Understanding: Discussion Summary

§§138-184 form a complex, interlocking series of remarks. Sometimes they seem to repeat themselves and and sometimes they go off on curious tangents. Wittgenstein wrote in his preface that “The same or almost the same points were always being approached afresh from different directions” and this is certainly a prime example.

It would be a mistake, however, to think that the discussion is presented this way simply because Wittgenstein wasn't up to the task of moulding it into a more conventional form. Rather, the presentation is bound up with the idea of philosophy as therapy. It attempts to reflect the experience of being in the grip of a particular way of looking at things. Our thoughts keep coming back to the same familiar notions – or, rather, those same notions keep reappearing in subtly altered forms. They cannot be despatched at a stroke; it requires patient work on the part of both the author and the reader.

At the same time, there's no doubt that it's easy to get lost in the maze of remarks that Wittgenstein presents us with. So I thought it might be helpful to provide a rough overview (which I actually wrote for my own benefit) to act as a guide when things get difficult. Obviously these notes aren't intended as a substitute for the text itself. They do not stand alone. Although here and there I offer some supporting arguments (usually in square brackets), my main aim is to highlight the flow of Wittgenstein's discussion and the connections between the various parts. Hopefully more detailed posts will follow in due course.

I have tried to keep things brief but I must admit it's turned into a bit of a monster. So in case reading it on the blog itself is tiresome I've prepared a PDF version without all this introductory waffle.

The discussion can be divided into four parts:

1. §§138-150. This starts with the seeming clash between understanding as something grasped in an instant and meaning as something explained through use. It considers (and rejects) the claim that understanding amounts to having an “inner Something”. The following candidates are rejected: a mental picture; a mental state; a disposition. It concludes that “meaning” (and hence “understanding”) is more akin to having an ability.
2. §§151-155. This considers a concrete case of “grasping in an instant” (“now I know”) which seems to go against the link to ability in §150. Again, it considers and rejects the claim that understanding consists of an inner Something. Specifically, it argues against understanding as a characteristic experience or an inner (mental or physical) mechanism. It concludes that understanding is logically (grammatically) bound up with the circumstances in which it takes place.
3. §§156-178. To clarify this point, the case of “reading” is considered. As with understanding, the notion of reading as an inner experience or process is rejected. This time, however, the process is seen from the point of view of “deriving” or “being guided”, and the experience of reading is considered as an experience of this process taking place. But it is suggested that the pertinent difference between reading and (eg) pretending lies in the different circumstances of the two cases.
4. §§179-184. The way in which circumstances enter into the concept of understanding is clarified. The nature of “now I know” is identified as a kind of signal rather than a report or description of an inner experience or state.

Now let's attempt a more detailed summary.

1. §§138-150. First Run-Through

§138 points out that when we hear a familiar word we understand it in an instant. This seems to clash with idea of meaning as something established by use, which is spread out over time. A number of questions are generated as a result:

• What exactly is grasped when we understand a word in an instant?
• How does what is grasped relate to use? How can it fit or fail to fit with use?
• How can we grasp the whole use of a word in an instant?
• How can observed use help us in novel situations – ie, how is it that we understand a word even when it's used in a sentence we've never encountered before?

Note how the mere idea of “grasping in an instant” suggests that what we need to understand is something “inner”. Again and again during the discussion observations about the public criteria for using the word “understanding” will be countered by objections relating to the first-person experience of understanding. One of Wittgenstein's main concerns is to clarify the place of such experiences in relation to the concept of understanding. He will not claim that they're of no importance (much less that they don't exist), but that we tend to misunderstand their role. Achieving a proper understanding, however, doesn't involve discovering a correct theory; what we need is to remind ourselves of the complex role understanding plays in our lives.

§§139-142: Pictures

What is grasped when we understand a word in an instant? The first theory considered is that we get a mental picture. If we have a picture of a cube and we pick out an actual cube then what is grasped fits the use. If we pick out (eg) a triangular prism then it doesn't.

But who is to say that picking out a triangular prism isn't a correct application of the picture? A picture by itself cannot provide a standard for its correct use. The same picture might be applied in two different ways, and we would say that it had a different meaning on each occasion. So the criterion for understanding is still the use rather than the picture itself.

[Note the link between this point, the discussion of ostensive definition (§§28-36), the discussion of deriving (§§163-164), and the discussion of “+2” in the rule-following argument (§§185-190). In fact, the discussion of ostensive definition foreshadows many of the points Wittgenstein makes about understanding. I'll group them together as the “anything goes” argument. I'm not saying they're the same argument each time, but they do seem connected. Further consideration might be rewarding.]

We're tempted to say that the picture forces an application upon us, but what this boils down to is that when confronted with a picture we often expect it to be used in a certain way – other possible applications do not occur to us. So “the picture fits the use” means “the use was the one we expected”.

Does all this mean there's no such thing as an application occurring to someone in an instant? No. It will often make sense to say such a thing. But we need to clarify the role of a statement such as “the application came before my mind”. This will happen shortly.

§§143-150: States, Dispositions, Abilities

As a prelude, however, Wittgenstein switches to a description of teaching someone the decimal series of numbers. It outlines certain broad, public criteria for saying that the pupil understands. It also emphasises (a) that at any stage the pupil's ability to learn may break down, and (b) that the type of instruction given will depend on the type of mistake the pupil makes. The point of this is to undermine the idea that getting the pupil to understand involves giving her a specific inner Something (a picture or formula, etc) the possession of which will be the source of correct performance. Rather, what the pupil is “given” depends on what she needs in order to perform correctly – and it's possible that there is nothing we can give her (ie, no course of instruction) that will achieve this.

Note also that the pupil's coming to understand is drawn out over time and there is no precise moment when we might say “now she knows”. There is no such thing here as “grasping in an instant”.

At §146 we get an important objection: applying understanding is not understanding itself. Understanding is the source of correct performance. Or, to put it another way, correct performance is derived from the source.

This is a variation on the “inner Something” idea; behind it lurks the notion that the “source” is a mental state – one in which a formula (or other method of application) occurs to the person who understands.

Wittgenstein makes two objections:

1. A formula has the same problem as a picture. It does not come with its method of application built-in.
2. Understanding a word is not best categorised as a mental state. Mental states (such as feeling anxious or euphoric) have specific duration and varying degrees of intensity. But I understand a word whether or not I'm thinking about it. My understanding isn't interrupted when I'm distracted by something, and so on.

Objection (b) prompts a revised version of the claim (§149): understanding is a state of an apparatus of the mind (or brain). (Wittgenstein sometimes calls this a disposition.) So, just as a pocket calculator can give us the answer to a sum because of its structure (ie, independent of this or that instance of calculating the answer), so I can be said to know a word because the structure for correct performance is in place even if I'm not currently using it.

Wittgenstein counters by pointing out that this gives us two separate criteria for saying someone understands: (i) ascertaining the structure, and (ii) observing performance. He doesn't here elaborate on the implications of this situation; they will emerge as the discussion continues (I'll call this the “two criteria” objection).

Instead (§150), we get a summary of sorts: the grammar of the word “know” is related to “able to”, but also to “understand”. I think this is emphasising a logical (grammatical) connection between meaning/understanding and performance. I also think it needs considering in conjunction with §155. But it all needs careful unpacking.

2. §§151-155: “Now I know!”

Wittgenstein now switches back to instantaneous grasping when he considers the significance of phrases such as “now I know” or “now I understand”. And this marks the start of his attempt to clarify the idea of an application coming before one's mind, which he mentioned in §141.

[Why did he first discuss learning the series of decimal numbers (§§143-150)? I think because that process is part of the general scene-setting (the circumstances) without which “Eureka moments” don't make sense. (Before you can even try to continue a number series you have to learn to count.) Compare this with ostensive definition. Viewed in isolation ostensive definition seemed to do something both fundamental and mysterious: provide an unmistakable super-bond between word and object. But its function was only seen aright when we reminded ourselves that actually it took place within a broader linguistic context. I think Wittgenstein is saying something similar about instantaneous grasping: if you overlook the broad context in which it actually takes place then it can seem to provide the essence of understanding and perform a truly mysterious function. The mystery is dissolved precisely by reminding ourselves of that broader context.]

Wittgenstein first points out that there are various things that might go on in someone who suddenly understands. This mitigates against the idea that understanding is a characteristic experience. But worse still, any of those experiences might occur and the pupil might still be unable to continue the series. So the experiences are not the “essence” of understanding; they are concomitant processes.

And now, just as when the notion of understanding as a mental state fell to pieces, we're tempted to posit a hidden process that lies behind what we actually experience. (Note how we've moved here from description to theory.) But if the process is hidden then how do I know that I actually understand? “How can the process of understanding have been hidden, given that I said 'Now I understand' because I did understand?” (§153). [This links back to the “two criteria” situation in §149.] If understanding is a state of an apparatus then how can I say I understand when (a) I don't know what that state actually is, and (b) whatever it is, I don't know whether it obtains?

Against this it is objected (§154) that there must be a state (or process). For if (eg) a formula occurring to me is not enough to provide understanding then something else must be necessary, and what could that something else be if not a hidden process or state?

Here we have reached an impasse. We seem forced to accept a theory despite the fact that it makes things worse (cf §112). This is a radical breakdown, and Wittgenstein's response amounts to a rejection of the whole approach that brought it about. Certainly something else is needed, he says, but not a state or process or disposition or structure or any type of inner thing. Instead we need to remind ourselves of the circumstances that warrant someone's saying “now I know” when the formula occurs to her.

3. §§156-178: Reading

To make this clearer, he introduces the analogous topic of reading. As with understanding, reading is a concept that tempts us to think its essential characteristic must be something inner. On the one hand, there is surely something computational about reading – we derive our words from the text – and this derivation is a process that takes place in the mind, or perhaps in the brain. On the other hand, reading is surely also a distinctive experience; just compare actual reading with pretending to read! These two characteristics might seem at odds with one another, but aren't they really different aspects of the same phenomenon? That is to say, isn't the experience of reading precisely the experience of the computational process taking place?

Here, then, we're once again confronted by the two notions that have dogged us throughout our investigation: process and first-person experience. And in the context of reading they seem to stand out even more compellingly than before. Accordingly, Wittgenstein's treatment of them is both richer and more probing in this part of the discussion.

§§156-158: Experiences and Mechanisms

As with §§143-145, we start with a (brief) description of the circumstances surrounding reading: learning to read, various criteria for saying someone is reading, the difference between a beginner and a fluent reader, etc.

This quickly prompts both the idea that reading “is a distinctive conscious activity” (§156e) and that some kind of mechanism must be at work (§156g). Against both, Wittgenstein observes that it makes no sense to talk about the first word a beginner reads (note the connection with §145b). The point here is that if reading is either a particular experience or the state of a mechanism then it ought to make sense to ask “what was the first word he read?” Concentrating on the notion of mechanism, Wittgenstein draws a highly significant distinction between our concepts in relation to machines and the way we apply them to living beings – even where the living being is used as a “reading machine”.

Against this it is objected (§158) that the different treatment merely stems from our comparative ignorance of the workings of the brain. Wittgenstein's response is to underline the claim's theoretical nature (a point already made at §146g), and to further suggest that it is a priori: whatever the evidence (or lack of it), things must come down to a mechanistic explanation.

[What is he getting at here? I think §158 is an enigmatic, troubling section. It seems to come alarmingly close to suggesting that our belief in causality as a universal principle is a kind of metaphysical superstition (cf Zettel, §609). It certainly requires careful, detailed analysis. For the moment, however, I'll offer a provisional, “middle of the road” gloss: “Why do you say things must come down to a mechanistic explanation? What evidence do you have for this? What we know is that 'understanding' is not used like a name for a mechanistic process – and certainly not a hypothetical one.” That's by no means the last word on the subject, but it'll have to do for now.]

§§159-161: The Conscious Act of Reading

The discussion now switches back to the first-person experience of reading. Isn't that the essential thing which distinguishes actual reading from merely pretending or the free-association of sounds with marks on a page?

Wittgenstein counters with the imaginary case where a drug produces a feeling of reciting from memory in someone who is in fact reading a passage he's never seen before. A variation is offered in which the person feels he is reading when he is actually associating words with signs in a completely unfamiliar alphabet. In the first case we would say he was reading despite his feelings to the contrary. In the second case, classification would depend on his reaction to the signs. If his words bore no clear relation to them (eg, he read “^#*” as “blue” on one occasion but as “left” on another) we'd say he wasn't reading. But if the same words were always associated with the same signs then we'd perhaps be more inclined to say he was. That is, it wouldn't be clear whether he was reading or not – it would be up to us.

[The point, of course, is that his experiences are not the decisive factor in either case. But nor is it exclusively down to what he does (for he might speak exactly the same words both times). Rather, it is down to what he does given the particular circumstances in each case. Wittgenstein underlines this with the experiment in §161. What is the difference between counting to twelve and reading the numbers from a watch dial? Again (I think) the implied answer is: the circumstances.]

§§162-164: Derivation

Here we switch back to understanding as a process – specifically the process of deriving. It's an idea that has sort of been “in the air”, but not directly confronted, ever since §146b (the same is true, by the way, of rule-following, which is closely connected to derivation; see §143a, §147 and §162).

Wittgenstein describes a particular case in which we'd be inclined to class reading as an example of deriving sounds from a text. But immediately comes the objection that we don't have enough here to be sure this is derivation; we taught him the alphabet, he read the words – what right have we to say that the link between the two was deriving?

[Note: (a) this already treats derivation as an “inner” or “hidden” thing; and (b) we're at once tempted to look inside ourselves and search for it there. This goes some way towards explaining why the discussion constantly switches between third- and first-person perspectives.]

So Wittgenstein alters his description to make it an even clearer case of deriving – that is, he changes the circumstances. But here it's objected (§163) that even if this is derivation, we can't assert it simply because the pupil looks at the chart and writes the “correct” letters. For whatever he writes might be classed as derivation according to some rule or other, and thus be “correct” (the “anything goes” argument – cf, §139). And now the very concept of derivation starts to look empty.

In §164 Wittgenstein offers the moral of the story: our search for the essence of deriving has led us into darkness, for there is no such thing. Instead, we have a complex family of circumstances in which the word “deriving” is warranted.

[A brief elaboration: when we treated deriving as a hidden essence it became logically distinct from its consequences. As a result, the very essence we thought we needed to find became empty. Compare this to the case of mental pictures (§139) and the “two criteria” objection to dispositions in §149. Also compare it to the famous “beetle in a box” example in §293. But our grammar doesn't treat deriving as if it was a thing in a box; instead it conceptually links it to various performances in various circumstances. These circumstances sometimes include what went through someone's mind (“I recited to myself 'Richard of York gave battle in vain' and derived the answer from that”). But sometimes they don't.]

§§165-178: “Experiencing the Because”

Yet again we revert back to a first-person argument. The discussion considers a cluster of related claims:

• we know from our own experience that reading is a particular process (§165);
• the words come in a distinctive way (§165);
• they somehow cause our utterance (§169);
• we feel the connecting mechanism between the word and our utterance (§169).

So finally the third- and first-person arguments come together. Reading is both a mechanism and a characteristic experience; it is a characteristic experience of a mechanism at work .

At each stage, however, Wittgenstein (a) exposes this account as a picture that we adopt rather than a straightforward description of the the facts, and (b) undermines the temptation to adopt this picture.

• §165. If reading is a characteristic experience then it doesn't matter what sounds result as they can all be linked to the text according to some rule or other. [This brings together the “two criteria” argument (§149, §153, §§163-164), and the “anything goes” argument (§139, §§163-164).]
• §165. Moreover, it's not enough that the written words makes the spoken ones “occur” to me, or “remind” me of it. That could happen yet what I utter might still be incorrect. Mere association is not enough.
• §166. The claim that the words come in a distinctive way is a fiction. Consider normal cases of reading: we don't even think about how the words come or if there's something distinctive about it. We see the words and we make the sounds. What else do we know? Of course, we notice a difference when we (eg) associate sounds with squiggles but it mis-describes reading to therefore conclude that the words come in a special way. With reading it's automatic, with squiggles it isn't. That's the difference. And it's not an experiential difference; it's a circumstantial one.
• §167. There is no single characteristic experience of reading. This undermines the idea that reading is a particular process that we experience. [To put it another way: even if there is a particular process, we cannot infer its existence from the experience of reading, for that experience is extremely varied.]
• §169. It makes no sense to say that we experience the causing. Causation is established by experiment, tests, etc; it is not something that can be felt. [That would be like saying “I'm feeling inflation” when I'm shocked by how much the price of bread has risen.] This is a categorical (grammatical) distinction. Indeed, we do not say that the text is the cause of our reading – rather, it is the reason we utter the words that we do. That is, we appeal to a standard of correctness, not to causation.

§§170-178 provide a kind of summary. We assume that the difference between reading letters and associating sounds with squiggles represents (respectively) the presence and absence of influence. But being influenced (or guided) is no more a particular experience than reading is. It forms a wide family of cases, and the important factor is not the presence of a particular experience but the circumstances pertaining to any given case.

None of this bothers us during actual use, but when we reflect on these things mere circumstances can seem insufficient. We're tempted to posit a particular source of influence (in other words, we've started theorising). Maybe it's a strange feature of the words themselves – as if they exercised a kind of “thought control” – or a process (perhaps physical) operating behind the scenes. And now we take our varied experiences to be experiences of this elusive form of influence. We look at them “through the medium of the concept 'because'” (§177). Of course, it is right to say that we're influenced, but not because of any particular experience or process. Rather, it is correct to apply the word “influenced” in all these varied circumstances. [We have supposed an essence, but what we needed was to recognise a family resemblance concept.]

4. §§179-184. Back to Understanding

Wittgenstein now applies to understanding the insights gained from considering the case of reading. Not surprisingly, this involves reiterating the point made in §§154-155: “The words 'Now I know how to go on' were correctly used when the formula occurred to him: namely under certain circumstances. For example, if he had learnt algebra, had used such formulae before” (§179).

At the same time, he's aware of the temptation to take this point the wrong way. We might, for example, suppose that “now I know” (or “I understand”) is a kind of shorthand description of the circumstances – as if we somehow deduced that we understood from the fact that the situation was one in which “now I know” would make sense. This harks back to the interlocutor's point at §147: “When I say I understand the rule of the series, I'm surely not saying so on the basis of the experience of having applied the algebraic formula in such-and-such a way!” This is correct, but the interlocutor's mistake is to assume it shows that the circumstances are irrelevant. Rather, it shows that they do not connect with the language-game in the way he supposes. We do not appeal to them as a criterion of application; they are the context within which our criteria make sense. They “set the stage for our language-game” (§179).

A second temptation is to think that the circumstances form part of a causal explanation. Here the supposition is that if the right circumstances are in place (general education and other background features + the formula occurring to the pupil + a characteristic experience of understanding) then the pupil must continue the series correctly (§183). That this is mistaken can be shown from the fact that even where the phrase “now I know” is warranted it is still defeasible – the pupil might still be unable to continue the series correctly. In such a case we would normally say that the pupil's statement was wrong: he didn't in fact know. But it was still understandable. [Compare this to a case where you show a formula to someone with no mathematical training whatsoever and he says “now I know how to go on”. In those circumstances his claim is not so much wrong as completely bizarre.]

These considerations throw light on the role of “now I know”. It is best not thought of as a description of a mental state at all (§180). Rather it is a signal that the pupil is confident (perhaps certain) that he can go on correctly. But, of course, being certain you can give the right answer and actually doing it are not the same thing. We frequently find ourselves ruefully saying “I was so sure that answer was right!”

Next Steps: Rule-Following

I started this summary with a list of questions, but there's one I've not really considered so far: how can we grasp the whole use of a word in an instant? This is raised right back in §139 and is occasionally glanced at during the discussion (eg, §147: “I surely know that I mean such-and-such a series, no matter how far I've actually developed it”). Knowing the whole use of a word seems a criterion of understanding, just as knowing what a chess pawn is means knowing how it can move in any given position. But how can we know the whole use of a word? For however we've used a word up till now, what happens when we come to apply it in a completely new situation? How is our past experience supposed to help us?

Surely when I grasped the rule for using the word “cat” I didn't know that it could be used in the sentence “The cat sat on Jupiter's second-largest moon”? And yet in some sense I clearly did know that, for I was able to form the sentence without any trouble at all. It didn't come as a surprise to me that “cat” could be used in that context. The rule, it seems, guides us effortlessly through countless permutations that weren't envisaged when we learnt it.

How does it achieve this? Or, to put it more generally, what is the connection between the rule and its application? What keeps them in sync? That is the issue which forms the heart of the discussion in §§185-242.

Wittgenstein's Toolkit

One rough but helpful way of considering the structure of the Investigations might be as follows: §§1-133 specify a new role for philosophy and introduce the necessary tools for the job. The rest of the book then gets on with actually putting those tools to work. Our understanding of them certainly grows richer as we see their application, but substantially everything needed for the task is there in the book’s first quarter.

With this in mind, it’s perhaps useful to take stock of the “tools” provided. The comments below are not intended to supplant my earlier posts. Hopefully, though, they’ll highlight the positive aspect of the Investigations and show that it’s not simply about taking a hammer to traditional philosophy.

Language-Games

If I had to sum up the central philosophical insight of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, I’d say it was this: language is an activity. More specifically, it is a rule-governed activity performed by agents in particular circumstances. As he says at §25, “Giving orders, asking questions, telling stories, having a chat, are as much a part of our natural history as walking, eating, drinking, playing.” This consideration stands behind all the strands of his later philosophy and it’s the reason he seized upon the analogy between language and games.

Viewing language in this way highlights its active and varied role. Language is something we do, and we do it in many different, yet subtly interconnected situations. To understand it properly, therefore, it must be considered in context. Attempts to abstract language in the hope of discovering its essence merely falsify the phenomenon. Indeed, the whole urge to produce explanations sub specie aeternitatis is misguided because explanation is itself a language-game that only makes sense when viewed in situ: “If we say, ‘Every word in the language signifies something’, we have so far said nothing whatever; unless we explain exactly what distinction we wish to make” (§13). In such cases language is no longer working; it has gone on holiday. And the only result is nonsense.

Another benefit of likening language to a series of games is that it brings out the importance of two related features: training and rules. Language, like a game, is something we learn. We learn it in a variety of ways: sometimes we’re required to memorise a formal set of rules (at school, for example), but often we work out correct usage from observing others, and sometimes we just copy what everyone else is doing. This is all part of what Wittgenstein calls “mastering a technique” (§150).

Learning and application are intrinsically linked. We can’t do things with language until we’ve grasped the rules (mastered the technique), but the whole process of learning is shaped by the application. This is another way of saying that language can’t be understood when detached from its context. The rules and definitions which are supposed to explain meaning seem mysterious or puzzling when they’re extracted from the situations that give them purpose. Returning them to their rightful home dispels the mystery, and this is the intention behind Wittgenstein’s assertion at §43 that “the meaning of a word is its use in the language”.

Meaning is Use

Clearly, approaching meaning in terms of use is in keeping with the idea of language as an activity. Its philosophical advantage is that it brings the question of meaning down to earth. By deriving meaning from practice we are less prone to abstracting the concept and viewing it as something occult. In particular, we avoid the temptation to think meaning must be a thing – either the physical object correlated with a word or some kind of mental picture.

More generally, we’re able to trace the complex grammatical rules governing concept-words (including “meaning”) as they are applied in our lives. We see distinctions and similarities that are usually overlooked, and this prevents us from reaching for limited or partial definitions (eg, “knowledge is justified true belief”) and then being puzzled when they conflict with what actually happens.

What is less clear, however, is the precise status of the claim that meaning is use. Wittgenstein cannot be proposing it as a theory (unless he’s made a shocking blunder), and yet as a description of the use of “meaning” it is hardly self-evidently true. This, presumably, is the reason for the caveat in §43 (“For a large class of cases […] though not for all”). But the caveat in itself is troubling because it seems like he’s saying “in some cases the meaning of a word is an object rather than use” and yet (a) he elsewhere brings forward powerful arguments to show that meaning cannot be an object and (b) use does appear to play some part in all explanations of meaning (eg, the difference between “This→● is red” as a definition and as a complaint (because I’d asked for something orange) is a matter of context, although this raises a further question as to how far “use” and “context” are synonymous).

Further thought is needed. For now, though, I think we can say this: Wittgenstein invites us to consider meaning in terms of use because (a) we often do explain meaning by describing the use of a word and (b) from a philosophical viewpoint it helps avoid certain temptations that are more strongly exerted in other forms of explanation – and it does this because it keeps language fixed in the human activities that give it its life.

Family Resemblance Concepts

It is easy to suppose that all items falling under a particular concept must have something in common in virtue of which they qualify as examples of that concept. Wittgenstein maintains, however, that if we look at the way concepts function in our lives (ie, derive their meaning from use) we will see that this is not always the case. Sometimes concepts exhibit a family of affinities that have developed over time, “as in spinning a thread we twist fibre on fibre” (§67). The requirement for commonality is a hasty assumption that often leads to confusion.

For example, if we consider all the different instances of what’s called “understanding” we may become puzzled as to how these varied items all fall under the same concept. Here it’s tempting to posit a phenomenon (perhaps some kind of mental act) that will provide the unity we think we need. But far from solving the problem, the phenomenon creates a host of further puzzles and our confusion only deepens.

The notion of family resemblance concepts frees us from this impasse. It shows how concepts can retain integrity without commonality: they do it by remaining useful. Thus our preconceived need for unity is trumped by our actual behaviour and we no longer have to invent what we do not see.

Forms of Life

[NB: consider this section a “first go” at describing the importance of forms of life. I’m making some pretty contentious claims here and absolutely reserve the right to change my mind later on.]

Approaching language from the point of view of use inevitably brings the agent into the picture. If language is something that gets done then who is doing the doing? Wittgenstein’s favoured term for this “doer” is the strikingly non-specific “form of life”. Why choose this expression?

Well, for one thing, using “form of life” rather than “person” or “human being” discourages us from dragging in any distorting preconceptions we might have about ourselves. Nothing is assumed. Rather, the form of life is whatever happens to emerge from descriptions of linguistic activity. This allows for distinctions and connections both within and across any particular species, as well as change over time in the practices of individuals and linguistic communities. We might link the term to language-games here and say that insofar as two individuals share a language-game they share a form of life.

This non-presumptive generality of form arises out of the focus on use, and is linked to the very nature of philosophy as Wittgenstein saw it. The philosopher’s task is to outline the concepts we have. To go further and ask why we have them is to cross the boundary between a conceptual investigation and an empirical one. For the philosopher, therefore, the form of life represents a terminus (PPF §345: “What has to be accepted, the given, is – one might say – forms of life”). It is here we find the foundation of our concepts, not in theories about the a priori structure of the world, nor in theories about the a priori structure of experience. We simply have to accept the form of life as manifested through activity. “This is how we think. This is how we act. This is how we talk about it.“ (Zettel, §309). We can go no further; the buck stops here.

The Descriptive Method

A major source of philosophical error involves faulty presuppositions (or theories) about the way language is actually used. We assume commonality, essence, similarity, and so on. The only way round this is to get a clear view of language. In other words, we must abstain from theory and simply describe its use (§66: “don’t think, but look!”). Perhaps surprisingly, this description is not preparation for developing better answers to our problems; it is the answer itself.

Why does description resolve philosophical problems? Because it brings our attention back from a situation where a concept is puzzling (ie, philosophy) to one where it is not (ie, our lives). The concept of knowledge, for example, puzzles philosophers. Is it possible? And if it is, then how? And yet every day we use the term without any difficulty at all. Wittgenstein suggests the problem arises when we lose sight of the position that such concepts occupy in our day-to-day affairs. “The civic status of a contradiction, or its status in civic life – that is the philosophical problem” (§125). Description restores clarity, and “the clarity that we are aiming at is indeed complete clarity. But this simply means that the philosophical problems should completely disappear” (§133).

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Apologies for going over (mostly) old ground, but I’ve been keen to do two things: first, to highlight the fundamental importance of §§1-133 with regard to the rest of the Investigations; and secondly, to show the unity of approach behind the positive aspects of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy.

Speaking from personal experience, it’s tempting to gloss over §§1-133. Arguments about logical atomism and propositional form can seem more relevant to historians than anyone engaged with philosophy today, and it’s easy think, “When do we get to the sexy stuff? When do we get to rule-following or the private language argument? That’s where the action is.” But the discussion of the “sexy stuff” flows directly out of the approach and methodology developed in the book’s opening quarter. If you don’t have a clear grasp of that then it’s going to be next to impossible to see the later arguments in their right light. (For now I shall merely flag up the additional point that you probably can’t get a clear grasp of §§1-133 until you’ve read the rest of the book.) If my experience here is atypical then: good. If, however, it reflects a more general trend then: be warned.

Regarding the unity of Wittgenstein’s approach, I think it’s a corollary of its radical nature; the whole thing points away from more traditional philosophical methods. For me, this puts a deep question mark over attempts to cherry-pick his ideas or blend them with other approaches. How far, for example, can you pray-in-aid family resemblance while maintaining a broadly naturalist approach? Family resemblance ramifies into notions such as “meaning as use”, grammar and the descriptive method – and these notions work against the fundamental thrust of naturalistic analysis. The reason why such cherry-picking happens is interesting and (I believe) often has as much to do with disarming the threat of Wittgenstein as anything else. But that’s for another post.

Drawing the Line: Family Resemblance Concepts

So far (§§1-64) Wittgenstein has been chipping away at the Augustinian picture of language, showing that it doesn’t provide us with the essence of language. All attempts to delineate or shore up its features have only led to confusion or nonsense (metaphysics, for example). Finally, at §65, Wittgenstein’s interlocutor snaps:

You make things easy for yourself! You talk about all sorts of language-games, but have nowhere said what is essential to a language-game, and so to language: what is common to all these activities, and makes them into language or parts of language.

Let’s consider the interlocutor’s frustration in more detail. After all, what is it about the concept of language that might lead him to claim it must have an essence? It hinges upon an understanding of the term “concept” which might be put as follows:

A concept picks out a particular group of things that all have a common factor (or factors). For example, generosity, bravery and humility are all called “good” because they all have something good about them. But what is this quality of goodness? That is to be revealed by a logical analysis of the sub-concepts “generosity”, “bravery”, etc. And what is thereby revealed will be goodness in its pure or ideal form; it will be the essence of goodness.

Following on from this, it seems reasonable to expect that concepts must be exact. If all objects with the factor Φ fall under the concept P, then object x either has Φ or it doesn’t. It’s either in or it’s out.

It’s clear then, I think, why the interlocutor demands an essence of language: since items x, y and z all fall under the concept-term “language” there must be some quality Φ they all share and is the reason they are grouped together in this way. So what is quality Φ? If the Augustinian picture isn’t the essence of language then what the hell is? Typically, Wittgenstein’s response is a rejection of this question:

 Instead of pointing out something common to all that we call language, I’m saying that these phenomena have no one thing in common in virtue of which we use the same word for all – but there are many different kinds of affinity between them. And on account of this affinity, or these affinities, we call them all “languages”.

Philosophical Investigations §65

To demonstrate this, he asks us to consider the concept of “game”. From board-games to guessing-games to bouncing a ball against a wall, there is no one thing (or set of things) that all games have in common. Instead, “we see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing: similarities in the large and in the small” (§66). These similarities he christens “family resemblances”, and says that the various things we call “games” form such a family (§67).

This account denies that either commonality or exactness are necessary features of our concepts. The members of the concept “number” (cardinal numbers, negative numbers, imaginary numbers, etc) have no one thing in common, but it is clear what we call a number and what we don’t. To that extent it is an exact concept (though there’s always the possibility that it might be extended by a development in mathematics). But with a concept like “game” not only might there be extension, but the current members cannot always be clearly identified. Is throwing a ball against a wall really a game? Or seeing how long you can hold your breath? With such borderline cases there may be no right or wrong answer – we could just say “it’s up to you”.

But now (the interlocutor may object) it seems the concept is in danger of losing coherence. If you replace commonality with resemblance then can’t everything be linked to everything else by a web of resemblances? What’s to prevent everything from finding a place in the concept? Moreover, how can a concept function if it isn’t exact? If we don’t know which objects fall under it then surely we don’t know what it means? So even though commonality and exactness might not appear to be there, in some way they must be or else the concept is unviable.

Wittgenstein first tackles the question of exactness. He admits that the use of a word like “game” is not everywhere clear, but denies this necessarily makes it unviable. As he points out (§68), tennis is a perfectly playable game despite the fact that there’s no rule about how high to throw the ball when serving. In the same way, the concept-word “game” fulfils its purpose even though it’s not always clear whether something is a game or not. Of course, it may sometimes be helpful to draw a clear boundary (Game Theory, for example, uses a specific definition of “game” for the purposes of its research) but that is something we do as and when we need to. It is an invention rather than a discovery.

Moreover, not only is a clear definition not always necessary, it is not even always preferable. When a mother tells her child “go out and play” would it always be better if she specified exactly which games she meant (supposing she could)? Mightn’t it sometimes be best to let the child make its own mind up?

At §71 Wittgenstein moves on to the notion of essence, which he raises in the context of how we explain family resemblance concepts to others. This, he points out, is often done by giving typical examples, together with a similarity-clause (“and so on”, “and similar things” etc). We expect this explanation to be taken in a certain way: most of the time (we hope) the other person will “draw the line” in the right place from now on. Of course, here we are at the mercy of his ability to understand – but that is true given any explanation or definition we might provide.

Such an explanation is not an incomplete expression of my knowledge – as if I had a precise definition that for some reason I couldn’t articulate. Here Wittgenstein is combating the temptation to suppose that understanding our explanation “means to have in one’s mind an idea of the thing explained, and that is a sample or picture” (§73). This sample would be the essence or ideal form of the concept. Wittgenstein’s point here is not simply that we don’t have such a sample, but that the sample could not possibly do the job required of it.

What, for example, would be a completely general representation of “redness”? A sample like “●” is not unambiguous; it might be taken as a sample of that specific shade of red. Alternatively, if it’s supposed to be a sample of a specific shade, what’s to stop it being taken as a general sample of redness? The requisite type of training is required to make it one or the other (eg: “When I hold up this→● bring me any red object”) but that’s precisely what is lacking here. Without this training the sample might stand for redness, a shade of red, or even “not red”. It could stand for anything, and so it stands for nothing.

Similar difficulties arise if essence is viewed in terms of a definition – as if our rough explanation might be used as the raw material for constructing a precise one. For a start, this would put us in a very strange situation: in explaining (eg) games we (somehow) consult a definition we are not aware of having and which we are (somehow) unable to articulate. The other person then uses our rough examples to (somehow) formulate this same definition – without realising he’s doing it – and is then unaware of having it and (somehow) cannot articulate it.

Even if we accept this situation, we’re still faced with the problem that no definition can be completely clear or stipulate how we should proceed in every possible case. Take, for example, a proposed definition such as, “Games are those things we play according to certain rules”. For absolute clarity, don’t we need a further analysis of the words “things”, “play” and “rules”? And won’t that analysis throw up yet more terms to be explained? There seems to be no end to the process (cf, the seemingly throwaway remark in §1: “Explanations come to an end somewhere”). As Wittgenstein comments (§87): “It may easily look as if every doubt merely revealed a gap in the foundations; so that secure understanding is possible only if we first doubt everything that can be doubted, and then remove all these doubts.”

But still (it might be objected), even if we accept that an essence cannot guarantee coherence, how is it maintained in a family resemblance concept? Why doesn’t everything leech into everything else in a blur of affinities? The point here is that we distinguish between pertinent affinities and superficial ones. War is similar to a game in many respects; however, we don’t call it a game (though we may accuse someone of treating it like a game) because this similarity is not as pertinent as the one between war and a quarrel. It is important that we don’t confuse “let’s play war” with “this means war!” and so we have drawn a conceptual boundary-line between the two. In other words, it is the activity in which the concept is embedded that dictates where its boundaries lie. And where no boundary is necessary then none need be drawn. The boundary does not come built in to the concept so that we have to discover its contours (like discovering the molecular structure of salt); it is dictated by use – and that is something invented by us.

This is why we do not have to combat every conceivable doubt before a concept can be declared viable. As Wittgenstein puts it: “an explanation may indeed rest on another one that has been given, but none stands in need of another – unless we require it to avoid a misunderstanding – one, that is, that would arise if not for the explanation, but not every misunderstanding that I can imagine” (§87).

We can (and often do) use words without fixed definitions. We may even alter our definitions “on the hoof” if required (§79). And this is fine so long as it doesn’t make our language-game unplayable. It is the language-game (the activity) that dictates whether or not a concept is coherent – not an Ideal Form which is supposed to reveal the common essence of our concept words and provide them with completely clear boundaries. For the Ideal can do no such thing. It is neither possible nor necessary. “The signpost is in order – if, under normal circumstances, it fulfils its purpose” (§87).

Well, perhaps the interlocutor still has one last question: “If the explanation of ‘game’ doesn’t provide a sample or definition or formula, then what does it provide? Surely the pupil gets something? After all, he understands! Before he didn’t know and now he does know. So what’s in his mind now that wasn’t there before?” This leads to questions about what it means to “know” or “understand” something. Wittgenstein has already flagged up the issue (in §81) for further consideration. And it will get a lot of further consideration, because it involves confronting what is perhaps the really deep illusion here – the one that stands behind (and sanctions) illusions concerning logical simples, essences and ideal forms.