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The New Way

Up to now, we have introduced some key ideas in the Investigations, such as the failure of reference theories of meaning, language games, the importance of context, and meaning as use. After this beginning section Wittgenstein begins to deepen his analysis of these topics and draw out their consequences.

At about remark 65, Wittgenstein begins a long discussion on grammar and rule following—topics he has introduced, but now he wants to develop certain themes regarding these topics. This technique of circling familiar themes and augmenting their analysis is common in the Investigations. We have mentioned Wittgenstein’s focus on grammar—loosely defined as the rules for the use of a word. When we think of grammar, we might think of classifying words as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, subjects, and predicates, etc. Wittgenstein means something more complex by the term. Usually in English we distinguish grammar and usage. A word may be grammatically a noun and in a sentence function as a subject or an object. These distinctions for the grammarian are logical or rule-governed, but we should note how much depends on context. “The whole production run had run for days and made each stocking with a run in it.” Here the word run differs grammatically three times—subject, verb, object, and has a variety of meanings—all regulated by context. In general, usage is driven by context and the habits and preferences of speakers, writers, editors, and English professors. Words get coined or become archaic, slang is derided then accepted, endings are dropped, etc. Words in English are notorious for being equivocal. Bark could mean a part of a tree or the sound a dog makes depending on context. When Wittgenstein talks about grammar, he tends to collapse the distinction between grammar and usage—or treats these distinctions under the category of grammar—in general, the description of rules that govern the use of a word.

The idea that grammar must involve the description of the use of a word is important for Wittgenstein. Apparently for Wittgenstein, if grammar is to fully tell us what the function of a word is then its use must be included. We might think that parsing a sentence is a simple affair, a matter of finding a noun representing that which performs an action and a verb representing the action and so on. But Wittgenstein wants to point out that things are not so simple. Words are not nouns or verbs by nature, as if they had been baptized with a particular function. Their function must be determined by use. Referring to the example above, a dictionary or grammar book cannot tell me whether run is a subject or object or verb or noun. It may inform me of these possibilities, but the actual case depends on the sentence or context or use. If we look at the phrase “the production run had run for days” and the different meanings of run, we see that we can only sort this out with a vast array of circumstances surrounding the idea “a production run.” We must know about factories, assembly lines, how they work—to a degree—in order to make sense of the sentence. This context represents essential ingredients to the use of the word. These essential ingredients may be overlooked because these circumstances, etc., do not appear to be “logical” and so can’t be important to meaning. But again Wittgenstein wants to point out that the logic of language must include the circumstances under which a word is used. Without this we cannot see a word’s actual employment and so the function and therefore the meaning of the word can escape us.

It is important to realize that using a word—speaking or writing—and describing the use of the word—an analysis of grammar—are two different things. The analysis of grammar on its own, since it is descriptive, does not make a sentence meaningful. It would be absurd to say that a sentence was not meaningful until it is diagrammed or parsed. For the everyday, ordinary speaker, language must be meaningful in its actual employment. Grammar describes or gives a snapshot of meaning, and, as such, remains an abstraction. Grammar gives the appearance of rigidity—a solid structure or scaffolding for language, but we must remember the fluidity of language in its ordinary use. A difficulty that Wittgenstein wants to focus on is the incorrect idea that grammar exists as a perfect set of logical rules, rules hidden beneath language that we try to uncover. It has seemed to many philosophers over the years, as it did to Wittgenstein in the Tractatus, as if the rules of grammar have a priority over language, as if logic dictated to language and determined meaning, determined what made sense. But Wittgenstein in the Investigations wants to say in actuality the reverse is true. Use has priority in determining what makes sense, and grammar describes that use.

Hence to understand the operation of language—or investigate language—we must construct a grammar; that is, describe the use or actual employment of words.

Philosophers might object here and note that meaning must be rule-governed, and this is true. Without consistency of use, meaning is impossible. But it is the nature of these rules and their relationship to meaning that is at the root of a great deal of philosophical controversy. It can seem as if the rules of grammar “confer” meaning on a sentence. When we view language in this way, then the rule seems to be the important thing and the sentence is secondary. The rule stands behind the sentence and supports it, and it seems that this is where we must look for the meaning of the sentence. The sentence becomes irrelevant. Wittgenstein wants to show that this type of thinking can cause us a great deal of confusion. Let us take an example that supposes this idea is literally true. Let us say the rule for the word circle is “a closed curve in which each point on the curve is equidistant from the midpoint.” Let this be a strict rule for the meaning of circle. Now, this rule might work very well as long as we are thinking of circles as defined in geometry. But what would we say about the case of a child learning to draw circles? Few if any of the shapes the child draws will be exact, and so they will not exactly fit the rule. But then, are the shapes the child has drawn circles or not? Most people will recognize the shapes as circles, and most likely the child will tell an onlooker that she is drawing circles. Do we need a new rule or perhaps to augment the original one? And what do we do when we apply this rule for circle to a sentence concerning arguing in a circle? Now the rule doesn’t fit at all, and it seems difficult to see how we will stretch or amend the rule to apply in this case while maintaining any exactness. What about a person who is confused reading the Investigations and says, “He just seems to be going in circles!” Now what can we say about the meaning of circle in this case being determined by our rule? There doesn’t seem to be any end to the gyrations we must put our rule through in order to make it “responsible” for meaning. However, if we let the use teach us the meaning there doesn’t seem to be a problem. The word circle in ordinary, everyday English has the flexibility to cover all these cases. Clearly, though, this is an involved topic, and therefore Wittgenstein examines rule-following in depth.

For Wittgenstein, the fundamental idea responsible for many philosophical problems is that speaking a language or understanding the meaning of words is explained as operating a calculus—an axiomatic or rule-governed system like formal logic or mathematics. As we have noted, this idea gripped Wittgenstein very early and is an important part of the Tractatus. Many philosophers would agree that there is a connection between meaning, logic, and mathematics. For Wittgenstein, logic entailed the rules governing the use of symbols, and mathematics could be seen in the same way. In the Tractatus, meaningful language—the stringing together of names of objects and the logical connection of elementary propositions—followed a similar logical structure.

However, by the time he writes the Investigations, Wittgenstein has come to see this conception as flawed. Wittgenstein’s idea in the Tractatus depended on the reference theory of language—words were meaningful when they named objects. Wittgenstein came to see that if his central insight in the Tractatus was correct—language is meaningful as it is—then what makes it meaningful couldn’t be exterior to language. Much of the inherent sloppiness of language—its ragged edges, twisted locutions, and frayed syntax—are part of the nature of the beast. Language itself cannot be cleaned up or perfected—but it must be surveyed and investigated because the flexibility at the heart of our living language can be so complex and confusing. Also, as we mentioned, Wittgenstein believes we must expand our notion of logic. “Logic” cannot be restricted to the formal structure Wittgenstein had imagined in the Tractatus, and the logic of language is not a formal structure external to language but is found in the operation of language itself.

The first order of business is to see that our grammar is as complicated as the language it describes. Wittgenstein wants us to realize that this state of affairs is not a flaw that needs philosophical correction, but a reflection of the way things are.

At remark 65 Wittgenstein says, “Here we come up against the great question that lies behind all these consideration.” Typically, Wittgenstein never spells out the “great question.” Apparently he is talking about the underlying concerns of the Tractatus—the essence of language and the general form of propositions. The point he is trying to make is that this search for the abstract essence of language is misguided. In the Tractatus he looked for a rule or common element that joined all propositions and so formed the basis of language. He tried to answer the question “What is language really?” by finding the common element in language.

Anyone with a background in philosophy will probably recognize Wittgenstein’s concern here as “the problem of universals.” This has been an extremely knotty problem for philosophy since the time of the ancient Greeks. The problem is generated on a number of levels: epistemology, metaphysics, philosophy of science, etc. Certainly, we can see that language depends to a degree on universality. Language depends in part on nouns, which can seem to signify a natural group, essence, kind, or species—tree, dog, human, and so forth. Philosophers since the time of Plato have debated the idea of essences or species—are they real or are they conventions, or perhaps nonexistent altogether? If they are real, what sort of reality do they have? Are they only ideas—or do they represent perhaps something like the laws governing natural kinds? Many philosophers have weighed in on this issue, and the debate is seemingly never ending. Wittgenstein never speaks of “the problem of universals,” and because of his eclectic philosophical background it is an open question whether he is aware of the history of the problem of universals and whether he is specifically addressing this issue here. He is, however, familiar with Plato, and when he discusses the idea of the essence of something as consisting of a common element it does call to mind Plato’s theory of ideas. Socrates in the dialogues seeks the definition of a virtue, for example, by looking for a common element that links all actions of that type. If Wittgenstein is critiquing Platonism, it is curious that he does not mention Plato here. He was quite willing previously to invoke Plato’s Theatetus as a target for his critique of the reference theory of meaning, when he might well have targeted the Tractatus. Here when he might have mentioned Plato, he only mentions the Tractatus.

Nevertheless, I would certainly argue that Wittgenstein has made a significant contribution on this topic. I do think, however, Wittgenstein is restricting his remarks to language, and more specifically, to grammar. This may have implications for the problem of universals, but I think it would be a mistake to think of Wittgenstein as propounding a theory on essence or on natural kinds or even on ideas. This is not to say that Wittgenstein has nothing to say on these topics; however, he repeatedly states he is not advancing theses.1 Rather, Wittgenstein wants to caution us that if we look at language, then we will see that there is no one structure that can account for language. Rather, there are many interrelated structures that form a family. Our grammar, if it is to be useful, since it is a description of these interrelated structures, cannot be a pure, rigid calculus, but must be multifaceted and flexible.

To make this point Wittgenstein looks at the concept of game. It is tempting to jump to the conclusion that in order to define the word game we should look for a common element to all games. But first he tells us we should note that to do so is a stipulation or an assumption about definitions and the way language operates, not the result of looking at the various things we call games—that is, looking at how the word game actually functions in our language.

We often think that a word like game is a noun—it names a class or group. We might think of a class as a set of objects and that this set is clearly defined. When we are learning this idea we are often told to picture a set as a circle and all the things in the set as “fitting” in the circle like a collection. We may also think that there is a list of rules that determine membership in a set or class. This list of rules functions as a test to determine class membership. If object x passes the test it is a member of the class—otherwise it is not. This model generally sees the world as delineated by natural kinds and language and logic as reflecting this demarcation. Notoriously, this model has difficulty explaining borderline cases and gray areas. For example, if we think of “works of art” as a clearly defined set or class, anything new or novel, no matter how important or well crafted, sometimes it does not get seen as a work of art—perhaps until many years later and sometimes not at all. Consider the length of time it took for impressionism to be seen as great art.

In order to show the limits of a “set” model, Wittgenstein asks us to look at—not think about or just reflect on—how we use the word game. There are dozens of different games within each type of game and dozens of types—and perhaps some that defy classification. There are ball games—football, baseball, basketball. There are board games—chess, checkers, Scrabble. There are card games—poker, pinochle, old maid. Plus, there are war games, Olympic games, “head” games—not to mention tag, Simon says, and hide and seek. And what can we say about games of catch or building a house of cards or skipping stones or catching snowflakes on your tongue? When we examine all these games, there are sometimes common features, but sometimes not. Some features—such as rules—are important in some games like chess but unimportant in others like skipping stones. Some games are amusing, such as catch—some are very serious, such as war games. If we look closely at the concept game in action, then the belief that there is an element common to all games begins to dissipate.

For Wittgenstein, the various things we call games can best be described as forming a family, and the relationships and similarities between them he calls “family resemblances.” These uses should be described as intertwined like threads of a fiber. In other words, the grammar of game is best seen as a related series of uses.

Wittgenstein wants to analyze this concept of “family resemblances” as describing the grammar of a concept such as game very carefully. Again, he clearly thinks this issue is important—calling it a “great question.” The most obvious objection to the idea that the word game represents a series of interrelated uses would probably come from the logician or mathematician who would very likely argue that a word or symbol without a precise definition is meaningless, that a concept without a boundary is not a concept. Initially, such an objection makes sense. Mathematically speaking it would certainly appear that the definition of circle or square is hardly fuzzy. A theorem in geometry such as the Pythagorean theorem—A2 + B2 = C2—could not have more precision. Two plus two is exactly four—there doesn’t seem to be a family of cases here. We might write the solution to this equation in a variety of ways, but these ways are all interchangeable. It might first appear reasonable that the same might be said for words. Certainly, we think that a definition tries to remove ambiguities. In seeking the definition of tree we try to draw a sharp boundary between trees, shrubs, flowers, and other plants. An ambiguity or an anomalous case either represents a failure to understand what counts for a tree or a lack of skill in identifying the individual case. Common sense tells us that the more ambiguity you have in a definition the less meaning you have and the less you understand.

But Wittgenstein wants to challenge the notion that meaning requires sharp boundaries. First we should note that math and logic don’t always have the exactness that we might suppose. While “square” and “circle” seem very exact, this precision starts to disappear when we construct these figures on a curved surface. Pythagoras himself, so the story goes, was extremely embarrassed when he found that a right triangle with the sides of length 1 produces a triangle with a hypotenuse measuring the square root of 2 when the equation is solved. Technically, we know, there is no such number—when we try to calculate the square root of 2 we wind up with a repeating decimal—as when we calculate pi. Even “simple” arithmetic produces many a strange beastie—imaginary numbers, irrational numbers, etc. When we look at it, math doesn’t represent the bastion of precision we once thought. However, it is important to note that despite the lack of precision, the geometry and arithmetic work quite well.

In general, meaning presents a very similar case. We tend to think that because an inexact boundary is no boundary, the use of a word must be everywhere bounded by rules. Again the analogy with games is very instructive here. Even in games with broad and definite rules, such as baseball, the game is still a game, still baseball, even with those areas of the game that are not governed by rules. For instance, there is no rule on how fast or slow you can pitch. A home run is a ball that goes over the fence—but there is no exact measure here—an inch over the fence is as good as a mile. Also, there is no time clock in baseball, and so on. Thus a game can get on quite well without exact rules and without a rule to cover every case. Why must the rules for the use of a word be exact? What about words like nearly, roughly, or almost—or expressions like sort of, in a way, just missed? What about the word vague itself? Does there have to be an exact use for vague or ambiguous? What about not being sure, confused, or having a bad feeling about a situation? Wittgenstein points out that many of these uses, to make any sense at all, must be vague or fuzzy. If we examine language in practice, exact boundaries in definition begin to look more like a requirement than actual fact.

We often think that in order to say that we know something or for an idea to be counted as knowledge rather than as a guess or an opinion then the idea must be exact and it must be possible to express the idea exactly. It may seem to us to be impossible that someone knows something but cannot express it in precise terms. In other words, it may be thought that imprecise knowledge is not knowledge at all. Wittgenstein wants us to see that the various forms of language often mislead us in this regard. As he says at remark 78, in this context we are most often thinking of factual reports—such as the height of Mont Blanc. Usually, we say that if someone knows a fact it is something exact, and knowing it means he can repeat that fact exactly. We might allow that there are certain situations where it makes sense to say “I know a certain fact but I can’t say it,” as when someone is keeping a secret. But that fact is still something precise and in other circumstances perfectly expressible. It wouldn’t make sense for someone to say that he knew a particular measurement—such as the height of Mont Blanc—but that it was inexpressible. Again there is a general belief that facts and truths are precise, and clarity of expression follows from that precision. The idea at work here is that meaning demands crystalline clarity.

But Wittgenstein wants to think about how language functions in other cases where meaning is possible yet crystalline clarity is lacking. Think about saying how a clarinet sounds, or of describing the aroma of coffee, or the taste of wine—or describing how you felt on a beautiful summer day or the first time you fell in love. Here we must use images or metaphors, and precision no longer seems to be a requirement. This is the stuff of poetry. For Wittgenstein, the fact that our language operates like this is what is important. If language is meaningful as it is, then apparently the logic of language is not able to be captured in the exact formal system Wittgenstein envisioned in the Tractatus. Not every concept admits of exact description or can be given a precise definition. If I say “put the book on the table,” I need not break the meaning down into so many millimeters from the edge, what particular angle to place, and so on. Of course, I could do this, but the point is that the idea “put the book on the table” is meaningful in all its imprecision. Of course we might wonder at why our language is like this, how it came to be imprecise yet functional, why human beings speak like this, and so on. But such questions are not relevant to Wittgenstein’s project. It might be possible to explain these things, but this would be an empirical investigation, not a philosophical or a logical one. Again, we must keep in mind that Wittgenstein’s investigation focuses solely on the logic of language.

Since grammar is a description of the use of words, we must consider whether every description has to be exact in order to be a description. In general, we should expect that since what grammar describes is inherently “fuzzy,” then grammar itself should be equally fuzzy. But since grammar is an abstraction and essentially logical, the tendency is to search for the rigid, logical purity in grammar that we believe must exist in anything logical. But again, does a description have to be exact to be a good description? If I tell someone I just drove through a dense fog on a mountain road, is this description no good unless I can give the height of the mountain and the parts per million of water droplets in the air? Must I include how far I drove and the incline of the road? Certainly, a photograph is a great description of someone. But what about a sketch or a caricature? Can’t we recognize someone from either of these inexact descriptions just as well?

When we try to grasp or understand something, we might think in scientific terms and so we might compare understanding to a kind of measuring, and we think of measurement as something exact. We think of defining a geometric figure such as a triangle by the degrees of the angles or defining an element by the atomic number or we identify a cell by the number of chromosomes, and so on. Certainly, there are cases when exact measurement is the most preferable—as in surgery. But Wittgenstein cautions us that we must be careful not to misunderstand the idea of exact measurement. We often confuse exactness in the result of our measurement with exactness of the tool we used to measure. I may want to survey a piece of property and, for whatever reason, I need the most exact measurement possible. Let us suppose I want to use a meter stick for this purpose—again the reason doesn’t matter. But since I need exact measurement, I believe an ordinary meter stick from the hardware store won’t do. So, I order one from a catalog that supplies science labs. In order that its dimensions won’t be affected by changes in temperature, I could even pay a phenomenal amount of money and get a platinum meter stick made to the exact dimensions of the standard meter bar in Paris. Now, I believe, my measurements will be exact.

Besides this scenario’s bordering on the ludicrous, there are a number of problems here. One is the idea of “exactly a meter.” A meter is a convention used as a standard of measurement. We have tried to define this standard in as precise a way as is possible, but at some point the requirement for precision will have to stop. We have to realize that even if we take every precaution to prevent any alteration in the standard meter bar, ultimately it is a chunk of matter and so some change is inevitable. So the requirement of ideal mathematical precision as far as the meter bar is concerned will never be met. If you have a definition that you set as a standard, it is a fundamental misunderstanding of the idea of a standard to try to compare the standard to something more perfect. If you do so, that which you originally had as a standard loses its status as a standard, and the new, more perfect example that you are seeking must be the standard. But what would make this new thing—whatever it is—into a more perfect example of your standard? To what are you comparing it? Aren’t you imagining something more perfect beyond even the present example? Here we see that we are involved in an infinite regress—an endless loop with no point. The only way to stop it is not to start it.

The idea of a meter is exact enough. It appears inexact when we think of defining it in a vacuum—that is, apart from the job it is supposed to do. The concepts of length or measurement are understood in conjunction with concepts such as determining a length or taking a measurement. It is difficult to make sense of length without understanding it in conjunction with measuring the length of something. Meter is part of a system of measuring length or distance. A meter has a particular fundamental role in that system, and apart from that system it would be difficult to define.

Since a meter is a convention or our creation that springs from the need to measure, it would be wrong to think of a meter as a previously existing abstract perfect entity. We must also realize measurements must be made to determine results. I could take my million-dollar meter stick out to the land I have to survey, but I would have to lay the perfect stick end over end to get my measurement. In actual practice this procedure will probably produce imperfect results. Again we should notice that use or actual practice is key to the accuracy of measurement; the accuracy of the tool by itself is insufficient.

In the case of measuring land, if we needed a superaccurate measurement, it would probably make more sense to get a surveyor to measure the land with precise optical equipment. But here again we should not think that the measurement of the land—say listed in a deed—is discovering an object in the way measuring to drill for water ends in finding water or in the way that using sonar ends in finding a sunken ship. When we measure a parcel of land as accurately as possible, we may have a variety of purposes, e.g., we want to know where to put a foundation or a pool or a fence—or we just want to know where our property ends. Measuring our property doesn’t produce anything new, but it does give us a new way of describing our property. Measuring here is a tool needed to accomplish a particular task; it is not an end in itself. It is also important to realize that as with any tool the accuracy or precision of the tool does not guarantee the accuracy of the results. The tool needs to be put into practice in order to produce any results, and it is the use that determines the accuracy of the tool. Again, even the most accurate meter stick imaginable is not much good for measuring your property. I can spend five thousand dollars on a camera and still take very bad pictures—a great musical instrument does not guarantee a great musician.

The overall logical idea that Wittgenstein is addressing is the ineffectiveness of trying to define concepts in a vacuum. The belief among many philosophers throughout history, the early Wittgenstein included, is that truth about the world can only be achieved by refining our conceptual tools such as logic. For Wittgenstein this approach generated many false pictures because concepts were being defined and refined apart from their use and then applied to reality. When the concept or theory and reality didn’t match up, very often reality was twisted to fit the theory or our ordinary experience was relegated to “appearance.” I think Wittgenstein would count his theory of logical atomism in the Tractatus as an example of just such a false picture generated by a logical requirement. That the logical atoms or “objects” weren’t observed or apparently played no part in the world of our experience didn’t matter. Logic dictated that they must be there. Once we drop the logical preconditions as unnecessary, we can see that the “objects” become irrelevant. In general, Wittgenstein wants to caution us against thinking of, for example, a concept such as measurement as an independent entity or length as the object measured. Both length and measurement are part of a conceptual apparatus. Measuring is an operation or a calculation, and length is a result. Both are defined as part of an actual practice and not as abstractions. Wittgenstein wants to show us that when we let use dictate the meaning, the truth will emerge and false philosophical theories will be avoided.

Our discussion of measuring above has produced some results that may be applied to an analysis of grammar. Grammar describes how we use a word. As with measuring, we think that by sharpening our definition, we get a clearer understanding of the meaning of a word. The clearer the boundary—the clearer the distinction, we think, the clearer the meaning, and so the more I can know about whatever it is. In part this is true. The better our concepts are, or the more logical we are, the more likely we are to find the truth. But as with measuring we should not confuse the tool or the method with the result. Again, just as I cannot define a method of measuring in a vacuum—measuring is part of a system that is only meaningful when understood as part of a practice—so, too, I cannot define a word in a vacuum and thereby search for its precise definition. I have to look at the employment of the word and see how we use it in order to understand its meaning. If I try to “freeze” the picture of, say, game by drawing a very sharp boundary around what I call games, then very likely I have missed out on the actual employment of the word and so its meaning. In the same way, my very accurate meter stick did not produce great results when I tried to use it to measure a large, rough area—the tool was unsuited to its purpose. In grammar, we can draw a sharp boundary around the use of a word for a particular purpose—but in ordinary language, in most cases, no such boundary is drawn.

Although we must come back to this later, the basic fault here lies in thinking the use of a word is dictated by something other than the way we ordinarily speak and write. Meaning often seems like something the mind can peer at through introspection in abstraction from language and the use of a word. To speak of words and their meaning outside the context of language really makes no sense. It is language that is meaningful, and words are a part of language.

In measuring, the tool—the meter stick—must be put to some use in order to talk about the measure of something. What would the tool be otherwise—an art object? By using the tool we can tell someone where to put the property line, compare dimensions, etc. It is similar with grammar. As a tool, if used correctly, it tells us where the words go or fit in the language. Grammar is the instrument or lens through which we look at language.

In this context Wittgenstein raises an important issue—one that we will have to explore more completely later on. Outside of or in a context other than its use it is hard to say what a tool really is. Think of the difficulty that archeologists have when they uncover an unfamiliar artifact. Again let us say we somehow completely removed or disassociated a meter stick from measuring. Imagine that we have forgotten the metric system or, better, have no system of measuring. Now, is this object still a meter stick? Does it still tell us that whatever it happens to be lying next to is one meter long? It no longer gives us this information because it has been removed from the system that made it a standard of length or made the numbers on the stick meaningful. In other words, outside of its original system, the question “What is x?” makes no sense. The answer to the question as to how we know what something is, its essence, is an idea in philosophy that has a long and tangled history. Clearly, for Wittgenstein the answer to the question as to the essence of x is found in the grammar of the language.2 Let us save a deeper discussion of this issue for later. For now it is important to note that Wittgenstein illuminates the connection between grammar, concept or meaning, and essence. That is, there is a relationship between use, meaning, and knowing what something is. In the history of philosophy, this has been seen as an especially tricky relationship. Philosophers have long noted that my concept of x is (somehow) equivalent to my knowing what x is. In fact it is difficult to think of a philosopher that doesn’t have something to say on this topic. A forest or two was probably needed for the books that have tried to elucidate that parenthetical somehow. For now let us note that Wittgenstein addresses this relationship as well and is anxious to clear up philosophical difficulties in this area.

At remark 75 Wittgenstein continues with the theme we have discussed above regarding meaning and precision. As we have noted, philosophers have long embraced the requirement that my knowledge of something, e.g., what a game is, in order to be true should be exact. When the use is not exact, it may appear as if an unformulated or nebulous definition is lurking in my mind. Looked at in this way it appears that I know something but just can’t say it—can’t get it clear. It could look as if there is some sort of psychological or epistemological malfunction gumming up the works. The solution then may seem to lie in introspection, or with a psychological or philosophical theory. But maybe, Wittgenstein suggests, this is simply the wrong way of looking at the problem or our misconception of the operation of language, in this case that meaning requires precision, has created a problem that doesn’t really exist. Wittgenstein says:

Isn’t my knowledge, my concept of a game, completely expressed in the explanations I could give? That is in my describing examples of various kinds of game; shewing how all sorts of other games can be constructed on the analogy of these; saying that I should scarcely include this or this among games; and so on3 (PI 75).

And in the following remark:

If someone were to draw a sharp boundary I could not acknowledge it as the one that I too always wanted to draw, or had drawn in my mind. For I did not want to draw one at all. His concept then can be said to be not the same as mine, but akin to it4 (PI 76).

Here we see the connection between knowing what some x is and my concept of x—for example, game. Wittgenstein says that my knowledge or concept of game is shown in the examples and explanations that I can give about games. But as we saw above being able to explain or give examples of games involves the use of the word game. Hence when I am giving explanations about games I am describing the use of the word game, or I am explaining the grammar of the word game—at least as far as I understand it. Again, as we see in the second passage this might be thought of as drawing a boundary. Someone might want to use a great deal of precision in a particular use. But Wittgenstein insists that no such boundary needs to be drawn. Again Wittgenstein sees the concept game more like a fiber constructed of variously intertwined threads. He sees the two concepts mentioned above—one with a sharp boundary and one without such a boundary as interrelated—two concepts of the same thing with similarities and differences.

There are a few important ideas here, but we should take particular note of the relationship between concept, grammar, meaning, and essence. Though we will have to return to this later, just as knowing what something is means having a concept of that thing—it is apparent that having a concept entails a description of the use of a word. In other words the concept, essence, and meaning of game mean the grammar of the word game.

What Wittgenstein says here is quite complex and not without controversy. As we might expect, there are a number of issues that have been discussed in the literature that hover around what Wittgenstein says about grammar, meaning, essence, and concepts.5 I would like to explore some of these issues in a general—not so much to settle them but so that the reader can navigate his or her way through them when they come up while exploring the text.

We should note from these passages that, as with the idea of measuring discussed above, two concepts that are dissimilar are not distinguished as “right” or “wrong.” Certainly we make value judgments about certain ideas—slavery, for example, would be considered wrong, and many of our scientific ideas, like the Ptolemaic picture of the solar system, have turned out to be wrong. And of course we can generate many fictitious ideas that are false and indulge in ideas that are simply contradictory. What Wittgenstein wants us to realize is that none of these critiques of various ideas take place in a vacuum. Concepts, for Wittgenstein, stand or fall based on use. Whether a particular idea is meaningful or what it means depends on is its use. Measurements might be right or wrong or my ruler might be wrong—but we should not think of a method of measurement as right or wrong in the same way. Constructing the standard meter and defining the concept of length is not right or wrong, in the sense of being contrary to or in accord with the facts of nature. True, if things grew and shrunk in size at random intervals, then the concept of determining the length would lose its meaning and would probably be discarded. But a meter is a conventional method of measurement that doesn’t correspond to anything in nature. I may take some unit of measurement from a natural occurrence—just as I might use a river as a natural boundary for a state or piece of property—but this need not be so. In other words, I may use a ruler incorrectly, and so the piece of wood I wanted to cut squarely is out of square, but this is not the fault of the ruler. But let us say I claim to have invented a ruler, a rod with Greek letters on it set at what appears to be random intervals. Certainly this object cannot be used in conjunction with our idea of determining a length. Again we would not say that this rod was out of sync with any facts of nature, but it would certainly be of little use in its intended application—we couldn’t make sense out of it as a method of measurement.

The idea that concepts are neither right nor wrong in the sense of either corresponding or not to the facts of nature can be confusing or even objectionable when we think of the concepts of natural science—such as species or a law of nature. If botanists catalog a species of plant, say roses, they have delineated what a rose is and what we mean by rose. Surely this is done on the basis of scientific investigation, and so we would think that this concept is derived from or corresponds to the facts of nature. However, Wittgenstein wants to point out that this is a very narrow understanding of “concept” and “meaning” that restricts these ideas to classification. But the use of any word goes well beyond simple classification. Think here of expressions like “rose-colored glasses” or “he came out smelling like a rose.” The concepts employed here are related to the botanical classification of rose, but extend well beyond simply classifying a rose.

We might imagine or know of a group of people who think that oak trees have evil spirits in them or whatever, and since there are no evil spirits we say this idea is wrong. But if we just examined the idea of “oaks are trees with evil spirits” as such, it is so far neither true nor false since we are not asserting that such a thing is real. A mathematician could discuss, for example, the concept of a thousand-sided polygon without being able to imagine anything connected with it or to provide an actual example of such a thing. Or we might discuss the concept of a golden mountain by noting it is constructed out of the concepts gold and mountain, but we have not thereby made any claim that the thing exists and so as of yet truth or falsity is not an issue. So logically speaking a concept by itself, like a method of measurement, e.g., a ruler, doesn’t assert anything. Just as with method of measurement, a word must be used in order to assert something. The grammar of the word x doesn’t assert any facts—unless you count “I will call such and such an x” an assertion. The grammar of game describes the use we make of the word—it is not the use of the word. The sentence, “Today’s game was cancelled because of rain,” can be true or false, but when we discuss the grammar of the word game we are in the realm of logic, not empirical facts.

Again, we might say that the concept an oak is a tree with evil spirits is wrong because there are no such things as oak trees with evil spirits. But the existence or nonexistence of something, for Wittgenstein, is an empirical question, not a conceptual one. Scientists do of course discard concepts such as phlogiston or the ether that was supposed to pervade the universe because it was shown that there is no such thing. But sometimes we keep a concept such as Ptolemaic astronomy even though the picture it presents us with is not correct because it is still possible to navigate on the ocean using Ptolemy’s idea. Be that as it may, Wittgenstein’s interests are conceptual or grammatical and therefore philosophical. The issue here with the oak tree and the evil spirits might focus on compatibility of the grammar of “evil spirits” with that of “oak tree,” and certainly on this level we might say the concept doesn’t work for us. The concepts of evil spirit and material object would be hard for us to reconcile. The language associated with trees—height or color or leaves or soil quality—does not fit the language of nonspatial and nontemporal entities such as spirits. It is perfectly plausible, however, that there are some people even in the West who would relish such irreconcilable differences, and there might be those, certainly, for whom the concept of evil spirits in oak trees presents no problem at all. There may be people who talk of the size, shape, and color of spirits because, say, it is important to their beliefs or society. The role this idea plays in their society may of course be nothing like the role it plays in ours. The problems we have with the relationship of the material to the spiritual and to the physical never occur to them. However, whether any or all of this is so is an empirical or sociological issue and not of concern to Wittgenstein. Nothing logical would be gained in an imaginary consideration of the beliefs of tribe x, except to point out that a particular context must be added for certain concepts to be understood as meaningful or perhaps to set up a language game that throws light on the nature of our own language—as we have seen. Again, the above idea might be highly useful in a scientific investigation. However, Wittgenstein’s focus is the logic of language and the problems of philosophy, not science or anthropology.

The above ideas have sometimes opened up Wittgenstein to charges of relativism—ethical, cultural, scientific—and so on. Most often philosophers argue that if concepts are interrelated and elastic and neither true nor false in themselves, then there is no absolutely correct or “privileged” viewpoint. If all conceptual systems are equal, then some philosophers argue this means that truth is impossible to attain and skepticism is the only reasonable position to maintain.

If relativism means that language has various structures and that words are used in a variety of ways and that our descriptions of this—our grammar—is equally multifaceted and mutable, then it is hard to disagree with the assessment that Wittgenstein’s ideas lead to relativism. These are the simple facts of language. But we must be very cautious here. Wittgenstein is making no scientific or, directly at least, ethical pronouncements. To discuss or examine how certain concepts of physics function is not to do physics. In doing so we have produced no facts or scientific results, nor have we propounded or disproved any scientific theory. To be sure the scientist may fall victim to conceptual confusion and faulty logic. Certain concepts such as force or cause, if they become variously mangled, may lead to faulty theories. For example, thinking of force as something mechanical led to theoretical problems with gravity such as accounting for the action of this force over huge distances and the initial rejection of Einstein’s geometric concept of gravity in the General Theory of Relativity. Understanding that the concept force may be seen in a variety of ways other than mechanically may help clear the way for General Relativity, but it does not produce the theory or confirm it. We might try to argue for relativism in science by noting that all theories as theories are of equal value—they are all equally intended to be tools or instruments for understanding the natural world. However, it would be ludicrous to say that all theories are equal in application. This would be saying the theory of bodily humors is as effective in treating and understanding disease as the germ theory.

Clearly, it does not follow from the flexibility of our conceptual apparatus that truth is impossible to attain. On the contrary, it is this very flexibility that makes scientific progress possible. Imagine if the concepts of time, space, matter, force, and so on were unalterable or could have only precisely one meaning at any given time. It is often the case that only through challenging accepted notions that progress can be made, as happened when Einstein challenged the Newtonian notion of absolute space and absolute time. I think it might be nearer the mark to say that for Wittgenstein a rigid conceptual structure offers a false picture of language and so is a barrier to the truth, while a flexible conceptual structure reflects the way language actually operates and allows the truth to emerge.

When considering Wittgenstein’s analysis of language and its relation to various types of relativism, the case with ethics is similar to science, but it is very complex and must be treated more fully later. For now we can say that unlike in Tractatus, there is no mention of what we might call ethics in the Investigations. In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein counts ethics as part of the unsayable but manages to have quite a lot to say about it—as many commentators have noted. The Investigations corrects this defect. As with science, Wittgenstein makes no ethical pronouncements in the Investigations. No ethical theories are specifically supported or discarded—and the same may be said for ethical or unethical actions. Our ethical concepts may be clarified, but as with science, clarifying ethics concepts might be beneficial or even necessary to ethics but is not in itself an ethical action. Clarifying ideas such as love or friendship may make you a better human being—if you apply them. But analysis alone won’t produce a friend or love interest—unless of course you meet someone nice in philosophy class.

Thus, as we can see, Wittgenstein in the Investigations examines many ideas fundamental to the concept of language he developed in the Tractatus—that the essence of language is understood by exposing some underlying common element and that an essential component of language is a system of strict logical rules, made plain and refined through symbolic logic. Against the first notion, he proposes in the Investigations that the examination of language reveals language to be a series of interrelated structures. Against the second, he wants to show that using language is not like operating a rule-governed logic. Language is not everywhere bounded by rules. Uncovering the rules of language—its grammar—is a descriptive process that must be as flexible and multifaceted as that which it describes. Our grammar does not produce ideal objects that support our vague and ambiguous language. The vagaries—in the sense of use being flexible and words having multiple uses—are an essential part of language.

A further notion in this regard that can cause misconceptions, to which Wittgenstein and we will return to discuss at length, is that we can literally see what is common to a group of objects and this becomes the common element that forms the basis of meaning. It may seem as if Wittgenstein is belaboring this point. But actually he is examining another source or picture that generates the same misconception of the operation of language. Up to this point, Wittgenstein has been focusing on the idealization of grammar from a logical point of view. The picture of language in the Tractatus developed from a commitment on the nature of meaning and thought, which we have described as “logical atomism.” However, it has been the case in philosophy that a similar approach to language has been derived from an empirical viewpoint. So, for example, the meaning of the word tree is thought to be derived from the empirical examination of various trees.

Wittgenstein wants to show that the idea of “seeing what is common” should not be assumed to have a particular meaning—there are a number of uses for this phrase, and not all of them could necessarily be covered by literally seeing something, as we might suppose. At remarks 72–74, Wittgenstein compares this idea to showing someone a series of color samples and telling him that what the samples have in common is what is called blue. This would supposedly serve as a definition of blue, which means the person would now be able to use the word blue—point to blue objects, comment on the blue sky, fetch a blue marker, etc. We might think that this definition has created a general mental color sample for the person that the person uses as a guide or reference for the correct use of the word blue. We might compare this to a catalog or chart used by a clerk in a store. The chart has, for example, the name and number of a car part on one side and a picture of it on the other so that when someone orders a part the clerk knows which one to get. The chart has a well-defined use in the clerk’s work. But what would a “general mental color sample” be like? I certainly could use a color sample to buy paint. But how would a “general color sample” work? Do we know of any such thing? Again, this is not an empirical or psychological question for Wittgenstein, but a logical one. He wants to see if any use or meaning can be made out of “general color sample.” The sample would have to be somehow general because there are so many different shades of blue. But here we have something of a contradiction—a color sample of a shade of blue that can’t be any particular color. It is difficult to see how anyone could possibly make use of such an object—the idea is meaningless and wrecks the notion that the use of the word blue is carried on through some sort of general mental sample. Thinking of the meaning of blue as some sort of generalized image fails to account for what we mean by blue.

Again Wittgenstein is not trying to answer the psychological question of how the mind works when we learn the use of a word or mean something. We would of course expect something to be happening in the eyes and the brain when we “make sense.” However, Wittgenstein wants us to note that a mental event that may be a concomitant to meaning cannot account for the use of a word. Grammar describes the use of a word in language, and there is where the word has meaning. When grammar gets tangled up in psychology we lose the thread of how the word actually operates in language. In the above example, although we may have defined the word blue by pointing to various samples of the color, it is clear that whether someone understands the word is not shown by noting something in the person’s nervous system. Nor can we say that a person’s having a psychological experience is sufficient for demonstrating fluency with a concept. The key to understanding the meaning of a word is being able to use it as we all do. What shows whether a person knows the meaning of the word blue is that they can point to a color sample of blue, pick out a blue object, and so on. There of course may be some psychology involved here, but if our interest is meaning then, for Wittgenstein, the psychology can be bypassed.

Again, a philosophical investigation, for Wittgenstein, is a grammatical one. Such an investigation does not aim at penetrating phenomena but is directed at the possibilities of phenomena—as he indicates in remark 90.6 In other words it may look as if Wittgenstein is interested in our experiences in an empirical or scientific sense. However, with regard to experience he is interested in examining the logic of our language regarding experience—the possibility of making sense. Wittgenstein’s project is to examine the various kinds of statements that we make about phenomena. Some scholars take these ideas regarding phenomena as evidence of a Kantian strain is Wittgenstein’s thinking. Discussing the relationship between Kant and Wittgenstein would be too involved for our purposes here, though we will look at this a little bit in the final chapter. For those versed in modern thought, the interjection of the word phenomena of course brings Kant to mind, and Wittgenstein is certainly discussing the limits of language in a way that is similar to Kant’s discussion of the limits of reason. But, as Rudolf Haller notes, Kant’s intricate epistemology and his interests in grounding science in that epistemology are foreign to the Investigations.7 It is the psychological and epistemological aspects of Kant’s work that is apt to cause the most confusion if applied to the Investigations. As we have noted, Wittgenstein is not building any kind of theoretical apparatus. Wittgenstein’s focus is language and the clearing away of misunderstanding caused by our failure to understand the intricate workings of language.

When Wittgenstein speaks here of the “possibilities of phenomena,” I would suggest that this is merely to indicate that his investigation is not directed toward the natural world in a scientific way, but that he is interested in our forms of expression—the language we use and the description of that language. Through grammar we can form many different descriptions of the language of things and events—there are many possibilities in this regard. Some descriptions will be nearer to our actual usage than others. It is Wittgenstein’s intent to note inaccurate pictures and try to dispose of them. This has no bearing on the things themselves. It changes nothing, really, but leaves everything the same. However, we let go of certain illusions conjured up by the complexities of language.

NOTES

1. PI 128.

2. PI 370–371, 373.

3. PI 75.

4. PI 76.

5. Cf. Garth Hallett, Companion, 28-34.

6. Cf. PI 90.

7. Cf. Rudolf Haller, Questions on Wittgenstein (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1988), 44–56.