really have any clear idea what morality is. I often would like to say in such cases that it would be better to say—point out—that we evaluate in different ways. But that doesn’t seem to be important enough to say. When we make those “distinctions” we almost always treat morality as a waste basket for all those evaluations and whatnots that we cannot really understand—or rather, for which we find it hard to take responsibility. No one is as dependent as mothers are on the dependency of their children.
Ruth Kluger, Still Alive Boredom, tedium, ennui, means that you want to escape from time itself.
Ruth Kluger - Still Alive I thought, I can't write this down, and planned instead to mention that there are events that are indescribable. Now that I have written it, I see that the words are as common as other words and were no harder to come by.
Ruth Kluger - Still Alive For sentimentality involves turning away from an ostensible object and towards the subjective observer, that is, towards oneself. It means looking into a mirror instead of reality.
Ruth Kluger, Still Alive It is only ideas of such colossal proportions that a symbol for them cannot be created—that are vague and intangible and brooding, incomprehensible and fearful, that produce madness.
The very fact that a thing—anything—can be fitted into a meaning built up of words—small, black words, that can be written with one hand and the stub of a pencil—means that it is not big enough to be overwhelming. It is the vast, formless, unknown and unknowable things that we fear. Anything which can be brought to a common point—a focus within our understanding—can be dealt with. Lara Jefferson, These Are My Sisters Some philosophy is the attempt to find a language for things about which people don't care.
Some of that philosophy is a cry from the bottom of a soul that is never understood. The difficulty of listening to others, of learning from them, is proportional to (and to some extent identical with) the difficulty of making up one’s own mind.
This is how intimately our own mind depends on its connection with that of others. To understand a philosopher is to want to say what he or she says.
‘The Jew’ understood: an advice or instruction will not help in this case. If one wants to cure this man’s soul, one needs to accept him as one’s own responsibility—as if on strong shoulders—and carry him until he is capable of walking unaided. More precisely: one needs to take the whole of this man’s hatred upon himself without being harmed by it; one needs to turn around that flame of hatred. — And how can that be done if he does not take this man upon himself?
Martin Buber, Gog and Magog Writers have the tendency to fall in love with their writing attempts.
People have the tendency to fall in love with the new aspects they discover in things. Rebelling against a situation typically involves the danger of acting with expectations that originate in the situation against which one is rebelling.
New Age, for example: surface solutions for shallow life; simple attractive ideas for a life that is as uncomplicated as plastic. I like reading diaries and notebooks: The inhibitions are less artificial; the work of inhibition is not all done yet.
Laziness explains many behaviors.
People vote for central views and parties because they are lazy: they promise what is safe to want. What no one will be angry with you or think badly of you if you want, what is consensual, what does not require effort to want, what one does not need to think about or formulate. On the other hand, people vote for extreme views because of laziness: they promise simple easy solutions. And this is true also for marriage life: we stay because we are lazy—we prefer the battles we know. And we get divorced because we are lazy—as if somewhere else the battles are easy. Laziness also explains part of the tendency to explain so much with so little. There are many kinds of laziness. People buy a parrot and they think they teach it to speak. In spite of teaching, the parrot learns (maybe he is bored out of his mind or learns he gets rewarded for performing). The people are impressed because they now have a “clever” parrot. Their parrot can “do things.” An expert comes along and says the parrot only appears to speak. The expert says he actually hasn’t got language, only speech. But the parrot did have language. Beyond cheap tricks, the parrot has always had language. It had and always will have its own.
Donna Williams, Somebody Somewhere A man looks outside his window—and sees what?
Hats and coats, or people? And if people he sees, are they like him? And if they are like him, why does he look outside? Some philosophy is the burn left on Man’s palm by life—always moving too fast—when he tries to catch it.
The usefulness of historical knowledge in philosophy, here and elsewhere, is that the prejudices of our own period may lose their grip on us if we imaginatively enter into another period, when people's prejudices were different.
P.T. Geach, Mental Acts Going back to the cave is philosophy.
The philosopher goes back to the cave, not because he is benevolent or generous, and not because he pities those who stayed inside. He goes back because he HAS to. Not by logically following out the consequences of beholding the GOOD, but in the way that ANY philosopher is familiar with: that necessity every philosopher experiences: to write, to talk. And this is what is mysterious: the philosophical Eros that turns backwards: the one that is not looking in the direction of the truth, but in the direction of the notebook and of human confusions. Often you read a text, and then re-read it—not to understand better or to memorize, but to get the same kind of inspiration you once got from it.
Only seldom—very, very seldom—does it work. Analytic philosophy uses concepts as if they had no content. Like building blocks, whose sole significance is the structures you can build with them.
Suppose we wanted to tell a general story about human beings, and suppose we arrive at the idea that the Human Creature is rational. And suppose we want more: we want to explain what we mean by “rational.” So we look around, and we finally discover the idea of “autonomy.” We use the idea of autonomy to explain the idea of rationality. Time goes by. A history of philosophy passes, and a river of uses of both the word “rationality” and the word “autonomy” go under the bridge. And one morning the analytic philosopher stumbles upon a computer. He is now looking for something general to say about computers. He vaguely remembers (perhaps it’s in his genetic memory?) how useful the ideas of “rationality” and “autonomy” once were. He thinks a bit, and finds the answer: the computer is a non-autonomous rational creature. |
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Academia.edu page Previous Notes Excluded Middle Moral Clarification The Will in the Tractatus Morality and Creation Moral Skepticism Understanding language and understanding music - The unity of a sentence, and the unity of a salad In what way secondary and absolute uses are nonsense (2) Another way of using nonsense Ethics as an Aspect of Philosophy - In what sense is there an ethical point to the Tractatus Interpretation as finding a way to say what the writer does - the Tractatus for example In what way secondary and absolute uses are nonsense Art is a matter of use - two claims, and a thought about the relation to ethics Both Aspects at the Same Time - in connection with Wittgenstein's early views on ethics Thinking and Willing Subjects in the Tractatus Two notions of "Family Resemblance" and a relation to Aspect-Perception The experience of thinking The Figurative and the Literal: two kinds of picturing: making reality thinkable What’s the Point of Figurative Language? ‘Juliet is the sun’ again – What kind of metaphor is it? Secondary and Absolute Uses of Terms – the Problem of Irresoluteness Secondary and Absolute Uses of Terms – the Problem of Examples Wrestling with Nonsense—A Protest: Absolute Senses, Secondary Senses, Gulfs between People, Difficulties of Reality, and Philosophy. What’s so bad about pain? Between Romantics and Anatomy: Religion and Pornography in Hanoch Levin The transcendence of ethics – two views Pain as form of behavior and pain as private object Archives
November 2019
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Blogroll Kelly Jolley - Quantum Est In Rebus Inane Duncan Richter - Language Goes on Holiday Matt Pianalto - Problems of Life Ben Pierce - Expensive Coffee Lars Hertzberg - Language is things we do Breaking the Silence - Israeli Soldiers Talk about the Occupied Territories Hans Sluga Blog Mists on the Riverss - Ed Mooney Tags
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