WITTGENSTEIN Edited, with an introduction by J. L. CRAET and RONALD E. HUSTWIT Conversations 1949-1951 by O. K. BOUWSMA HACKETT PUBLISHING COMPANY INDIANAPOLISLudwig Wittgenstein: 1889-1951 Copyright © 1986 by J. L. Craft and Ronald E, Hustwit All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Cover design by Jackie Lacy Interior design by J. M. Matthew For further information, address Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. P.O. Box 44937 Indianapolis, Indiana 46244-0937 109876543 9899 00 01 02 03 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bouwsma, O. K. Wittgenstein : conversations, 1949-1951 Bibliography: p. 1. Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 1889-1951. 2. Bouwsma, O. K. L Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 1889-1951. IL. Craft, J. L, 1947-. TIL. Hustwit, Ronald E,, 1942— IV. Title. B3376,W564B684 1986 192 85-2722 ISBN 0-87220-009-4 ISBN 0-87220-008-6 (pbk.) CONTENTS Preface vii Introduction ix Chronology of Wittgenstein’s life roi Conversations 1 Cornell, July 1949 3 Smith College, October 1949 45 Oxford, August 1950-January 1951 53 Further reading 77PREFACE Wittgenstein Conversations, 1949-1951 consists of a set of notes which Q. K. Bouwsma wrote after numerous dis- cussions with Ludwig Wittgenstein during that time. It is a part of the collection of Bouwsma’s papers now housed in the Humanities Research Center at the Uni- versity of Texas at Austin. Bouwsma’s original entries were written in the daily notebook form which he had long practiced. Those notes pertaining to Wittgenstein were subsequently separated from the other notebooks and assembled and typed. Bouwsma occasionally showed these notes, or portions of them, to friends but did not want them circulated. This book makes the notes on Wittgenstein available to the public for the first time. We have edited them, made some minor deletions, and pre- pared an introduction which aims at providing the his- torical setting together with some general philosophical orientation. ‘We must thank Professor Kenneth Johnson, Mor- ris Lazerowitz, Alice Ambrose Lazerowitz, and Mrs. Gertrude Bouwsma-Bos for their help in preparing the introduction to the Conversations. Thanks also to Bar- bara Hustwit for typing the manuscript. We also ac- knowledge support from the Bouwsma family, the Uni- versity of Texas at Austin Humanities Research Center, and the College of Wooster. The latter, through several grants from the Faculty Development Fund, made travel and manuscript reproductions possible.INTRODUCTION Oets KoLk Bouwsma was born of Dutch-American par- ents in Muskegon, Michigan, 1898. He was educated at Calvin College and at the University of Michigan where he was a student of English literature and philosophy. In his early years he was an advocate of idealism, most notably Hegel's philosophy, but later found the work of G. E. Moore, the refutations of idealism, more compati- ble. He worked intensely on Moore, publishing papers on him and sending his students from the University of Ne- braska, where he taught for nearly forty years, to study with him at Cambridge. Bouwsma’s reputation as a young philosopher was associated with his work on Moore. The Schilpp volume on G. E. Moore (The Library of Living Philosophers series} contains one of Bouwsma’s papers critical of Moore’s work and shows Moore's re- spect for Bouwsma in his reply. Bouwsma’s reputation on Moore resulted in his being invited to deliver the John Locke Lectures at Oxford and in his being President of the American Philosophical Association. Later his repu- tation developed in connection with Wittgenstein.X + INTRODUCTION One of several students whom he encouraged to go to England to work with G. E. Moore was Norman Malcolm. Through working with Moore, Malcolm came into contact with Wittgenstein, attending lectures and having discussions that shaped his philosophical devel- opment. After the war, Malcolm retumed to teach phi- losophy at Cornell, and it was from there in 1949 that he was able to persuade Wittgenstein to visit and have dis- cussions with Cornell faculty and students. Malcolm ‘was also able to arrange for Bouwsma to teach at Cornell during Wittgenstein’s visit. By then Bouwsma had be- come a serious student of Wittgenstein’s dictations, which were later published as The Blue Book. After the personal influence of Wittgenstein and much hard work on the Philosophical Investigations, Bouwsma began to emerge as one who could apply Witt- genstein’s methods to a variety of philosophical prob- Iems, such as the skeptical thought of Descartes and Berkeley or to such perennial puzzles as time, truth, and thinking. He taught at the University of Nebraska until 1965, having his greatest influence through the many graduate students he trained in his unique style of discussion and in listening for the sense of a philosoph- ical sentence. Although he wrote incessantly and pre- sented numerous papers, he published only one book—a collection of essays titled Philosophical Essays. After retirement at Nebraska, he accepted an invitation from the University of Texas to continue his teaching. He did so in the same manner and with the same results until his death in 1978. He was, at that time, as active and productive in writing and teaching as ever. His papers and daily notebooks, the latter filling hundreds of legal Introduction + xi pads, were deposited after his death in the Humanities Research Center in Austin, Texas. Two collections of his papers have since been published as books: Toward a New Sensibility and Without Proof or Evidence. In July 1949, at Norman Malcolm’s invitation and with his encouragement, Ludwig Wittgenstein came to Cornell University and stayed with the Malcolms. Ac- cording to an account of that visit in Malcolm's memoir, the following philosophers were on campus during his stay: John Nelson, Willis Doney, Max Black, Stuart Brown, and 2 number of Comell graduate students. Bouwsma was there as well, having come from Lincoln, Nebraska, at Malcolm’s invitation. Malcolm reports that Wittgenstein had various talks with these individuals, some separately and some in groups, over the summer and into the fall. Of Bouwsma he relates: “With Oets Bouwsma and me he began to read Frege’s paper, ‘Uber Sinn und Bedeutung’ (On Sense and Reference); and this led to two or three meetings in which Wittgenstein expounded his diver- gence from Frege. Then in one meeting we discussed free will and determinism” (Malcolm's Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir, 2d ed., p. 70). Accounts of these discussions appear in Bouwsma’s notes along with references to the above-mentioned Comell philosophers. There is also a wide range of topics discussed beyond those included in Bouwsma’s notes. There were other discussions with Malcolm in which Bouwsma did not participate, discus- sions about Moore’s work which later take form in Witt- genstein’s On Certainty, and, presumably, still other discussions of which no record exists.xii + INTRODUCTION The reader of Bouwsma’s notes will quickly see that there was a special relationship between Bouwsma and Wittgenstein from the very beginning that was grounded in mutual recognition of personal depth and philosophical seriousness. To be sure, Wittgenstein was the teacher and Bouwsma the leamer, but what a re- markable learner Bouwsma was for Wittgenstein to open up to him so, and how interesting their meetings must have been to influence Bouwsma so pervasively. During the summer at Cornell, Bouwsma’s meet- ings with Wittgenstein took several different forms. Sometimes they were in small groups in someone's home; sometimes Bouwsma, Malcolm, and Wittgenstein met in Malcolm’s garden or basement. Often Wittgen- stein and Bouwsma would take walks together or Bouwsma would take Wittgenstein by car to the Finger- lake countryside. On these walks, as in their later discus: sions, Bouwsma generally proposed some topic for dis: cussion and Wittgenstein would quickly take off with it. Their relationship was not dialectical; Bouwsma does not oppose or present counter-examples. Rather he is searching Wittgenstein’s remarks for their meaning and working to understand them, as he writes them down. They are understanding each other as they talk, Bouwsma with more difficulty, trying to grasp Wittgen- stein’s insights and pictures. This practice of taking walks for the occasion to discuss philosophy continued throughout their friend- ship. In a letter, Morris Lazerowitz reports the same practice when Wittgenstein came to visit Bouwsma in mid-October at Smith College in Northampton, Mass- achusetts. “Wittgenstein came to Northampton and Introduction + xiii stayed with the Bouwsmas for two or three days,” Lazerowitz explains, “during which Oets and Witt- genstein took walks and had some discussions, with Wittgenstein taking the lion’s share of the talk.” Refer- ences to such walks appear repeatedly throughout the notes and provide the most frequent setting for their discussions. Bouwsma went on to Smith College where he was a sabbatical-leave replacement for the fall term. This appointment was secured through his friends Morris Lazerowitz and Alice Ambrose Lazerowitz. Bouwsma arrived there from Comell with his wife, Gertrude, and his daughter, Gretchen, the youngest of their three children. They are mentioned several times in the notes; and on more than one occasion, Wittgenstein’s discus- sions with Gretchen about her school work led to discussions with Bouwsma about literature and educa- tion. A dated entry in the notes for October 11, 1949, indicates that the two men had resumed their walks and discussions. Wittgenstein stayed for three days, and then after a short time retuned to England in late October. This was the last Bouwsma would see of him until the following summer. Because of his reputation for his work on Moore, Bouwsma was asked to deliver the John Locke Lectures at Oxford in 1950-1. The invitation was a mark of distinction and Bouwsma was the first American asked to present them. During part of that year, Wittgenstein also lived in Oxford. He made a five-week trip to Norway and some other trips to Cambridge where his physician, Dr. Edward Bevan, practiced. (By now Wittgenstein had been diagnosed as having cancer.) But primarily hexiv + INTRODUCTION stayed in Oxford where his presence provided the oppor- tunity for him and Bouwsma to renew their friendship and their practice of discussing philosophy. The notes begin again then, after about a nine-month interval, with the date August 17, 1950, and continue until Witt- genstein’s death in April 1951. However, the reader will notice that there are more discussions recorded than there are dated entries. ‘Though Wittgenstein was seriously ill during this period, his health fluctuated. At times he was able to work and hold vigorous discussions; at others, he experi- enced dark periods and despaired of ever being able to work again. Mrs, Bouwsma frequently prepared broth and applesauce for him; he remarked in a letter to Malcolm: “I am just good enough to eat applesauce with a philosopher.” Despite his low periods and inability to work, the notes reveal the presence of a clear and powerful mind. During the time at Oxford Bouwsma and Witt genstein continued their practice of taking walks together to discuss philosophy. Sometimes they would sit on benches outdoors, sometimes Wittgenstein would come to the Bouwsma’s house for a meal or to roust him out for a walk, But the walking discussion seemed to be the norm: “Today we walked...today we walked out through the meadow...today we walked along the canal.” This is philosophizing in the peripatetic tradi- tion. There is no record of others being involved in these discussions. Anscombe was in Oxford, and Wittgenstein had introduced Bouwsma to his friend-student Yorick Smythies. But while Bouwsma refers to some ideas of ‘Anscombe and Smythies, there is nothing in the notes Introduction + xv about any combined discussions involving these or other philosophers. The recorded discussions are between Bouwsma and Wittgenstein and concer topics that Bouwsma intrcduces or topics arising spontaneously out of something that they saw or mentioned on their walks This was Bouwsma’s opportunity to have access to one of the great minds of our age. He did not waste it. When Bouwsma returned to Nebraska in 1951 after his two-year sojourn, he wrote to his friend and former student Kenneth Johnson that in Wittgenstein he “saw what struck me as the height of perspecuity, the most intense intellectual activity, the swiftest and keen- est mind I have met. It was like a miracle. His words were like a beam of light through a fog in almost any conversation.” Several weeks later, on December 1, 1951, he wrote the following in a note for a class on the nature of a prophet: What is a prophet like? Wittgenstein is the nearest toa prophet have ever known. He is a man whois likea tower, who stands high and unattached, leaning on no one. He has his own feet. He fears no man. “Nothing can hurt me!” But other men fear him. And why? Not at all because he can strike them or take their money or their good names. They fear his judgement. And so I feared Wittgenstein, felt responsible to him. I always knew how precious a walk and talk with him was, and yet I was in dread of his coming and of being with him. I was in fear too that I should have to give an account to him of my John Locke Lectures, why I consented to give them— since he had refused, and what should I say. I breathed easier when he went to Norway, and later when he went to Cambridge. He was my judge in respect to anything Ixvi. - INTRODUCTION le to him. I could not shrug might say, and [felt responsi When he went away, Ifelt him off or say: What do Ic free. Ido not think that I have ever felt this way about anyone else. Of course, I feared him, but at the same time I realized that my hopes in my work were all vested in him, His words I cherished like jewels. And do so now. But the main point is that he robbed me of a lazy comfort in my own mediocrity. There is no one to whom I owed 50 much, no one to whom I listened as [listened to him, no one whom I have feared, no one who was so clearly my rightful judge, my superior. In the presence or in the hearing of other men I recognized nothing of this sort. Here I judge. But in this case of Wittgenstein it is almost, ithas come as, a relief to see that he made mistakes. In any case the acquaintance with Wittgenstein has given me some inkling as to what the power of the prophet was among his people. “Thus saith the Lord’ is the token of that being high above all fear and all blandishment, fearless and feared, judge and conscience. Thus saith the Lord! Itis an awful thing to work under the gaze and questioning of such piercing eyes, and such discernment, knowing rubbish and gold! And one who speaks the word: “This is rubbish!” Beginning in this year, Bouwsma’s notepads begin to take the form familiar to many of his students and colleagues. The form consists of lengthy, patient notes in which he attempts to work out Wittgenstein’s ideas and techniques for himself. They are, most frequently, prepa- rations for and responses to students in seminars, read- ings of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations or other works in philosophy, or accounts of discussions Introduction + xvii with friends and colleagues. The Philosophical Investiga- tions was published in spring 1953 and provided the meat for Bouwsma’s diet from then until his death in 1978. He returns to the themes of the Philosophical Investigations over and over again, expressing them in his own words with new examples and applications. It is well nigh impossible to count the times in the notepads that he takes up some form of the question: What is the meaning of a word? or the times he considers the mistaken idea that the meaning of a word is the object for which it stands. For Bouwsma, the discipline of writing and work- ing through ideas for himself was always there, but the new direction and new ways of working in philosophy as the result of Wittgenstein’s influence appear most dra- matically here in 1951. Ten years later, Bouwsma, again writing to Kenneth Johnson, remarks: “One thing | know is that one does not understand Wittgenstein until he is able, not to repeat what he says, but to work with his ideas. The latter requires long practice.” It was in his notepads that Bouwsma acquired his understanding of Wittgenstein. Bouwsma’s work habits, evident in the notepads, indicate the great change he underwent following his meetings with Wittgenstein: It was in the summer of '39 I first came upon certain student notes of Wittgenstein during a visit with the Lazerowitzs in New England. The Tractatus which you have no doubt heard of was much earlier and had never made much of an impression upon me. [had heard of Wittgenstein, of course, but especially through these two former students of mine of whom I'm sure [hadxviii + INTRODUCTION spoken to you—Malcolm and Lazerowitz. Well, those notes, boot-legged, and circulated too, against Wittgens- tein’s wishes, I studied, and they made a powerful impres- sion on me. I was ready for the revolutionary conceptions which I met in them. Working as I had with my own meager resources and with Moore I had come toa stop. I ‘was also fallow, and Wittgenstein fell upon me like seed. For ten years I spaded and dug and watered as I was abl working out hints [had picked up in those notes. While those bootlegged notes played an important role in this change, it was the actual meetings with Witt- genstein that had the greatest effect on Bouwsma. In such personal encounters he learned to “fear his judge- ment,” to “cherish his words," and realized that he, Bouwsma, was being “robbed of a lazy comfort.” These are strong words to use in connection with a relationship of one human being to another. ‘The reader of these notes may well ask: What was there about Wittgenstein, as reflected in these conversa- tions, that made him so impressive to Bouwsma? The Conversations contain relatively little discussion of the basic themes of the Philosophical Investigations. Only once or twice is there discussion of the meaning of a word being its use, and then there is no full treatment of that idea. Neither does the reader get any sense that Wittgenstein was presenting his philosophy to Bouwsma or trying to teach Bouwsma what he was about. So it was not a new philosophy or doctrine that Bouwsma stood in awe of. It was something else. What was it? The Conversations begin with a description of Wittgenstein—Bouwsma’s first impressions. Bouwsma drives to the train station to pick up Malcolm and Witt- Introduction + xix genstein, who are arriving from New York. He reports that Wittgenstein has an easy and friendly manner. Bouwsma seems relieved to discover this, since there had been abundant reports that Wittgenstein could be diffi- cult. At the first discussion, Bouwsma finds that there is an “intensity and impatience about him which are enough, certainly, to frighten one.” He goes on to remark that he doubts if Wittgenstein could bear idle talk and unintelligibility gladly. Bouwsma then steels himself for Wittgenstein’s scrutiny because he believes that there is much to leam and gain by subjecting himself to Witt- genstein’s harsh judgements. It is the intensity of Witt- genstein and his severe judgements that come through immediately in these first impressions and throughout the Conversations. Wittgenstein’s mind is always work- ing, and working hard—even in small matters. To Bouwsma’s remark that Wittgenstein is a good walker, he replies that he is not a good walker at all. But it is not as if he is deliberately trying to be difficult; he is, rather, simply taking Bouwsma’s small talk seriously. When the Bouwsmas are invited to the Malcolms’ home for tea, Malcolm, Bouwsma, and Wittgenstein are separated from the non-philosophers in the house because Witt- genstein could not tolerate social chit-chat. And when they discuss philosophy where the mental energy required is so much greater, Wittgenstein’s intensity is impressive. The intensity in the philosophy takes many forms. The reader can see it in the quickness with which Wittgenstein replies to Bouwsma’s suggested topics and in the way that first response so often penetrates to the heart of the matter. When Bouwsma proposes, for exam-xx + INTRODUCTION ple, that they discuss hedonism, particularly the idea that we do everything for pleasure, Wittgenstein remarks immediately, “Obviously this is no empirical remark.” He goes on to develop that idea. But this is a kind of gem that has great philosophic value. It shows in a flash that the central sentence of hedonism is a gencralization through which all human action is viewed, allowing no counterexample. It reminds us of how easily misled we are by general statements and invites us to recall to mind how the words want and pleasure are uscd and related to each other. There is more, but all this is a working out of the first remark quickly given in response to an idea. Wittgenstein’s intensity and impatience are revealed in his judgements of others. Some of the more personal judgements, particularly of those still alive, have been removed from the text by the editors, but those of other philosophers and ideas remain and show the severity that made people fear him. Of Socrates’ interlocutors, he says they are ninnies who never have any arguments of their own; of Whitehead and Russell, that they were good once but had continued to write after they had stopped thinking; and of attending lec- tures on Shakespeare and translating lyric poetry, that these were bad and unthinkable, respectively. With respect to what Bouwsma did in class, it may well have been “futile,” “trifling,” or “too risky.” But the discussions do not reveal a man speaking this way out of vanity. It is not Wittgenstein’s aim to reduce the size of others so that he might loom large. He is severe with himself as well. He complains of his own stupidity and apologizes for failing to produce helpful examples. Malcolm reports that Wittgenstein had the Introduction + xxi same worry about himself that he had of Russell and Whitehead—that he would stop thinking and die men- tally. This is not the same as worrying that he would become senile. This is the worry that he would lose his intensity, his passion for thinking hard enough to give a philosophical problem the attention it required and deserved. His judgements were not those of a petty mind, but those reflecting a sharp and energetic intelligence. And this was not only impressive to Bouwsma, who, in the eyes of those who knew him, also knew how to judge; but it was also, for Bouwsma, a test of his own willingness to leam. In subjecting himself to Witt- genstein’s judgements, he was recognizing their power and clarity and showing his own desire to work in philosophy with that sort of clarity and attention. The traits of intensity, disdain for small talk, and capacity to judge in Wittgenstein are, of course, inter- related and inseparable from each other and from other traits and aspects of his character. This intensity shows in his quick responses and in his critical aptness and also in his insightful analogies and pictures. Here are samples of the latter: There is a picture here ... Imagine I’m an invisible engineer... Now it’s as though everything on the map repre- sents something but representing is not represented on the map. Imagine a lamp on a post. And a light in the lamp ... steady succession of light is passing through the lamp-frame. This is James's stream of consciousness.xxii + INTRODUCTION We may compare language to money Imagine a tribe who when they viewed things horrible, loathsome to us, clapped their hands ... And so on. These are marvelous pictures which illuminate the darkness of philosophical thoughts and puzzles. The picture often aims at showing how someone is looking at a particular subject. In connection with their discussion of Descartes’ cogito, for example, the image is that of a movie projector. The past is on the roll behind and the future is on the roll ahead, but where is the present? It is only the frame which is before the light. This picture illustrates how Descartes was thinking of the self and what could be known of it. It is not that Descartes thought in these terms: rather, the metaphor is a way of visualizing Descartes’ cogito and illustrating its grammatical confusion. It also presents some of the essential puzzlement of the cogito. One can now see the difficulty in talking about the self—the I—which only exists in a single present frame before the light. Wittgenstein’s picture enables one to see how Descartes’ sentences were generated and what their source of meaning appeared to be. It also suggests new lines of questions, confusions, and observations. One should not overlook this simple fact, either: the ability to visualize such abstract ideas in such vivid ways is impressive to a learner. The right analogy or image in the mind of one who is working to understand is like a light going on in the dark or like relief from distress. It is an impression which lasts. One who has worked hard to get such a clear view of a philosophical problem is suffi- Introduction + xxiii ciently impressed by the one who is able to produce such pictures. And with Wittgenstein they were abundant. ‘There is in these pictures an element of surprise, an unexpected turn which orients one’s way of thinking. They make things suddenly clear or open up another's thought in an astonishing way. One has the impression that the producer of the picture is someone special. This sense that Wittgenstein was special and different comes through in many of his responses to Bouwsma’s remarks and to things he notices in their surroundings. The associations, the formed opinions, the questions, the observations all bespeak a uniquely well-read, self-disci- plined thinker—one who commanded attention and captured interest. On a walk the two philosophers see a sign for cheeseburgers. Wittgenstein begins telling Bouwsma of a letter of Fénelon to the French Academy recommending that new words be admitted into the language only if they are “sweet.” Then he discusses what “sweet” would mean. Bouwsma remarks in astonishment: “This is a fine illustration of the richness of his mind. For all this came about through what? Through seeing a sign advertising cheeseburgers. That offended him! He loathed it. That was no way to derive words. And what happens? Fénelon.” Bouwsma finds this connection sur- prising, and a commonplace word such as cheeseburger is seen in a new light. Many other responses have a similar impressiveness. While the two men are having a dish of ice cream, Wittgenstein reflects on how different this world is from the world of his parents—how the machines would have made our lives unrecognizable to them. He describesxxiv + INTRODUCTION having heard John Dewey give a lecture on the kind of human being education should produce, and remarks: “But I was a human being which was fitted into the old environment.” This remark captures something impor- tant about Wittgenstein’s difference. He has, in a certain sense, a conservative mind. He is not at all impressed by the technological advances and scientific outlook of the twentieth century. He disdains the idea of moral progress in history and the notion that the world is a better place to live than it ever used to be. He is skeptical of the future of mankind. He attends to the detail of specific human beings’ lives and does not meddle in mankind or in popular movements. He is attracted to Kierkegaard and Dostoyevsky, both of whom share and develop these thoughts. Bouwsma, too, shared them, and that helps account for their mutual attraction. The list of unique and surprising responses goes on and on. He sees a jukebox and asks: “What is juke?” The Gospel of John he does not understand, but this does not mean that others do not nor that the language is vague. How do those who do understand it use their sentences? And what is clear over against it? In Crime and Punishment it is “most magnificent” that Raskolnikov should forget to lock the door during the murder. Modern Judaism has nothing left since sacrifice is no longer practiced. Cardinal Newman had a queer mind, not because he became a Roman Catholic (Witt- genstein’s best students were converts}, but because of the way he gave reasons for his conversion. In moral philosophy it is said “I ought implies I can,” but this is not so in the Christian orthodox position: “Be ye per- fect.” One can’t be perfect, but one can be commanded to try. These are remarks and responses of one who is Introduction + xxv intellectually curious and honest and who does not absorb his opinions from newspapers and general culture. If they do not stimulate one to do the same, at least they should have the effect of alerting one to the presence of a rich thinker and of making one self- conscious of one’s own intellectual laxity. One will notice that these last responses concern themes in religion and ethics. This is not a skewed sampling. Many of the discussions had to do with these topics, and Bouwsma was not always the one who introduced them. They reveal another side to Witt- genstein, the side glimpsed in the notebooks of 1914-16 and in other conversations reported by Drury and Mal- colm. If one had read only the Philosophical Investiga- tions or the Ttactatus, one might well not expect this interest and sensitivity to religion in Wittgenstein. ‘These are not what one might regard as typical conversa- tions of an “analytic philosopher.” Russell expressed astonishment in one of his letters at Wittgenstein’s admiration for Kierkegaard and Dostoyevsky and at his mysticism. He writes to Lady Ottoline Morrell: “I had felt in his book a flavour of mysticism, but was astonished when I found that he has become a complete mystic. He reads people like Kierkegaard and Angelus Silesius, and he seriously contemplates becoming a monk” (Letters to Russell, Keynes, and Moore, p. 82). Perhaps Russell, having known Wittgenstein personally, should have expected as much, but to many readers, this aspect of Wittgenstein comes as a surprise. Whether Bouwsma was surprised or not, one cannot tell, but that he appreciated and took great interest in these remarks of Wittgenstein there can be no doubt. Wittgenstein’s work in the Philosophical Investi-xxvi + INTRODUCTION gations does not present a philosophical system or theory from which one can derive consistent answers to all questions and explain all phenomena. There is rather a reflection of constant struggle and appreciation for the capacity of language to confuse and mislead. Witt- genstein both practiced and taught constant vigilance in this regard, as these conversations show. In considering what made Wittgenstein appear so different and so impressive to Bouwsma, one must think of their discus- sions in this light. Wittgenstein was not teaching Bouwsma his theory of language nor his “philosophy.” It is not as if Bouwsma were trying to get the theory down or to understand the principles of linguistic philosophy, trying one aspect and then another, seeing if Witt- genstein would correct him or affirm that he had it straight. Wittgenstein struggled on the spot with every topic that was introduced or idea that came up. He may have started off on an idea quickly, and his responses often reflected considerable previous thought about an idea, but he was working as he talked. Again, his thinking up pictures, his surprising turns of thought, and his persistence in returning to the problem, all exhibit his struggling with ideas rather than working out pat answers consistent with some supposed theory of language. Bouwsma frequently takes note of Wittgenstein’s persistence. Recalling a discussion, for example, where Bouwsma proposed that they discuss someone’s lectur- ing on religious truth, Bouwsma writes: Religious truth? He went on puzzling, thinking his way. Of course it isn't botany, it isn’t anything about eclipses, it isn’t economics or history... But what is one Introduction + xxvii to say besides that? The man in Christ Church will very likely talk about Christian dogmas. And one might make some sense in this way, cach believer talking about what he believes. But there is no sense talking about religious ‘truth in general Now one might say that Wittgenstein already knew which way he wanted to go with this question, but Bouwsma saw the puzzlement and struggle, and the reader can see them in this account. On the one hand, religious truth is not just any truth at all, on the other hand, how could there be just one and only one sort of thing that counted as religious? Wittgenstein’s continual struggle with puzzle- ment, his finding his way as he went along, did not have the effect of teaching Bouwsma certain ideas. Rather, it served as an inspiration to him—as a model of something that he already admired and for which he already had the right philosophical disposition. Bouwsma was not look- ing for a philosophy of life; he already had the equivalent of that in Christianity. Neither was he looking for a theory of language. He was looking for a way of working in philosophy that reflected his lost faith in metaphysics, his desire for clarity, and his desire not to be taken in. Some of this longing is captured in his 1941 notebook remark about Moore: “Like Moses, Moore took us to the promised land, had a glimpse of it, but never enjoyed it himself.” Moore provided no relief, no nourishment, no direction for Bouwsma. They were two wanderers. How impressive Wittgenstein must have appeared then! “A method has been found,” Bouwsma noted; this was an expression of hope for that relief, nourishment, and direction. His essays on Moore show his admiration forxxviii + INTRODUCTION clarity and sense. He came to prefer working with details and on particular sentences rather than on the gener- alities of systems. In his 1940 notebook Bouwsma writes: “I used to study books, now I study sentences.” In Wittgenstein’s company he must surely have been inspired by one who not only shared some of these affinities but had come to understand something of the myriad ways in which philosophy had gone wrong. Again, these notes do not show Wittgenstein teaching this to Bouwsma. But one can see, as Bouwsma did, the older man’s habits of thought as a great inspiration: his clarity, his attention to. detail and examples, his passion for doing philosophy, his unwillingness to take the easy way through a prob- lem or to accept some conventional view of it, his capacity for judgement, his quickness and his honesty. These inspired similar habits of thought to grow in Bouwsma. To be sure, the soil in Bouwsma was fertile, and the roots for many of these habits were already there. Bouwsma’s ten years of working out hints on his own from The Blue Book and his subsequent diligent work with the Philosophical Investigations in the years imme- diately following his discussions with Wittgenstein were an inseparable part of that change and growth in habit. But the encounter with Wittgenstein itself marks the turning point for that change. The reader of the Conversations will find therefore not only an account of Wittgenstein’s impressive presence but also the account of an essential part of Bouwsma's philosophical develop- ment. The Conversations are by no means complete descriptions of either, but they arc an invaluable source if one has an interest in these two individuals. Introduction + xxix It is our hope that these remarks will help prepare the reader for reading the Conversations—by having described the setting in which they occurred, and by having discussed how Wittgenstein went about respond- ing to Bouwsma. A few comments concerning the text may also be helpful. Bouwsma had these notes typed and titled “Wittgenstein Notes,” but in spite of all the interest others showed in them, he never published them. Occasionally he gave them to a friend who might profit from reading them. When he did show them to someone, he seems always to have made it clear that he did not want them circulated or published. Nevertheless, copies were made and the notes were circulated much more widely than Bouwsma ever realized. His reasons for not wanting them published were not entirely clear; nor was it clear that he would object to their being published at any future time. Surely some, but not all, of his reluctance had to do with the fact that some of Witt- genstein’s remarks about friends and acquaintances were harsh. Certain of these individuals have reputations as professional philosophers, and some are still alive. Because of this and because the remarks would very likely be misunderstood if taken out of context, we have removed them from the text. Deleting such remarks does not gloss them over entirely. The reader, encounter- ing the severity of Wittgenstein’s judgement on Russell, for example, is likely to fill in the deleted remarks for himself. Bouwsma may also have been reluctant to give these notes wider circulation because they were not written for publication. They were set down primarily for his own use. He wanted to keep a record of what was said and what happened. But they are not simply a diaryxxx + INTRODUCTION or a travelogue. They are Bouwsma’s attempts to under- stand what Wittgenstein was saying and to think through the discourse for himself. The reader will ob- serve that Bouwsma does not argue with or criticize Wittgenstein’s ideas. Rather, he attempts to recount long discussions several hours or days later. This involves not only his ability to remember what Wittgenstein said but also his ability to reconstruct the flow of thought in his own mind. Bouwsma, as indicated above, was of a similar disposition of mind on many of these subjects. With Wittgenstein’s stimulation he goes on to recall and even finish the thoughts for himself. After receiving the Conversations from Bouwsma, Yorick Smythies wrote back that it was remarkable how much in tune Bouwsma and Wittgenstein were with each other. He noted that the absence of quotation marks around Witt- genstein’s remarks reflected the emergence of a Bouwsma-Wittgenstein personality. The reader some- times cannot tell who is talking. Occasionally, when clarity absolutely required it, we have added quotation marks. But we have preserved that feature of the recorded discussions which so struck Smythies. The reader should also be aware that the dated entries do not necessarily correspond to a single discus- sion. Bouwsma, in writing up the conversations after- ward, seems in some entries to have written up more than one discussion or more than one day’s events. The last entry is dated January 16 [1951] and speaks of events and remarks that seem much closer to the time of Witt- genstein’s death in April. One entry, August 17, 1950, was located in the typescript between October 1, 1950, and November 28, 1950. We have no explanation and simply inserted it in the proper sequential order. Introduction + xxxi Throughout the typescript, Bouwsma frequently uses the initials of people who were present or referred to—M. for Norman Malcolm, K. for Kierkegaard, and so on. We have supplied the complete names to help the reader who may occasionally not recognize the abbrevia- tions. We have left W., which always stands for Witt- genstein. In addition to these deletions and changes in the typescript, we have silently corrected a few minor errors in punctuation, spelling, and grammar. We have also made a few guesses about the spelling of proper names and on one or two words that were illegible in the typescript. ‘Among the people to whom Bouwsma showed the “Conversations” was Wittgenstein’s nephew, Thomas Stonborough, whom Bouwsma had met on a visit to Vienna. Stonborough greatly appreciated and approved of the manuscript and upon receiving it in 1965 wrote: ‘This morning your package arrived with your notes on Uncle Ludwig's visit to you. I read them at one sitting this aftemoon and found them very good indeed. In fact the best thing written on him I know of. The reason. for this is that you have asked yourself personal questions about him occasionally and set about answering them, ‘According to my memory and experience, you have answered them correctly, insofar as one can ever catch the soul’s motives in words. Both in the instance of his dislike for the later Russell and Whitehead as well as his outlook on teaching philosophy. A very good description of his rapidity in answering questions and the breadth of the analogies and pictures at his disposal. Stonborough’s ideas of what stands out in thexxxii_ + INTRODUCTION notes square nicely with our views. The letter acknowl- edges that Bouwsma had captured something of Witt- genstein as he really was and presented him in the positive way that he deserved. Stonborough went on to ask if Bouwsma had an opinion about why Wittgenstein was so kind to him. Without answering the question, Stonborough said that he thought he knew why but wanted to see if Bouwsma had come to the same conclusion. We have no record of either one’s answer to that question, but anyone who spent time around Bouwsma could supply an answer. In Bouwsma, Witt- genstein saw a deep, unpretentious, and serious philosopher. J. L. CRakT Ronatp E. Hustwir 1889 1911-1913 1914-1918 1919-1920 1920-1926 1926-1928 Chronology of Wittgenstein’s Life Born April 26 at Vienna, Austria. After training originally as an engineer, attended Trinity College, Cambridge, to study philosophy with Bertrand Russell. Began work leading to the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Served in Austrian army, taken prisoner in 1918 and held near Monte Cassino, Italy. Completed Tractatus an August 1918. Trained at a college for elementary school teachers in Vienna. ‘Taught in remote villages in the districts of Schneeberg and Semmering in Lower Austria. Tractatus published 11922) Designed and built a mansion in Vienna for his sister, Gretl XXXiixxxiv + CHRONOLOGY 1929 1930-1935, 1936 1938-1939 1940-1944 1945-1947 1949 1949-1950 1951 1953 Returned to Cambridge, submitted the Tractatus as a thesis, and received his PhD. Became a Fellow of Trinity College Lectured and wrote extensively on phil- osophical problems. Dictated The Blue Book 1933-1934, The Brown Book 1934-1935. Lived for over a year in Norway; began. to write the Philosophical Investigations. Returned to Cambridge. Succeeded G.E. Moore in the chair in philosophy (1939} Served as a porter at Guy’s Hospital in London; later worked in a medical laboratory in Newcastle. Lectured and taught at Cambridge. Visited Norman Malcolm in America; met and befriended Bouwsma. Returned to England; lived in Oxford. Bouwsma and his family stayed in Oxford. Died April 29 in Cambridge at the home of Dr. Bevan. Philosophical Investigations published. CONVERSATIONS In the middle of the journey of our life, Icame to myself in the dark wood where the straight way was lost. DanteWittgenstein at Cornell NORMAN MALCOLM Cornell July 1949 On Tuespay oF Tus WEEK we drove to Syracuse to meet Norman Malcolm and Wittgenstein who had just arrived from Europe. After all the stories about him he struck me as a very attractive man with an easy and a friendly manner. ‘And last evening, Thursday, he came with Norman and Max Black and Stuart Brown for discussion. ‘And I heard and saw him perform. He uses his hands and his head a great deal, and walks about, too. But what characterizes his talk is the ready availability of example and imaginary situation to clarify the uses of expressions. There is an intensity and an impatience about him which are enough, certainly, to frighten one, and there was once when Norman was floundering, going on talking, perhaps, in order to get W. to go on, when he was nearly violent. No wonder so many people have found him difficult. At any rate, I can imagine that he cannot bear idle talk and unintelligibility gladly, and he shows it. So, too, many of us must be uncomfortable. 24 + CONVERSATIONS The subject was ethics. Brown introduced the subject, the idea that duties and rights are correlative. It seemed to Brown that a man might very well have a duty when no other man could claim a right to the perfor- mance of that duty. W. seized upon the use of “It seems ...” Why “It seems ..."? Of course, aman may Why not? A child may be brought up: “Never, never, steal,” “Resist tyranny,” etc. He does not then owe that duty to his parents. He must simply do or not do. A man may owe his duty on the other hand to God, or as we see to nothing at all. How then do people come to say that all duties are owed to someone? Perhaps simply out of a habit of speech in this context. Some duties are owed to someone. Perhaps most are. This now establishes the pattern of the language, and the expectations in connec- tion with it. So duties are owed, and to someone. {It occurs to me now that this also reflects the contract theory of morals.) This issue was fairly easily disposed of. Then, Norman took up the use of “absolute” and “universal.” ‘What would you do with: Everyone ought to be honest? There was some confusion here. Black suggested some- thing like this, that this injunction was the pre-supposi- tion of all morality. The word “dogmatic” was used here and so was “categorical.” Black and Brown didn’t exactly like this. They were wanting to say that something could be said, one could argue for this statement. But this also was confused. You certainly could not prove any such statements. Here talk was begun by W. about the two tribes, he being reformer to one and Malcolm being reformer to the other. Each now would have a different morality, and each might be immoral to the other. There might now be said to be different moral principles, but Cormell - 5 one can see in the way in which they come to be held that argument and proof have nothing to do with it. 1 introduced the illustration, “Pride is an evil,” with which I worked in my ethics class, and said that when I did this, all that happened was that the idea was clarified, and sometimes I won some students. The point was that one can exhibit the sort of thing one has in mind, and that is all. Later in the living room—our conversation earlier was in the garden—the subject was resumed. How did I exhibit “pride”? By reading from The Brothers Karamazov. W. seemed to approve of this but he made some objection which I did not understand. He said somebody else might write a different book, apparently exhibiting pride in a different light. The point seemed to be that what is relevant is patterns of life which are enmeshed with all sorts of other things, and so this makes the matter much more complex than at first it seemed. Perhaps this is it. Pride is, in anyone's life, always only a part. No man is pride alone. Pride is speci- fied in a context of other interests and of other human. beings. It is this total situation in which pride infects with evil. Pride is like an infection, a fever. It isn't located like a sore thumb. The fever permeates the whole body. So pride too. This is nice. I was glad to be reminded of this. From this point we went on from a suggestion of Norman’s: Suppose Cesare Borgia said, “This is my eth- ical principle: I trample on other men’s toes all I can.” Norman was fascinated by his having stuck pins {Cleopatra} into people. At that W. frowned. Ethical principle! Not everything is an ethical principle. How is an ethical principle identified? This took us into the use6 + CONVERSATIONS of the expression “ethical.” Nothing precise of course. A principle is ethical by virtue of its surroundings. What surroundings? You could imagine “surroundings” where one was justified and enjoined upon to enjoy sufferings, the sufferings of the wicked, for instance. At any rate there are limits surely to what is an “ethical” principle. It reminds me now of Herbert Feigl’s “choosing principles.” July 31 ‘THIS AFTERNOON we went to Norman and Lee’s, [ thought for tea. It turned out that I had been invited alone, and this was for discussion. I had tea in the garden, but Gertrude and Gretchen had none in the house. W. has no use for social chit-chat. This was for discussion and so I brought up a remark of W’s on Thursday evening. W. had said in response to my saying that I had read some of The Brothers to show what I meant by “pride,” “but a man might have written a quite different sort of thing.” I wanted to get the point of that. Apparently what he meant was that pride might be represented as a part of an heroic scene, and it wouldn’t do at all. (I suggested Andrei seizing the banner at Austerlitz.} In this connec- tion—no, later—he brought up “No man likes to appear ridiculous.” This came up after I was pressed more about the point of my saying “Pride is an evil.” So I had to try again. I said, well, I came to say it, in some such way as this. The love of one’s neighbor is good. Whatever in us keeps us from or hinders us in loving our neighbors is evil. Now, then, what does? Well, pride is such a hin- Cornell + 7 drance. Here it was, I think, that he said that no one likes to appear ridiculous, and this is certainly motivated by pride, but it helps one to get on with people. I did not see this clearly at the time, but apparently he meant to object to the general statement: Pride is a hindrance— Well, we drifted. What did I do? There were read- ings: Epicurus, the Stoics, etc. In discussing Epicurus, I came to ask whether or not we could criticize our desires. Are there evil desires? Oh, yes, revenge is evil. The students agreed with me. Well, what of it? What next? I had no next. How pointless! I was desperate. See, I said. Solomon said: The love of money is the root of evil. Pascal said: Most of the troubles of men arise from this ... Now I said, my statement is something like these. (I could not think of Plato’s statement—The love of luxury is the cause of war ..., etc.| How do statements like these have any meaning? W. said that they did not, apart from context. Then I said that my sentence is like G.E. Moore's sentences where Moore answers his ques- tion: What things are good? And how about those? Well, W. was ready for that too. So my sentence was like Moore's and so what? It came finally to something like this. [came to see and admitted that what I do in part is to try to under- stand what some of these philosophers have said— Epicurus, Zeno, etc., and to acquaint the students with this. But I also preach. The first would be on the whole futile, trifling; the second would be risky. Perhaps it ought not to be done at all. All through this W. was talking. He made such remarks as that some people are interested in a system; others are interested in preaching. He makes the distinc- tion clear between something up in the air—using his8 + CONVERSATIONS hands—the talk of philosophers, and now someone say- ing: Don’t be revengeful; let not the sun go down on thy wrath, etc. This is the distinction between nonsense and exhortation. There were also remarks about Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky certainly wanted to preach. But he did not succeed too well. Notice that Alyosha is represented as attractive. Smerdyakov is not. This shows a mixed motive. He has an aesthetic interest in it, too. There was some puzzling about Dostoyevsky’s project: The Great Sinner. Any decent man might fall into the perpetration of some crime. Why not? Thave found W. a great tonic, like a purge. And how I need it. How solid with the habits of long non- sense! I must do what I can to subject myself to his drubbing and to leam to speak freely so that I may expose my rags to him. If I can only speak! August 5 THis EVENING, after last night's discussion at Black’s, W. came to see me. I have been quite uneasy, overwhelmed, with W,, and here he was coming to see me, andI would be with him alone. I walked down the street to meet him and soon he appeared at the comer with his cane and a rather ungainly, stiff and yet fairly vigorous walk. I greeted him, saying that he seemed to be a good walker; curiously such pleasantries he treats seriously. Oh, no. He was not a good walker at all, etc. Then he soon turned to me to explain why he had come to see me. He wanted to talk about our meeting of the night before. Was it any good and did I get anything out of it? He had talked to Comell - 9 Malcolm in the morning and had asked whether it would be all right to talk to me about it. As we tumed into the yard, he asked where the road led, and would I like to walk. I said I would, but proposed we ride, and then I'd show him. Perhaps we could sit in the car to talk. That suited him. So we went off. On the way he said he would like to go to the suspension bridge. There were a few remarks about the meeting but not much. We parked near the engineering building and joined the path to the bridge. As we walked, he began talking, and as his cus- tom is, he would stop and then talk. He hardly knew how to tell me. It was absurd, etc. “I am a very vain person.” “The talk wasn’t good. Intellectually, it may have been, but that isn’t the point.” “My vanity, my vanity.” Here we are talking as though we understood things, talking, alking. Iremember how Alice said that years ago he had confided in her too that he was unwor- thy. At any rate, he has his inner struggles. asked him after we had crossed the bridge (where the cracks in the bridge bothered him, made him uncomfortable} whether such evenings robbed him of his sleep, and he said that they did not. But then he added in all seriousness and with the kind of smile Dostoyevsky would suggest in such a circumstance: “No, but do you know, I think I may go nuts.” This is almost certainly one of his fears. ‘And he is fearing too his age, his weakness, his poor health. “You know,” he said, “I resigned my position at Cambridge for two reasons. First I wanted to finish my book.” Then he talked a little about his book—begun_ eighteen years ago. “Second, why should I teach? What good is it for X to listen to me? Only the man who thinks gets any good out of it.”” He made an exception of a few students, who had a certain obsession and were serious.10 + CONVERSATIONS “But most of them come to me because I am clever, and I am clever, but it’s not important. And they just want to be clever.” W. had taken me to be his confidant. “So the rope-walker is clever, too.” (Earlier he had also said that science or electronics was aseptic and such talk was, too. But philosophy ....) We walked along the bridge by the road, and looked over towards the lake, where there was a ball game under the lights. There was an iron floor on the bridge, all holes. He'd never seen a bridge like that. Neither had I. We walked back along the other side of the gorge and sat down on a bench there. Here he talked to me about his career. He studied engineering at Berlin and Manchester. Got interested in Schopenhauer through his brother. Went to talk with Gottlob Frege at Jena, during which the figure of the cinema lamp in talking about cogito, ergo sum, first occurred to him, Studied at Cambridge, heard Bertrand Russell. After the First World War he taught in Austria. It was there that Moritz Schlick invited him for discus- sions. Later he did go and met with Schlick, Friedrich Waisman, Feigl, and some woman whom he thought Feig] had later married, Then he talked a little about Yorick Smythies. Smythies will never get a lectureship, He is too serious. ‘As we were walking, he spoke too of the way he worked. He worked in spurts. There were times when he was so dull that he could scarcely believe he had written what he had written, And he had been ill since March, and now for the first time since, he was beginning to do something. By the time we left our bench, it was dark, and we groped our way back along the path—got off once, going Cornell + 11 down into the gorge, to the road above the gorge. As we approached the car, he asked me whether I had ever had any acquaintance with the Mormons. They fascinated him. They are a fine illustration of what faith will do. Something in the heart takes hold. And yet to under- stand them! To understand a certain obtuseness is required. One must be obtuse to understand. He likened it to needing big shoes to cross a bridge with cracks in it. One mustn’t ask questions. Later in the car he mentioned a chapter in Dickens’ Uncommercial Traveler—an account of Dickens’ visit to an immigrant ship of Mormons and his amazement at finding it all so clean, and so orderly and contrary to everything he had expected. The account of a prejudice. I should read it. He also had read a history of the Mormons—Edward Meier. In the midst of this I had mentioned Ivan as wishing he were a woman of eighteen stone lighting a candle before the ikon. This was wrong, of course, not like Dickens at all. But this led him to talk of The Brothers. He must have read every sentence there fifty times. Alyosha faded, but Smerdyakov, he was deep. This character Dostoyevsky knew. He was real. Then he said that the book did not interest him much anymore. But to Crime and Punishment he should like to retum. And he talked about the detail in that book, the house of the murder, the room, the hallway, staircase, etc. But what struck him as most magnificent was Raskolnikov's having forgotten to lock the door. That was tremendous! And after all his planning, (It occurs to me now—like the fly on Pascal’s nose.) (Earlier on the bench, he also said that all the years of his teaching had done more bad than good. And he compared it to Freud’s teachings. The teachings, like12. + CONVERSATIONS wine, had made people drunk. They did not know how to use the teaching soberly. Did I understand? Oh, yes, they had found a formula, Exactly.) “Then we rode to the top of the hill near the library and looked over the town, The moon was in the sky. “If had planned it, I should never have made the sun at all. See! How beautiful! The sun is too bright and too hot.” Later, he said, “And if there were only the moon there would be no reading and writing.” It was a memorable evening, August 6 ROMANS 9:21 “one vessel unto honor; another unto dishonor” “vessels of wrath” “vessels of mercy” ISAIAH 45:9 “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Both of these texts arose in W.’s discussions last evening. August 7 ON THURSDAY EVENING we met at Black’s. It was my tum to introduce the subject. I introduced: Cogito, exgo sum. After I had finished, W. took it up. “Of course, if — now told me such a thing, I should say: Rubbish! But the teal question is something different. How did Descartes Cormell + 13 come to do this?” I asked, did he mean what leads up to it in Descartes’ thinking, and the answer was: “No. One must do this for oneself.” Then he went on to discourse. “always think of it as like the cinema. You see before you the picture on the screen, but behind you is the operator, and he has a roll here on this side from which he is winding and another on that side into which he is winding. The present is the picture which is before the light, but the future is still on this roll to pass, and the past is on that roll. It’s gone through already. Now imagine that there is only the present. There is no future roll, and no past roll. And now further imagine what language there could be in such a situation. One could just gape. This!” Now let me see if I can digest this. I think I see now that this is an interpretation, a way of showing how Descartes’ “I think” could seem to him to mean some- thing. If you begin as Descartes does, eliminating every- thing which his arguments are supposed to render doubtful, then see what goes. There is nothing, no sun, no earth, no fire, no dressing-gown, etc. Of course, these seem to be, there would be seemings. So too there would be no past things, no past earth, no past fire, friends, etc. And no future. Now there is nothing. But there is now something which is comparable to the pictures on the screen. Now a scrupulously honest Descartes will not say: “There goes my horse. Ah! A bird singing up in the tree, etc. There’s a woman holding an umbrella.” Neither is there, of course, any screen, or man with a machine. So Descartes can present nothing, One can say that he might say: “Ah!” or “This!” or “Awareness!” But if he now said anything of this sort, his words would have no meaning. There would be nothing to provide a14 - CONVERSATIONS contrast. “I think" is or would be like: “Ah?” {uttered by W. leaning forward). ‘W. then went on with: “I exist.” Imagine a lamp ona post. And a light in the lamp. Sometimes there is no light. But go on now to imagine not a light, but a steady succession of lights passing through the lamp-frame. This is James’ stream of consciousness. Now one might say: See, there is not only the lights, there is also the lamp. The lamp is the / that exists for the lights to pass through. This is something like what Descartes might have imagined. There were comments and suggestions as we went along, on the past and the future where all is given, on Descartes’ treatment of 2 + 3 = 5, language, etc. W. said: We may compare language to money {counters}, but then we think of money in terms of something you can get for it and can carry away—a cabbage, a chair, a cigar, etc. But you can also get a seat at the cinema which you cannot carry away at all. The latter part of the evening was taken up with a nice question of Black’s. He agreed with the disposition of “I think” and “T exist,” but he wanted to know what Twould do if a student said not: “T think,” but “Isee something.” I went on to say that I would treat it in the same way. At this point W. took it over. The argument was about a very important point. When does a sentence make sense? There was talk about Moore's sentence: I am here. Moore thought one could decide that “Iam_ here” made sense, by some introspective questioning. Does it make sense? Now, of course, all these sentences have a use. The question is whether, if one shouted such a sentence under any circumstances whatever, it has a use. Ican see what moves Black. Black says that the Comell + 15 sentence obviously has no particular point, nobody gets any information by it, But if it were a question in a True- False questionnaire, you would clearly answer “True” or “Yes! if asked: Yes or No. W. said: “No! No! Of course not, etc. Context determines use.” August 8 ON SaTURDAY EVENING the Malcolms and W. were out to dinner, and after dinner Malcolm, W, and I began our discussion in the garden. The subject was determinism and free will. It was a subject I had already discussed with the students on Wednesday evening. The discussion began much as I had taken it up on Wednesday. We know how we use such expressions as “responsible,” “free,” and “can’t help it,” etc. Now the uses of these expressions are quite independent of whether or not there are laws of nature. Inoticed that a part of the difficulty, the puzzle, arises from the use of the word “cause” in the statement of the problem. All my acts are caused—muscles, liga- ments, electricity. If my act is caused, then it appears that I am like a clock. And I am. But clocks are not re- sponsible. So if we are all like clocks, then that settles it. Iam not very sure or very clear about this discus- sion. This seems to be it. Holding oneself responsible, holding another responsible—these are attitudes. So the attitude one takes towards a drunk—praising—blaming— is different from that we take toward a sober man who may do what the drunk does. In such cases we might say that it’s a difference in chemistry, and one does not blame alcohol. It may be, of course, that in the case of the16 + CONVERSATIONS sober man it’s also a matter of chemistry. But when we hold him responsible we suppose that there is a dif- ference. One of the lessons drawn from this is that we should perhaps never judge another. The man may be like the drunkard. But yourself you must judge. Con- science involves this. Calvin, Saint Paul, Romans 9. If you think of man as a pot and of God as the potter, then holding man, the pot, responsible, is what? Then God is responsible? “The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.” W. would not judge. These are the facts: We do not hold a drunk responsible. The alcohol makes a difference. We do hold the sober man who does what the drunk does, responsi- ble. Who knows, however, that this is not also a matter of chemistry? There may be something in his body which makes the temptation irresistible. It is conceiv- able that you would not, following some such sug- gestion, hold any man responsible. You simply would not know whether to hold him responsible or not. So with any man. But each man would now hold himself responsible—not to do this would mean that one would cease to be human. In all these cases we take an attitude. Taking an attitude is blaming, praising, defending, etc. And these are the facts about our attitudes. ‘And now this is one way in which the problem may be stated further: Would your attitude towards your friend or towards anyone remain the same if when he lies tv you, you could have observed the course of electrical impulses over a period of five minutes in slow motion as they culminated in his speaking. Would you still be inclined to blame him? Now imagine that your friend is only a cog or a certain part only of a grand electrical system, Schopenhauer’s Will, then would not you con- Corell + 17 template that with horror? It may not now matter that what you see is flowers and birds, or heroic men or bloody villains or men in fear and terror. What would your attitude be? Omar Khayyam: “As impotently moves as you or.” Kant, as I remember, asked: Can there be uncaused events? and he said: Yes. In this way he made way for freedom. Freedom is possible. This makes the question twofold Is man free, responsible, guilty, etc.? This is the ordinary sense. The other question is a metaphysical question. Is man free? meaning: Does man cause uncaused events? It takes some time for the motion of the loco- motive to be communicated to the last boxcar. W said, I think, that the problem is crucial—he maybe, meant serious and not simply speculative— when in respect to something which you yourself have done, you cannot now make up your mind whether you could help it or not, whether you were responsible. In this case your attitude towards your own self as, I suppose, a small horror, might make you anxious. Here the uncertainty, the problem, invades one’s own person- ality. But I do not now understand this. I need some illustrations. Ivan doesn’t know whether he is guilty or not. He decides. I suppose that in respect to the universe or in respect to another human being this question may be left in suspense. But in respect to oneself the issue is suffered, is an agony of spirit. Am Ia living horror? How “must,” “had to,” “couldn’t be otherwise” come to be associated with “cause”? Through the law, and now the use of the law as premise. If one asks; Are my decisions caused, is there any way of telling?18 + CONVERSATIONS August 10 YESTERDAY IN THE AFTERNOON I went to Norman’s. We had tea and talk in the basement. W. gave a restatement of what he had said on Saturday. First of all there is no opposition between freedom and causality. But there may be a conflict of attitudes towards some person or towards ourselves where, let us say, Ihave a toothache and am irritable and say things. In any case, as I see it now, the real puzzle is that our attitudes, holding people responsible, praising, blaming, might be quite different from what they are, if we could actually see the succes- sion of causes at work. And this is about all there is to say. As it is now, we do have these attitudes. What would our attitudes be if we knew so-and-so? Who knows? We do not praise and blame a man who is drunk, who is insane, etc. If we say that we do not because in these cases we know the causes of the actions, then what if there are causes in all cases, and we know them? I suggested then the subject of an ideal language in which all the temptations to philosophy would be avoided, but Norman remarked that it would be better to take that up in connection with some problem. So we passed on to reading Frege, W. in his German version. The subject was: Identity. Is this a relation? And what is a relation? Cousin of, on the table, birds in the tree—etc. Now consider identity where it is the identity of two expressions as these are involved in definition: Herman is Norman. Now this means that these two names are used in the same way. But isn’t it curious now to say that there is a relation between them? Here Norman introduced a puzzle (Moore’s about analysis). An oculist is an oculist. W. said: We must Comell + 19 distinguish between the rule for the use of these words and sentences in which these words are used. In such sentences such substitution may accordingly be made. But not in the rule. This however turned out not to be the issue. The issue is rather this: In an analysis, the sentence which you get analyzing sentence S is more complex than S, and yet is to mean just what S means. There are concepts in the analyzing sentence which are not in S. This is a puzzle. If we say that they both mean the same proposi- tion, then it appears that two propositions are the same proposition. Norman is 6 feet tall Norman is 7 — | feet tall W. first pointed out that if Moore had talked about sentences instead of propositions, he would have had no trouble. It is the idea of the proposition as intermediary which gives the trouble, The intermediary won't help, “See,” W, said, “in this way I can tell you that Norman has set his cup in his saucer upside down.” And he set his own in his saucer. What I did is like a sentence. But no intermediary is required. This led us into the question as to how language works. How are we to understand? A sentence has meaning or there is the sentence and the thought. The thought or the meaning is said to be something. In the case of some words, proper names, there is commorly something to point to in explaining the use of the word. This is what misleads. You want to point to something. In the case of: Norman is 4 feet tall, there is nothing :o point to, but there is something—a proposition. This is very important! When we do point to something to explain, the effectiveness of pointing20 + CONVERSATIONS depends upon a very complex technique. Suppose Norman says: “This is W.” W. is sitting. Then W. got up. Is this what he meant? Then he stretched his arms up. This? Then sideways. This? etc. Then he did something of the same sort pointing at his cup: “This is Max.” What is Max? And at the plate: “This is red.” These operations are terribly complicated. “[ said in my book: The sentence is the picture.” August 14 CERTAINLY ONE CAN PLAN to do certain things. But so many things happen which one cannot plan at all. They are not things one does. They are things which are done to one or things which happen to one. Perhaps one could plan to be prepared no matter what happens, prepared to. steel oneself, prepared to give way. Certainly if one sets great store on or by what one is to do, one must live precariously. For little mice run away with man’s plans. Perhaps the main point is that no matter what happens and whether it is planned or not, one cannot plan his attitudes—hope, fear, joy, despair, etc. And these are what matter. On Thursday evening we met at Malcolm's. Black read some paragraphs from Aristotle's De Interpretatione on necessity, possibility, etc. The problem turned out to be a problem about the use of “if-then.”’ W. first distinguished Russell’s use of the expression “material implications” which excludes but one possibility. pand not is impossible. Then he went on to say something about if-then. “Tf- Comell + 21 then” states a law. Black said: “If throw this penny in the next four seconds, it will come up heads—and then I throw it not. I don’t throw it. One might say: See, I told you.” This in any case was supposed to illustrate “if- then’”—no law. W. struggled over this. He said: "There is a picture here,” and then he would pause as though trying to get the picture. He would begin again and hesitate. “I am just terribly sorry.” Finally he got up, after making certain abortive suggestions about Providence. Then he said: “Imagine I'm an invisible engineer. You who are about to throw the dice see me, and know that I will be present for four seconds, and will control the fall of the dice. This is one sort of picture which may go with your sentence.” This took quite a while. Later we got onto such a sentence as: If the horse has run, he will have won. This looks like the past of: If the horse runs, he will win, so that if the second is true, the first will be true, after the event. But this isnot the case. The second sentence does not involve any use at all, after the event. The first sentence has a use, but its use cannot be figured out from the use of the second. Actually, the first is used only when we are ignorant of whether or not the condition has been realized. Once we know, the sentence has no use. There was also some talk concerning the contrary-to-fact conditional: If you had taken the money, you would now be well. This is the subjunctive, and I expect is based on the law: If he takes the money, he will be well. All that is added in this case is the information that he did not take the money. Black also wanted to distinguish between the conditional statement, and the conditioned statement.22. + CONVERSATIONS This led to such sentences as: If he comes, open the door. If Malcolm rises to the ceiling, open the door. If Wittgenstein grows a beard a yard long, I will too. Jump to New York. The issue tured to this: Is a man giving a command when he knows that the command cannot be executed. Black said he could not. Or, rather: Can a man give a command which cannot be executed? I suggested the case of a man who is commanded to do what he has boasted he can do, but which others believe he cannot do. Malcolm elaborated this into the case of the king who commands the boaster to do the rope trick. He says: “T command you to do the rope trick.” Black was quite confused and suggested what he regarded as a similar sentence: I am the husband of this man. W. preferred to work with the sentence: He is his husband—or something like this. August 15 ‘UTILITARIANISM: “The best for the most" Syruptitiously. Here are some definitions I gave for my logic test: Politics is the art of taking from Peter to give to Paul, and getting them both to like it. Diligence is having something to do and doing it. Knitting is cross-needling with yarn or thread. A flirt is a Georgie-Porgie. Comell + 23 A dispute is two people talking loud. A cheat is a man who smiles while he picks your pocket, Sin is nobody's business. This afternoon W. talked with us again. He began again to speak of the temptation to think of an inter- mediary. Two things tempt us. First there are false propositions. Here we are likely to talk as though there must be something else since there is no fact to corre- spond to the sentence. Second there is this: Even when there is a fact, we say that along with the sentence there isa thought. Now in connection with a sentence there may be apicture. Whether or not it is in our minds does not now matter. Imagine that Norman tells me how to go to Mr. Bouwsma’s house. Then I may, as he talks, draw the route which he describes. So Ihave a picture. But clearly I could dispense with the picture. I could simply remem- ber his words as | walked. The words themselves serve as a picture. The picture I drew is unnecessary. All this was however introductory. What W. wished to say was that learning a language is learning a technique. In understanding the word “raining,” we Jearn how to compose and how to use all sorts of sentences containing that word. The technique is implied in such questions as: What does the word “raining” mean? A small child cannot ask that question. A child may when it sees the rain, say “raining,” but that isa different thing. It is merely making a noise. The whole point of this emphasis upon technique is to help us to get rid of the common impression that language is like a mirror, and that whenever a sentence24 + CONVERSATIONS has meaning, there is something, a proposition, corre- sponding to it. Using language is exercising a technique. He said: You cannot know the meaning of any sentence without knowing the whole language. Knowing the whole language means, I think, knowing how it fits in with other sentences, and the permutations of it in respect to tense, modifiers, etc. Is it perhaps the same as the grammar? In any case, words are used, sentences are used, perhaps we should say only sentences are used. Use is technique. W. tried to explain by the analogy with a map. Ina map, squares may represent houses and lines may repre- sent streets, and this now may be explained to a child. This is a house and this is a street. “Now it’s as though everything on the map represents something,” W. said, but “representing is not represented on the map.” The map we may say represents. That it is a map involves that the map is used in a certain way. Its use is what makes it a map. In the same way it is the use of a sentence which makes it intelligible. When one learns map-reading one leams how to use a certain configuration of marks on a paper. Soa map is a certain way of using. And the map does not show one how it is to be used. One must come to it treating it as a map. A map is something to be used in a certain way. And so with sentences. Get what is implied in this: The meaning of some words may be shown by pointing, but the meaning of a sentence cannot be shown. This once more may be what misleads us. As some words have ostensive definition, so we suppose sentences to. In this way we come to suppose that there are propositions which as it were the sentence points to. Comell + 25 So a map-teader is one who knows how to use maps. And one who speaks a language is one who knows how to use sentences. (Noises, etc.) W.really struggled to make this point. He consid- ers it extremely important. To understand sounds or marks as a sentence is to be able to use them in a certain way. To say that certain sounds are a sentence is to say that they have a certain use. So too to say that a sheet of paper is a map is to say that it has a certain use. This does strike me as very important. I certainly did not get this this afternoon. 'W. went on to read Frege. We struggled over: “the same meaning” but not “the same sense.” The evening star is the morning star. The son of Mary is the son of John. The end of this way through the woods is the same as the end of this way through the woods. The puzzle here lies in the use of these expressions: “same meaning,” “same sense.” W.’s point in part is that the meaning of a proper name is never an object. For though Mary may die, the meaning of the word “Mary” does not die. But W. was “a stupid ass,” and the discussion was ended. ‘I’m so sorry.” Imeant this tree. What tree did you mean? I meant the same tree. August 17 ‘THIs AFTERNOON W. and I rode out to Taughannock and took the path down the gorge to the falls. W. noticed the leaves again of the tulip tree. He had noticed them before26 + CONVERSATIONS with Norman on Tuesday, and sought out the tree after finding a leaf. And here now were others unsought. We picked a few thimble berries. We also saw some trees which I thought were sycamores but which W. identified as plum trees, white bark, scaling in patches. On the way back we also noticed a caterpillar-like creature, walking along our path on twenty-four short legs, a dark brown tractor with some place to go. W’s curiosity is wide. He is eager, seeing everything. He was especially intent on identifying a sugar maple. He would break the leaf-stem to find sap. But he failed. Did I know that that was not a sugar maple? On the way he had begun to talk about the difficulty of discussing Frege, and explained how Frege had come from the problems of math, and now talked and wrote about all sorts of problems without making the proper distinctions. So, pointing to a house along Cayuga Heights Road: The couple who live in that house—well, there may be no such couple. But we know how to find out. We'll stop and see. But in mathematics, there are expressions of the same sort—the least converg- ing series and we may show that there is no such convergent series. But this is not an empirical matter. Frege did not make this sort of distinction. By this time we had gotten into town, and he said maybe I wasn’t interested, etc. Then I said that I too had been thinking. about Frege’s saying that the meaning of two expressions may be the same, although their sense is different, and offered an account of what led Frege to say this. We worked with: The son of Mary is the son of John. When I had finished, he said I was perfectly right, perfectly right—but he added some comment. After an interval— we were driving along—he began again talking about Cornell + 27 Frege’s original question: Is equality a relation, and showed how he would deal with it. If you can express what is meant bya = b, without using the word at all, dispensing with what gives use to the question— that will be all that is necessary. It went something like this: If there is ana, then whatever is a, is also b. And about this time we got to the falls, where we walked. Walking along he was still thinking of what had been said before. When someone asks: Who is the son of Mary? he is not asking how the expression is used. He knows that. And there was more talk of Frege. Frege is so good. But one must try to figure out what was bothering him, and then see how the problems arise. There are so many of them. When we got to the end of the gorge, he wanted particularly to avoid some women who were sitting there, and suggested we cross over and sit down on the rocks. He talked. He was surprised and amused at a remark of Raymond's. Raymond is twelve. He wondered whether when people taste something—a lemon—they taste sour just as he does. Here is philosophy without artifice. Harmless, for it makes no difference. It has no consequences. W. wondered whether Norman would go on and be contented teaching philosophy when he was older. When he first knew him, he had advised him against it, and did so often. Later, after he had made up his mind to it, W. left off. But now? I suggested that W. himself had not always felt this way about his teaching. And here I think he wished to make a distinction between his doing it and somebody else’s doing it. He said that he once had a student—now a lecturer at . To him he said: “Now suppose I knew the28 + CONVERSATIONS truth—white and hot—and could teach it to you. Would it now follow that you too could teach it—now cold or warmed over? Of course not. But the poor fellow is now a teacher, and a very poor one.” In any case, now W. could not stand teaching teachers. Those students of his whom he is now fairly certain he did some good, are not philos- ophers at all. One is a doctor, Dr. Drury in Dublin, and several are mathematicians. He did not mention his otherwise good friends in philosophy. In this way, philos- ophy, studying it, is simply a course in thinking— clearing away confusions. Once these are cleared away one is prepared for other work. He made other remarks. This is the age of popular science, and so this cannot be the age of philosophy. He ‘was not objecting to this. In fact he recommended Faraday’s The Chemical History of a Candle as an illustration of fine popular science. He objected to the sensationalism, and what he called the cheating. Eddington and Jeans cheat. A fine work in this order would have to be very careful; analogies would be well chosen and nicely worked out. In fact the consummation of philosophy might very well be just such fine popular science, work which does not cheat and where the confusions have been cleared up. He was especially resentful of philosophy on the radio—more sensationalism. On the way back—he has quite a job now getting back on his feet after sitting on a slab of rock—he began. talking too about Paul Schilpp’s volumes. Perfectly silly! He had never read any of these—had opened the Moore volume—read about Moore’s boyhood—very nice, but the shoemaker also had a boyhood, very nice. Dewey— Comell + 29 was Dewey still living? Yes. Ought not to be. Russell was once very good. Once did some hard work. Cambridge kicked him out when he was good. Invited him back when he was bad. Russell lectured in 1945— three auditoriums full of women and American soldiers. The last lecture was on Russell. It was dreadful, horrible. But when W. had first come to Cambridge, Russell was fine in discussion. Saw Russell last about three years ago at Moral Science Club, Passed each other but did not speak. No profit. He knew A. N. Whitehead too, and discussed with him. Very good before he became a charlatan. He wondered what happened to such men. They do good work for some years, hard work. They have talent too, especially Russell. But then it’s as though they said: “'ve done enough.” Then they relax. They do philosophy. This has happened to other men in science too. They rest, coast, do philosophy. Hertz, he men- tioned, as one who did not relax. As I look back upon these talks, it strikes me more and more that W. is a thoroughly honest man, whose conception of good work he carries through with rigor. In terms of it he keeps the reins tight on himself, and what is more striking perhaps, he is merciless in his judgement of others. This is, at least, in part what, motivates his scorn and his unrelenting severity in respect to all who have pretensions. He does know how to judge, and is seasitive to all shoddiness and cheating. No wonder he has enemies. He cannot suffer fools gladly. What surprises me is his patience and his friend- liness towards me. Perhaps he sees that Ido have no pretensions—at least not in his presence.30 + CONVERSATIONS August 20 Topay, SarurDay, Norman and W. came about four o'clock for discussion. The subject was Moore's: “I know that this is a hand.” And the background was Norman’s article and Moore’s letter. Norman proposed the ques- tion: What view is it that Moore is opposing? It is, of course, some view which involves the denial that Moore knows this is a hand, some form of idealism, or skepticism. W. began by distinguishing the nature of the sentences which are used in a physics laboratory, and those which are used in a psychological laboratory. Sentences of the latter type are such as these: This looks yellow. There appears to be— There seems—, etc. Such sentences as these permit of no doubt. To doubt them makes no sense. I doubt that this seems yellow—is without sense. This is now not true of the sentences in the other class. It may make sense to say: I doubt that there is a light there. But not that this sentence is doubtful. If now the first type of sentence is regarded as a kind of standard, this is knowledge, then obviously one never “knows” any sentence of the other type to be true. ‘And this now leads some philosophers to talk about all such sentences as: This is a hand, This is a tree, etc., as hypotheses. So we get this gradation of sentences: This appears yellow. This is yellow. The moon is spherical. anda fourth, which should be third: Cornell + 31 This is a hand. The gradation is unmistakable, and now it may be clear that: the moon is spherical, is an hypothesis, and so also is: This is a tree. Tam not sure about all this, but a part of what is meant with respect to the sentence “The moon is spherical” being an hypothesis, is that one can never see that it is a sphere. One sees only a face. It might be a cylinder or a cone, etc., or like a disc. This is how: The moon is spherical, is different from: The ball is spherical. The difference in the sort of game in which it enters is what is meant by its being an hypothesis. A part is seen but another part is not seen and cannot be seen. In trying to make this plain, W. tried such analo- gies as these: You would have something like an hypoth- esis about what is in this room, if you gave a list and then added: “and a rabbit which disappears whenever anyone looks.” What makes it like the hypothesis is that some- thing is now included which no one can see. Or imagine: There is a chair in here which grows a protuberance when nobody is present, and it disappears when anyone comes. If you had sentences like this, then you might say that you were maintaining an hypothesis. The point, of course, is that sentences like: This isa chair, This is a tree, etc,, are not hypotheses at all. W’s point is that the difference is not clearcut, is a matter of gradations, and that this is what leads to the trouble. Now then is Moore simply pointing out here that: This is a hand, This is a tree, etc., is not an hypothesis? This approach did not turn out to be very fruitful in relation to Moore's sentence. So W. returned to Moore’s sentence. A man. squinting, closing one eye, might say:32 + CONVERSATIONS X: Idon’t know about this and I don’t know about this, but I know this isa tree. : What is it? X: That's a tree. Y: That’s what you say, but you don’t know. X: Weill see. They walk in the direction of what they saw. Then: X: Now, how do I know that’s a tree? Here the contrast is between just saying that's a tree, and knowing that’s a tree. In the first case it’s be- tween the case in which you try to distinguish and fail, and that in which you try and succeed. What W. tries to do is to consider uses of the phrases in Moore’s sentence in order to show either that they do or do not have an ordinary sense. What is the ordinary sense? Ordinary sense can be seen only in examples. This must be brought out in order to compare Moore’s sentence. One must see this difference. W. got interested in the use of “this” in “this is ahand,” “this is a tree.” Here again he imagined. He squinted, looking across the rug, “What is this?” He threw down a package of cigarettes. Again: “What is this?” Now “this” doesn't mean: a package of cigarettes, and “this” need not mean a physical object. “This” may mean: What I am seeing, What is this I’m sceing? It may be a package of cigarettes, a shadow, or the play of light on the floor. So he walks over, picks it up: “It’s a package of cigarettes.” Of course, one may say: “What is that on the table?” meaning: “I can see there’s something on the table, but what is it?” Again he stood up. Imagine this as a game. He went to his chair and said: “Here is a chair,” (turning] Cornell + 33 “Flere is a vase,” “Here is a lamp"—then he turned about to go into the dining room, “And now I advance into the next room and go on drawing my map of this room. This also shows how these expressions fit into a situation.” ‘Away which is forbidden to man himself. Surely God instructs man, but as a man can be instructed. What is the difference between the feeling and attitude towards the world as between that of the atheist and the believer? Here I am echoing something of John Wisdom’s. Atmosphere! Hope! Promise! More! Glory! and now, it’s all g:ven, you see what there is, that’s all, nothing wonderful, nothing terrible! Just so-so. August 22 Topay WALKED AGAIN WITH W. above the gorge at Taughannock. On the way as we passed the Jewish synagogue, he remarked that he did not understand modem Judaism. He did not see what could be left of it since sacrifice was no longer practiced. And now? What was left was too abstract. Prayers and some singing. Later I suggested that in Zionism there was perhaps some intention to restore the temple and the old rites. He thought very few. Jews had no such interest. Later on our walk I suggested that from what he had said it must be that with the destruction of the temple the head of Judaism was gone. Now nothing is left but the body. But he checked me. The spirit may have gone out long before this. And even after this sects, very strict sects, most likely contrived. The passing of Greek religion illustrates the same point. I was reminded of the allegorizing of Greek myth. But W. protested he34 + CONVERSATIONS was perhaps talking rubbish. In any case a religion is bound up with a culture, with certain externals in a way of life, and when these change, well, what remains? Then he went on to cite the Oxford Movement as a symptom of the same hollowness, lifelessness, in the ‘Anglican church. I didn’t understand all these things. | suppose that the point is that once the sacrifices, what- ever there was in Greek religion, and the ceremonies and ritual in Anglicanism, were entered into with carnest- ness and serious intent, with spirit. Ata later time, they were done listlessly, mechanically, and as unessential. Once this happens it is finished. But religion without ceremony, without ritual—this is impossible. W. stresses here, I think, the precise forms and practices, the very words to be spoken—creeds, sacraments, etc Later he asked me, had I read Newman? He was much impressed by Newman. Kingsley accused him of insincerity, But Newman was sincere. He, W, had read Grammar of Assent too. That was puzzling, How aman of such learning and culture could believe such things! Newman had a queer mind. Later I pressed him for an explanation. Did he mean by “queer” that a man like Newman should have become a Roman Catholic? Oh, no. My best friends and the best students I had are converts. What is queer about Newman is the kind of reasons he gives for becoming a Roman Catholic. On miracles, Newman cites the case of Christians, who taken by savages had their tongues cut out, and yet they could speak. He gives a natural explanation for this—if the tongue is only half cut off a man cannot speak, but if wholly cut off a man still can— but Newman then goes on to say that it may never- theless have been a miracle, Again: The pope excom- Cornell + 35 municated Napoleon. Napoleon said he didn’t care so long as his soldiers’ weapons did not fall out of their hands. Some years later in Moscow, in Russia, this is literally what happened. ‘What was Newman doing? He argued that mira- cles occur still? How? What God has done once he contrives to do—usually. This is the sort of thing that is so queer in Newman. Later when we were sitting he remarked that twenty years ago he would have regarded Newman's action as incomprehensible, as insincere perhaps. But no more. When I prodded him about this, what changed him, he pondered, and then he said that he came gradually to see that life is not what it seems. He was quiet for several minutes. Then he said: It's like this: In the city, streets are nicely laid out. And you drive on the right and you have traffic lights, etc. There are rules. When you leave the city, there are still roads, but no traffic lights. And when you get far off there are no roads, no lights, no rules, nothing to guide you. It’s all woods. And when you return to the city you may feel that the rules are wrong, that there should be no rules, ete. This did not enlighten me much. Later as we were walking he said: “It comes to something like this. If you have a light, I say: Follow it. It may be right. Certainly life in the city won't do.” I think I understand this. And Ithink I understand too something about that earlier figure. The city is the life of external action. Here we have simple guides. But outside the city there is the wilderness of nature, desires, emotions. And now what shall we do? And isn’t the city a superficial place? Later as he was sitting on the ledge—which made me very uneasy, for he was very infirm and had a hard36 + CONVERSATIONS time of it getting to his feet again—he began speaking of my plans—Northampton, England, ete..... ‘Then he began talking about how bad philosophy- talk and teaching are. I know what he has in mind, When he says this. ... W. had himself talked about philosophy as in certain ways like psychoanalysis, but in the same way in which he might say that it was like a hundred other things. When he became a professor at Cambridge he submitted a typescript to the committee. Keynes was a member of the committee. Of 140 pages, 72 were devoted to the idea that philosophy is like psycho- analysis. A month later Keynes met him and said he was much impressed with the idea that philosophy is psycho- analysis. And so it goes. ‘Aman has a certain way of thinking. It fascinates some people. So he tries to teach it to them. But what can he do? They stay with him two years and so they hear what he says during those years. But this is only a chapter in the long process of his thought. Now they Ieave him and they want to go further. But they cannot go further. And now what happens? They may use what they have heard as a rigamarole or they may give up and feel cheated. They cannot carry on. And the teacher is stuck. He fails.... Freud, of course, also did incalculable harm, much as W. himself has done.... He also spoke of W. E. Johnson. Johnson always wanted to explain to W. what W. was not interested in. ‘What W. wanted explained, Johnson could not explain. So W. would ask a question, and Johnson would answer a different one, one he could answer. He'd talk about the syllogism. Later W. came to know Johnson much better, a deep man and with a deep love of music too. So they talked about music. And he was so delighted to have Cornell + 37 someone agree with him. About a color, for instance. He never came to Moral Science Club. Moore lectured and puzzled endlessly, but it was futile. W, stood it for two terms. J. M. E. McTaggart he saw once at a squash [i.e., a reception] at McTaggart’s. Came with Russell. Russell badgered McTaggart about his argument for immortality of the soul. McTaggart answered, but W. understood not a word of it “Of course, a man need not argue his religious beliefs. Newman did. Once he does this he must argue clearly—soundly. But one may believe without argument.” ‘And so we got back to the car, down by way of the road—not by the path above the gorge. August 28 ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON W. and I went for a walk exploring the falls at Taughannock, He loved it. “This is, the finest walk you've taken me on.” On the way he asked me what we had discussed the evening before, and told him: “I ought” implies “I can.” As his manner is, he started out immediately. He said he thought that the Christian orthodox position was that this was not so. “Be ye perfect.” Still someone in deep earnest had said to him: But it is commanded. So it must be possible. Now “possible” or “can” has two different contexts: It is not possible to grow pears on an apple tree. This only means that there is a law, and the law says simply that apples grow on apple trees and pears grow on pear trees. And if someone makes a chemical