Analytic philosophy can be traced back to two different origins: the ideal language approach and the ordinary language approach. In both cases the starting point is language; hence, one also speaks of analytic philosophy as linguistic philosophy (Rorty 1967). The ideal language approach claims that philosophical problems can be solved by making language perfect; the ordinary language approach declares that problems will dissolve by focusing on ordinary language. Philosophical problems arise, as Wittgenstein says, “when language goes on holiday”;1 that is to say, when the philosopher forgets ordinary language and creates pseudo-philosophical problems.
According to the ideal language approach, communication means conveying information. However, in the words of Malinowski: “Words are part of action and they are equivalents to actions.”2 On Malinowski’s quasi-pragmatist view, the content of speech can be understood only in terms of the action that speech performs. Speech (and writing) aims to effect, produce, achieve, and designate things. Language should not be conceived as a closed system, nor as a subjectively expressive medium, but as the concrete and ceaseless flow of utterance produced in communicative interaction between people in specific social and historical circumstances.3 In this sense there is no criterion of meaning other than interpretative practice. Meaning-making belongs to, and starts with, the historically located social activity wherein it is produced and transformed, and in its ongoingness transforms its producers and conditions of production.
Therefore, meanings of words (concepts) are not fixed but fluid. Contrary to the teachings of Frege and the early Husserl, meanings are not files of hard data in the mind, which is conceived as a storehouse for meanings. Meanings are created in action, and understanding takes place against this background. Meanings are not a stockpile in Plato’s heaven nor are they listed in the social contract of agreed on conventions of a group of speakers. The meanings of utterances have a flexibility that resists ultimate rational reconstruction, but this does not affect the success of dialogue, good interpretation, cognitive cooperation, social engagement, poetic wanderings, and so on. Some meanings may be ascribed pragmatic identity for a certain length of time, but they never have an eternal unchangeable core. The minimum requirements for understanding utterances and written texts are no more than smoothness and effectiveness of dialogue, successful negotiation and attunement.4
On this view of language, descriptive language loses the special status ascribed to it by traditional philosophy of language. Chitchat, phatic communion,5 and other language use is equally or more important. To a greater or a lesser extent all language functions (expressive, appellative, representational, phatic, poetic, metalingual) are present in every utterance. There is no principled distinction between descriptive and evaluative or emotive language;6 nor between literal and metaphorical language.7 Regarding the literal as basic is a congener of the ideal language paradigm. In the practice of language use, what is called literal and what is called metaphorical function in a similar way. Consider the following utterances:8
| That is a kite. | [1] |
| This is the track of an electron. | [2] |
| He leans on the stick of his memory. | [3] |
| Architecture is frozen music. | [4] |
| My brother is a parrot. | [5] |
Normally speaking, the meaning of each sentence can be grasped at once when it is uttered in an appropriate context, though in all cases it is easy to imagine situations where a problem of understanding could arise.9 If the interpreter has difficulty in guessing the meaning of an utterance, the speaker can provide a paraphrase, or help in other ways. Note that it is not enough to point simply to a kite and utter [1] if the conversant has never seen one before. Either one has to show more kites (which are similar in a way that can be grasped analogically or in terms of family resemblance), or one has to help by comparing a kite with other objects the conversant is familiar with. Evocation, expression, provocation, and so on, is characteristic of all communicative interaction. In cross-cultural interpretation, the risk of overinterpretation is considerable, that is, to interpret an utterance as metaphorical (because its literal meaning sounds “strange” in the language of the interpreter).10 However, what is more important is to simply drop a stringent distinction of literal and nonliteral. We should speak of the concept, character, or word qing 情, but not distinguish the “literal meaning of this word [qing]” from other uses, as Lenehan does (2013: 342).11
Communication (in the widest sense) is a process of dynamic interaction among situated persons. Both partners of a discussion interpret the other’s multiple concerns, whose prominences rise and fall. Some words express one’s ideas better than others; some metaphors are more satisfying than others. That is part of the pragmatics of communicative interaction. No single word or combination of words has meaning in its own right (that is independent of particular contexts of use). As Deleuze and Guattari (1987: 7) put it in a famous passage: “There is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs, and specialized languages.” There is no ideal speaker-listener, just as there is no homogeneous linguistic community. There is no mother tongue, but a dominant language within a political multiplicity. As the context of an utterance cannot be described completely,12 the domain of discourse can never be fixed completely; similarly, there is no context-free criterion for how to separate utterance and context. In the next chapter, we further discuss the view that strictly speaking there is no such thing as a language (as this notion is usually understood) and that it is not necessary to speak the same language for communication to be successful.
Why should meanings be de-essentialized? This is because one is always interpreting and giving meaning to numerous utterances and beliefs of many people (including oneself).13 The multiple hermeneutic circles or “holisms” the interpreter has to deal with causes an indeterminate number of indeterminacies.14 One might start to worry that de-essentialization entails an anything goes relativism. Rather than that, de-essentialization takes seriously that which has meaning. Only if meanings are de-essentialized is full-blooded communicative interaction and textual interpretation possible. De-essentialization of meaning is a necessary precondition for interpretation both across and within traditions.
Therefore, in order to keep away from the ideal language assumption and essentialization, we advocate de-essentialization. We do not deny the existence of similarities. What we deny is the presumption of an essence or a core that can serve as a fixed point of reference when translating and interpreting a notion across traditions. There is no essence for everyday concepts, such as green (or qing 青) and being angry (or nu 怒); nor for philosophically loaded categories, such as rationality or nothingness; nor for dao 道 (the Way?), de 德 (virtue?), or wu 物 (thing?).
Our idea of de-essentialization is developed along the lines of Wittgenstein’s philosophy of language, in particular we draw on his notion of family resemblance. In this chapter we argue that all general concepts in all human languages are either family resemblance concepts or stipulated concepts (which are based on FR-concepts). The so-called basic concepts (to be learned by ostension) are also FR-concepts. Family resemblance of meanings both within and across traditions is a necessary precondition for interpretation. As a necessary precondition for interpretation across traditions, family resemblance is not a factual observation, but works as a norm, criterion, or heuristics.
All case studies and examples in this book illustrate that all general concepts are FR-concepts. They include:
•within the Western traditions: Spiel and game, rationality;
•within non-Western traditions: qing 情, qing 青, ubuntu;
•across traditions: color(s) and yanse 颜色, emotion(s) and qing 情, youxi 游戏 and games;
•meta-conceptual-schemes or philosophical categories such as know(ledge) and zhi 知, “is true,” right/wrong and shifei 是非, philosophy and zhexue, be and Being;
•concepts we introduce to address the subject matter: language, language game, word, concept, family resemblance, and so on.
In the human sciences (including philosophy of science), the phrase family resemblance often occurs with a positive connotation or association. Intercultural philosophy is lagging somewhat behind in this respect. For example, most contributors for Chinese philosophy in The Oxford Handbook of World Philosophy write in a categorical style. Every Chinese concept is assumed to have a precise meaning, a determinate relation to other meanings, and a straightforward translation into English. Universal meanings are assumed to be “given,” applicable to both Chinese and Western philosophy without any translation problems. The reader is not expected to wonder whether there might be other “authorities” that might disagree with the author. However, the tide is now slowly changing. More modest positions can also be found in the Handbook just mentioned. For example,
[Tian] has maintained a high level of ambiguity, and its meaning varies with different philosophers. … In comparison with tian, dao is a more fluid and elusive notion. (Li Chenyang 2010: 9)
Variously translated as “benevolence,” “human-heartedness,” “person/conduct,” “altruism,” “humanity,” “goodness,” and so forth, ren 仁 is. … (Ni Peimin 2010: 29)
Ming 命, … is often roughly translated as fate or destiny, though its various meanings are complex and defy straightforward definitions. (Liu Xiaogan 2010: 48, 52)
Even if family resemblance is mentioned explicitly and regarded as a useful tool, how to understand the phrase is left unexplained, vague, and fuzzy or explained in a way that we think does not adequately represent Wittgenstein’s notion. Our account differs from others with respect to the following:15
1.We give a detailed exposition of Wittgenstein’s notion of “family resemblance.”
2.We considerably extend Wittgenstein’s notion of family resemblance by assigning it a necessary role for every discourse that interprets, explains, or compares concepts from one tradition in terms of the concepts of another tradition. Family resemblance is not merely a helpful tool; it is a necessary precondition.
3.We argue that all concepts involved in intercultural philosophy are FR-concepts.
We refer to the last two items as the FR-principle. We deny the presumption of universal essences that can serve as fixed points of reference when translating and interpreting whatever notion across traditions. The FR-principle opposes [i] the ideal language assumption, [ii] the idea that the necessity of a shared or common or in-between language is indispensable, [iii] the supposition that there exist substantial (linguistic, cognitive, cultural, philosophical) universals. Moreover, the FR-principle dissolves the false binary of universalism versus relativism, as well as worries about incommensurability and the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, because both universalism and relativism presuppose that meanings are precise (which are either universal or belong to a particular tradition).
It has been suggested that in the Blue Book Wittgenstein intended that all general concepts be understood in terms of family resemblances, but not in the PI.16 In this connection Sluga distinguishes between three major classes of concepts. In addition to family resemblance concepts such as language and game (the two major examples in Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations), there are two other kinds of general terms according to Sluga (2006: 4):
•Terms for directly observable characteristics. Such “basic and indefinable terms” have no formal definition and are explained by ostensive definitions (for example: green, round).
•Composite terms. They can be defined in terms of other terms (for example: a bachelor is an unmarried man).
•“Family resemblance terms, in particular, are neither basic nor composite.”
Sluga gives three reasons why not all concepts are FR-concepts (4, 14):
1.Because there are terms capable of being defined.
2.The overlapping and crisscrossing marks are not FR-concepts, because this would lead to an infinite regress. Presumably the regress would stop at “basic and indefinable terms” introduced by ostension.
3.Wittgenstein’s idea of family resemblance conflates kinship vocabulary (and other kinds of appropriate causal connection) and resemblance vocabulary.
Instead we argue that, with some possible exceptions in theoretical science, all general concepts are family resemblance concepts. Wittgenstein’s “the word must have a family of meanings” (PI §77) should be understood to apply to all general words. The family includes not only the present language games, but also their historical evolvement, as well as FR-relations with FR-concepts in other traditions. General concepts introduced by ostensive explanation are also FR-concepts; for example, color(s). Concepts can be stipulated to be exact and precise, but the stipulation itself involves FR-concepts (see below).
Different uses of the word game show family resemblances. One “can see how similarities crop up and disappear” (PI §66). One does not explain such words as game and language by giving analytic definitions, but by giving examples. To emphasize that there is not a particular similarity that runs through all uses of a word such as game, Wittgenstein invokes the image of spinning a thread. “We twist fibre on fibre. And the strength of the thread does not reside in the fact that some one fibre runs through its whole length, but in the overlapping of many fibres” (§67).
Wittgenstein used the German words Ähnlichkeit and Verwandtschaft (or verwandt) to indicate different kinds of relations:
Don’t say: “They must have something in common, or they would not be called ‘games’”—but look and see whether there is anything common to all.—For if you look at them, you won’t see something that is common to all, but similarities [Ähnlichkeiten], affinities [Verwandtschaften], and a whole series of them at that. (PI §66)
Both Ähnlichkeiten and Verwandtschaften are relationships,17 but Wittgenstein wants to emphasize that games (and FR-concepts in general) are related in different ways. Elsewhere he writes: “Don’t look only for similarities [Ähnlichkeiten] in order to justify a concept, but also for connections [Zusammenhängen]” (RPP I §923), a third kind of relation. Language events are connected to one another in different ways; “there are many different kinds of affinity between them.”18 There is a “family of structures more or less akin to one another.”19 Another word that he used is Zwischengliedern (connecting links). One has to look for intermediate cases in order to connect rather dissimilar games.20
Sluga argues that most terms can be approached as either kinship or resemblance terms. He criticizes Wittgenstein for not clearly separating the notions of kinship and similarity. We suggest that Wittgenstein wants to convey that his notion of family resemblance involves a variety of similarity relations between the referents of an FR-concept.21
An often overlooked aspect of Wittgenstein’s FR-notion is articulated in the following passage: “We see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing: similarities in the large and in the small” (PI §66). Similarities in the small refer to prima facie similarities between the referents of FR-concepts. Similarities in the large refer to similar ways of fitting in the embedding forms of life.22 FR-concepts are holistically related to other FR-concepts. If we consider an FR-concept as a pattern in the weave of language, then we can cite Wittgenstein saying: “And the pattern in the weave is interwoven with many others.”23
Pelczar (2000) proposes the useful notion of “precedent-setting improvisations” (505) to characterize the openness of FR-concepts. Open practices, such as common law, jazz, and conversations are characteristic of semantic openness toward the future (483), including gradual semantic drift (which allows gradual and hardly noticeable addition of new content), ambiguity, vagueness, topicality (that is variable content depending on the subject matter), layered meanings, and the like. We consider FR-concepts as open practices in the sense explained by Pelczar. The concepts of family resemblance, openness toward future use, and vagueness are sometimes differentiated, but we include the latter two in our notion of FR-concept.24 Using concepts involves (Wittgensteinian) rule-following.25
Rosch introduced the concept of prototype in cognitive science, with immediate impact, in particular when combined with the notion of basic level category.26 Prototypical basic level categories are functionally, epistemologically, and linguistically primary or salient. The combination of the prototype paradigm with the idea of basic level categories, in particular the assumption that there are panhuman psychological essences or core meanings that refer to basic level natural kinds is claimed to explain why, on the whole, human communication and learning are successful. Berlin and Kay’s theory of basic color terms is a typical and perhaps best-known example. In intercultural philosophy one can find traces of prototype theory with authors who draw on Lakoff (1987).27
Rosch came to the idea of her prototype theory by confronting the dominant “classical” idea of concepts as defined by necessary and sufficient conditions with Wittgenstein’s remarks concerning family resemblances. However, it is wrong to see prototype theory as an outgrowth of Wittgenstein’s notion of family resemblance. The crucial difference is that an FR-concept has no central core or essence, whereas the prototype is the core of a graded category. Prototype concepts typically have blurred boundaries, but the prototypical core is fixed.28
The “prototype” of a prototypical concept has been considered to correspond to salient features of the world out there, to psychological essences, to mental representations, to neurophysiologically grounded categories, or to concepts in some abstract Platonic realm. No matter which level one investigates, one would find the “same” prototype. However, both the classical and prototype theory approach to concepts are congeners of the ideal language assumption. This illustrates what Wittgenstein called “craving for generality.”29 Such questions as the following can be put to prototype theory:
1.How fixed is the core of a prototype concept? Why could not part of the periphery take the place of the center at other times or for other traditions?
2.How many basic situations are there? Perhaps the number and kind of basic objects and events, the number and type of basic words or sentences, and how borders around basic situations are drawn, all depend on the language and situation in which the question is raised.
Recent reports on the development and revisions of prototype theory are more in tune with Wittgenstein’s notion of family resemblance.30
There may be more or less central representatives of a category. …
Some categories constitute networks of elements which are organized in such a way that each element shares some property with the neighboring nodes. …
Prototype theory cannot account for all the problems of categorization.
That is to say, prototype theory is limited to some categories (concepts). In contrast we argue that it is necessary to assume that all concepts are FR-concepts for intercultural philosophy or communicative interaction across traditions to be possible.
Prototype theory as presented by Rosch assumes that a prototypical concept is salient across humanity. In this respect it is instructive to compare the view of Wittgenstein with that of Quine. Quine presents the following argument (1974: 18):
Let us imagine a certain response reinforced in the presence of a red ball and penalized in the presence of a yellow rose. A red rose, then, will perhaps not elicit the response, given its favorable color but unfavorable shape. But if the response was reinforced also in the presence of a red shawl, the red rose will elicit it.
Why would reinforcing the response to a red ball and to a red shawl entail that the red rose requires a positive response? To respond positively to the red rose would be wrong, were it more salient to group ball and shawl together (being “big things” compared with roses). How can the learner know that it is penalized for responding to the yellow rose because of its color? To respond positively to the red rose after having been penalized in the presence of a yellow rose would also be wrong if colors of items like flowers were seen as different from those of man-made products. In addition, both roses may glisten or have a highly saturated color, while the shawl and ball are dull. And so on.
Quine would not agree with this reasoning because, according to him, perceiving red is “salient.”31 Quine writes:32
Salience shows itself in behavior through the behavioral evidence for perceptual similarity. … What we have is a preestablished harmony of standards of perceptual similarity. … Perceptual similarity … is in part innate since all learning depends on it. … . The harmony is explained by a yet deeper … harmony between perceptual similarity and the environment. This, in turn, is accounted for by natural selection.
Contrary to the universalistic tendency of these citations, Quine takes a relativistic stance when he writes:33 “Color words are notoriously ill matched between remote languages, because of differences in customary grouping of shades.” However, Quine does not discuss to what extent what is shared can overrule the preestablished public harmony and how this bears on other traditions. Quine acknowledges that language and ethnicity eventually modify perceptual similarity and salience, but he does not address the issue of salience across traditions. He writes (1974: 23):
We may expect our innate similarity standards to be much alike, since they are hereditary in the race; and even as these standards gradually change with experience we may expect them to stay significantly alike, what with our shared environment, shared culture, shared language, and mutual influence.
But what if there is no shared culture or language and mutual influence is of a different kind?
Quine assumes that “innate standards of perceptual similarity” are shared among humans.34 This guarantees that red is naturally salient. We suggest that Wittgenstein would not agree with Quine. For Wittgenstein, all “normal” human beings have (roughly) the same (supposedly innate) discriminatory capacities, but this is not what Quine calls (following Carnap’s Aufbau der Welt) “innate quality spaces” or “innate similarity spaces.”35 The (shared) discriminatory capacities allow for an indeterminate vast range of possible orderings of the domain of appearance and how the domain of FR(appearance) is situated among other domains. Quine assumes that these shared discriminatory capacities are sometimes already conceptually structured in a unique way. This would be especially so for basic level concepts such as basic colors. Quine also assumes that the domain of color “cuts nature at its joints.”
If one is impressed by Quine’s reasoning, one isn’t taking seriously Wittgenstein’s dictum “an ostensive definition can be variously interpreted in any case.”36 Ostensive definitions are underdetermined unless the context has already fixed what kind of thing is pointed at. Furthermore, to know what kind of thing it is, for example, an animal or a color, one has to draw on other FR-concepts and share forms of life with the teacher.
In chapter 2, we gave the example of the pragmatic failure in trying to define “bachelor.” On this point the secondary literature on Wittgenstein is not very critical. For example, Forster adheres to the “standard” definition of bachelor as “unmarried man” (2010: 68), as does Sluga (2006: 3–4). Stipulation aims to make a concept more precise, but this can be done only for a particular application, not for every possible purpose.37 As Wittgenstein remarks:38
Can you say where the boundaries are? No. You can draw some; for there aren’t any drawn yet. … To repeat, we can draw a boundary—for a special purpose.
Scientific definitions are often understood as definitions of essentialistic natural kinds, although in most cases it may be better to consider them as successful but revisable a posteriori statements. We are not claiming that all scientific concepts are FR-concepts. There might be some non-FR-concepts in physics and chemistry, provided one admits the existence of a limited number of natural kinds; that is, kinds that have necessary and sufficient characteristics. This is not the place to address these issues in relation to the philosophy of science, but let us emphasize that even if there are such non-FR-concepts they will be limited in number. Perhaps fundamental particles in physics and the chemical elements are not FR-concepts, but chemical substances such as water and jade are (van Brakel 2012). Pelczar suggests that Wittgenstein would allow for “rigidly limited concepts” and assumes that “prokaryote” has a “strict definition.”39 However, according to a recent publication in the philosophy of biology, the prokaryote species concept does not exist, not even as a family resemblance concept.40
In passing it may be noted that stipulation is involved in an ostensive definition of a unique sample such as the standard meter in Paris, which is used as standard of comparison (cf. PI §50). All meter sticks should be equal in length (as far as technology allows), presupposing a measuring practice of length based on comparison with the standard meter (via many intermediaries).41 “One meter” is not an FR-concept. Cases of stipulating the name of particular objects (a mountain, a person, or the standard meter) do not enter the discussion of family resemblance, unless a description is involved that uses FR-concepts (which is almost always the case in order to specify relevant features of the context).
We conclude that concepts stipulated by conventional definitions are FR-concepts at one remove. At any moment, new events may suggest that one understands a stipulated concept differently by exploiting the FR-features of the concepts that define the stipulated concept. Stipulated concepts can always be “opened” by questions concerning the meaning of the FR-concepts used in the stipulation.
There seems to be consensus in the secondary literature on Wittgenstein that words introduced by ostension are not FR-concepts, partly because most commentators make a strict distinction between a sample (say, green) and an example (say, game). In this subsection we argue that so-called ostensive concepts can also be considered as FR-concepts. We don’t deny important differences between an FR-concept such as color (or green) on the one hand and an FR-concept such as game (or chess) on the other. However, they also share numerous similarities.
Like games, colors (green, magenta, … ) and color shades (of yellow, of sepia, … ) are connected by a complicated network of similarities, a large number of relationships. For example, (shades of) colors can be (dis)similar in degree of saturation or metallic appearance. Similarities and differences with respect to the dimension “degree of saturation” crop up and disappear; and similarly for all other dimensions of color. Different applications of the word color (or game) may appeal to different similarities (with different paradigms: delineation in color space, appearance of pigments, and so on).42
There are no sharp boundaries (unless we stipulate them) of what is (still) a game or (still) a color. Technological construction of as yet nonexisting colors is possible. New colors might show up in new environments (for example, in outer space) or under esoteric experimental conditions. New games can be invented.
Though indefinable, ostensive concepts can be explained and learned like other FR-concepts. For each one can say: teaching by example/sample, pointing beyond them, employing examples/samples in a particular way. Wittgenstein writes (OC §450): “Our learning has the form ‘that is a violet,’ ‘that is a table’.” The role of pointing to a violet or to a table is similar.43 Both a violet and a table can be considered to be either a sample or an example. Also color can be used to support Wittgenstein’s concern to undermine the thesis that “they must have something in common” (PI §66); for example, the widespread but mistaken belief that color can be defined in terms of wavelength.
Chess is defined by rules, but the rules might be different. Similarly, the rules of color space (or, color grammar) might be different. Instead of games, one could have sports and playing. Instead of color one could have degrees of brightness and ripeness (but no color) or degrees of brightness and wetness.44
One need to distinguish between the family resemblance of colors (under the general concept of color) and the family resemblance of different distinguishable samples of a particular color, for example, shades of sepia or green.45 Color is an FR-concept. Different colors are FR-concepts. Concerning the former, Wittgenstein gives reasons why color is an FR-concept (and so are concepts of different colors as well):
Our color concepts sometimes relate to substances (snow is white), sometimes to surfaces (this table is brown), sometimes to the illumination (in the reddish evening light), sometimes to transparent bodies. And isn’t there also an application to a place in the visual field, logically independent of a spatial context? (RC III §255)
Often Wittgenstein stresses the peculiarities of the appearance of transparent media.46 Such remarks can be compared with the scientific observation that dimensions of surface colors are different from the dimensions of colored lights, volume colors, film colors, or colors “caused” by rare physical processes.
As illustrated in the previous chapter, the appearance of a colored surface has many dimensions, although color space models such as the Munsell color solid are based on three dimensions only.47 In some cases Wittgenstein goes along with the definition of “same color” in terms of hue, saturation, and light/brightness (PR §61). That is to say: the same Munsell code (or a similar color coding system) means the same color. But more often Wittgenstein stresses, “we have not one but several related concepts of the sameness of colors.”48 He is well aware that colors defined in terms of three dimensions leave all kinds of features of appearance or color out of consideration. He mentions the following non-Munsell features of colors a number of times.49
Mightn’t shiny black and matt black have different names?
This suggests that shiny black and matt black are different colors (a difference not covered by the three dimensions of hue, saturation, and light/brightness). Furthermore:50
It is easy to see that not all color concepts are logically of the same sort,
We speak of the ‘colour of gold’ and do not mean yellow. “Gold-coloured” is the property of a surface that shines or glitters.
There is the glow of red-hot and of white-hot.
It is only to be expected that we will find adjectives (as, for example, “iridescent”) which are color characteristics of an extended area or of a small expanse in a particular surrounding “shimmering,” “glittering,” “gleaming,” “luminous”).
We conclude that both the generic word color and the words for particular colors are FR-concepts. Similar arguments apply to other concepts introduced by ostension.
In this subsection our comparison of the English word game and the German word Spiel aims to introduce the idea of family resemblance across traditions. Section 66 of the Philosophical Investigations reads:
Betrachte z.B. einmal die Vorgänge die wir «Spiele» nennen. Ich meine: Brettspiele, Kartenspiele, Ballspiele, Kampfspiele, u. s. w. (German original)
Consider for example the proceedings that we call “games.” I mean board-games, card-games, ball-games, Olympic games, and so on. (English translation of Anscombe; first three editions of PI)
Consider, for example, the activities that we call “games.” I mean board-games, card-games, ball-games, athletic games, and so on. (English translation of Hacker and Schulte; fourth edition of PI)
Kampfspiele originally referred to medieval knightly sports (tournaments). Today it is often translated as contests or competitions. There is no easy way to render Kampfspiele into English using the word game(s). Anscombe substituted Olympic games to which Wittgenstein may have agreed. Hacker and Schulte decided to translate it as athletic games.
Although commentators know that Wittgenstein wrote the Philosophical Investigations in German and that recent editions in English give the German text on opposite pages, commentators rarely address the differences between Spiele and games. Even when they do so, it is only in passing; and usually with the conclusion: “This does not significantly affect Wittgenstein’s point.”51
German dictionaries have long entries for a Spiel, das Spielen, and spielen (roughly: game or play [noun], playing, and to play). A literal translation (in German) of “playing a game” would be ein Spiel spielen. The major meaning(s) of Spiel include:52
•purposeless amusement, entertainment, diversion, pastime;
•as above, but according to particular rules;
•game in the sense of match: competing against another, in particular sports;
•gambling;
•performance (theater play, playing an instrument).
Dictionary entries for game are similar (Webster 1966), except that sometimes Spiel should be translated as play (and not game), for example, a Schauspiel is a play or drama.53 Wittgenstein does not seem to include performances in his intended family of games/Spiele; from the perspective of the German language this is not self-evident, whereas in English theater plays are obviously not games.54 On the other hand, the meaning cluster, which Webster’s dictionary refers to as COURSE, PLAN, TACTIC, and lists as the second meaning of game is not so pronounced in the meaning of Spiel. For example, the expression “waiting game” is translated into German without the word Spiel being used. Hence, the subtle distinctions between game and Spiel may give rise to a series of questions concerning Wittgenstein’s text. Is the child in PI §66 playing a game or just playing about?55 This question does not arise in German. Playing about is not always playing a game. But spielen is always ein Spiel spielen.
Commentators typically assume that game and Spiel are both rule-governed.56 However, in the colloquial sense of rule-governed, a Spiel is not necessarily rule-governed, as the above list of meanings of Spiel from Wahrig’s dictionary shows, while a game is often understood to be governed by rules. Setting up the rules as we go along is more closely connected to playing about than with playing a game.57 Because of the differences between Spiele and games, the interpretation of Wittgenstein’s use of the neologism Sprachspiel(e) or language game(s) takes on different shades or nuances of meaning.
We conclude that one should read Wittgenstein’s text in terms of Spiele instead of games (putting performances aside). The verbs to play and spielen have a closer family resemblance than the nouns game and Spiel. When one considers other languages, one will find different family resemblances. However, this is not the case when a concept has a stipulated meaning in a global context, for example “Olympic games.” Family resemblance across traditions may stem from a shared origin,58 or, most generally speaking take root in similarities of human practices. Extension of FR-concepts across traditions is possible because of the mutual recognition of human practices (or forms of life). The English concept game can be extended to include (a large part of) the German concept Spiel and the latter can be extended to include most or all games.
Spiel and game can be used as a simple example to illustrate family resemblance across languages. Now we extend the family resemblance further by considering some Chinese congeners of these words, in particular youxi 游戏 (游戲).59 There are differences between youxi and games, but FR(games) can be extended to include many youxi, and FR(youxi) can be extended to include many games. The accepted translation of “language game” in Chinese is yuyan youxi 语言游戏; yuyan and youxi are the usual translations of the English words “language” and “game” respectively. There are several Chinese renditions of the Philosophical Investigations. Here are three somewhat different Chinese translations of the passage in section 66 already cited earlier:
我指的是棋类游戏，纸牌游戏，球类游戏，奥林匹克游戏，等等。 (Li Bulou’s version, 1996)
我指的是棋类游戏, 牌类游戏, 球类游戏, 用力游戏, 等等。 (Chen Jiaying’s version, 2001)
我指的是棋类游戏, 牌类游戏, 球类游戏, 竞赛游戏, 等等。 (Tu Jiliang’s version, 2003)
The translation of Li uses as the source text the English translation of the first three editions of the PI, as disclosed by the fourth item in the list of games: Olympic games (Aolinpike youxi 奥林匹克游戏).60 In a note to PI §66, translator Li writes:61
It has become a custom to translate the “games” of the Olympic Games into Chinese as “[jingsai] 竞赛”, “[bisai] 比赛” or “[yundong] 运动”, and not as “youxi.” But in German and English all the activities listed in this passage are called “youxi” (spiele [Spiele], games). There is not an exactly equivalent word in Chinese to this word. In fact, the word “spiele [Spiele]” has a wider scope than the word “games.” However, this difference does not affect what is at issue here.
Chen and Tu not only stuck closely to the idea that examples of youxi should be called youxi, but also followed the German original and tried to provide a good translation of Kampfspiele: jiaoli youxi 角力游戏 (competition of strength, wrestling) and jingsai youxi 竞赛游戏 (competition games) respectively.62 The current meaning of Kampfspiele should be associated with sports. Therefore both translations remain somewhat problematic, because usually sports are not spoken of as youxi in Chinese. For example, tennis (wangqiu 网球) is probably never considered to be youxi.
It may also be noted that not all Chinese translators use the same Chinese word for translating card games.63 Although all translators cited render board games as qilei youxi 棋类游戏, it is quite uncommon to speak of board games such as chess or bridge as youxi.64 Some dictionaries suggest that the translation of board game(s) is simply qi 棋.
The meaning of the English verb to play is covered by several Chinese verbs. In English one plays a game, whereas in Chinese wan youxi 玩游戏 (“to play games”) is primarily used with regard to children. For things involving thinking or riddles zuo youxi 做游戏 is used; playing electronic games is called da youxi 打游戏. Both children and adults can da youxi. However, with regard to games like chess or bridge, one does not speak of youxi (e.g., xia qi 下棋 play chess; da qiaopai 打桥牌 play bridge).
In Chinese youxi can be both a noun and a verb. An important difference is that the meaning of youxi extends to relaxation, which is not the case with English and German. The standard translation of to play is wanr 玩儿. It also has the wider meaning of amusing or relaxing oneself (in whatever way).
In “evaluating” translations of particular genres of games into modern Chinese, we have been assuming that the category named by the words game(s) and youxi is the same, but this is not the case, in particular not if we look at older uses of youxi and xi 戏 [戲]. A Chinese-speaking Wittgenstein might have written:65
文字游戲，益智游戲，幻術游戲，栽花游戲，豢物游戲。
[Consider for example the proceedings that we call “youxi.” I mean] youxi that focus on words, youxi that enhance intelligence, youxi that involve magic, youxi wherewith one plants flowers, youxi wherewith one raises animals.
Youxi that focus on words include guessing riddles; youxi that enhance intelligence include making up patchwork (quilts, mats). Depending on the emphases and contexts there are alternative classifications, for example (Gu 1994):
技藝游戲, 智力游戲，賭勝游戲，兒童游戲，節令游戲。
youxi that involve skills, youxi that involve intelligence, youxi that involve bets, youxi for children, and youxi for festivals.
It is obvious that games and youxi show a family resemblance. However, the first specification of youxi differs more from the second one than the latter does from English games, as seen from an English perspective, if not a Chinese perspective.
It has also been said that the original meaning of xi 戲 is playfully fighting or competing strength, in particular with weapons such as knife, sword, dagger-axe or pike (the radical ge 戈 means dagger-axe).66 Many traditional Chinese youxi would fit this description of the meaning of xi; for example: Chinese football,67 fighting of roosters or crickets, flying kites, tug-of-war, pulling weeds (the one whose weeds first break looses), youtian 游田 (excursion and hunting), and the dragon boat competition are all examples of (you)xi. Because of the win and lose aspect, youxi may also be called zhan 战 [戰], for example, qizhan 棋战: chess fight; mingzhan 茗战: tea fight.68
Notwithstanding the differences between youxi and games, FR(games) can be extended to include many youxi, and FR(youxi) can be extended to include many games. Stating that youxi and games show a family resemblance is a statement in the metalanguage of the interpreter in which the usage of both is compared. An FR-extension is developed in dialogue with the text(s) and among interpreters. Our discussion of game(s) and youxi shows that there is family resemblance both within and across traditions. The possibility of extending FR-concepts across languages and traditions is a necessary precondition for interpretation. Without it, cross-cultural communication, interpretation, translation, or comparison would not be possible.69
When elaborating the notion of language game in the Brown Book, Wittgenstein writes:70
Now what should we answer to the question “What do light blue and dark blue have in common?” At first sight the answer seems obvious: “They are both shades of blue.” But this is really a tautology. So let us ask “What do these colors I am pointing to have in common?” (Suppose one is light blue, the other dark blue.) The answer to this really ought to be “I don’t know what game you are playing.” And it depends upon this game whether I should say they had anything in common, and what I should say they had in common. …
We could also easily imagine a language (and that means again a culture) in which there existed no common expression for light blue and dark blue, in which the former, say, was called “Cambridge”, the latter “Oxford”. If you ask a man of this tribe what Cambridge and Oxford have in common, he’d be inclined to say “Nothing.”
To say that we use the word “blue” to mean “what all these shades of colour have in common” by itself says nothing more than that we use the word “blue” in all these cases.
In contrast with Quine, Wittgenstein acknowledges that “our” color grammar could have been different. One might still insist: “But don’t you see the similarities?” But what about somebody who says: Yes, I know what is common. It is all qing 青 (a Chinese word, sometimes translated as blue, sometimes as green).71
In various places Wittgenstein draws attention to the fact that all his remarks about color refer to “our” colors.72
There is, after all, no commonly accepted criterion for what is a color, unless it is one of our colors.
Can’t we imagine people who do not have our color concepts but who have concepts which are related to ours in such a way that we would also call them “color concepts.”
There is no indication as to what we should regard as adequate analogies to our colors.
No predetermined answer can be given as to what to say about people who don’t use “our” color concepts, but have favored different ways of ordering appearances (and/or experiences and/or judgments). When confronted with people who don’t seem to share “our” colors, one may roughly distinguish the following situations:
1.If their visual system is different, there is nothing the interpreter can say.73
2.There is sufficient similarity to justify suggesting an extension of some of the interpreter’s FR-concepts to include the stranger’s FR-concepts. This may also happen within one tradition.74
3.The other people have nothing that resembles the interpreter’s color concepts. However, they have other appearance concepts,75 which are “accessible” by extension of some of the interpreter’s FR-concepts, or the interpreter can construct “new” (hybrid) concepts, which have a family resemblance with the foreign concept(s).76
As the examples given in the previous chapter illustrate, there is no sharp distinction between the second and the third option.
We want to make a final remark concerning the ambiguity of the word “our” in expressions such as “our colors.” There are at least two respects in which Wittgenstein’s phenomenological or conceptual analysis may be biased in favoring a particular (Western, if not German) color theory. His color grammar may be quite different from the color grammar of everybody else who is included in “us,” in particular with respect to two points:
1.Wittgenstein believes that there are four primaries (red, green, yellow, blue), not three.77 Wittgenstein is aware that not everybody might agree with him concerning the (relevance of the) four primaries.78
2.Wittgenstein believes that there is a pure green (red, yellow, blue) in a way that there is not a pure violet (orange, brown, pink).79
These two phenomenological characteristics of “our” colors, together with the idea of opponent colors (to which Wittgenstein also seems to be sympathetic),80 form the backbone of Ewald Hering’s (scientific) color theory.81 From Wittgenstein’s remarks on color, it is clear that he assumes that Hering’s theory of color perception is correct. Hering argues that there are four primaries (Urfarben): red, green, blue, and yellow. This is now quite generally (but not universally) accepted in color science, but this was not the case when Wittgenstein was writing. However, he had no doubts that his conceptual analysis (in terms of four primaries or pure colors) is correct.
Hence, Wittgenstein does not assume that all human beings share the same grammar of color (as our examples in the previous chapter illustrate). He often remarks that his phenomenology of color is limited to European color grammar. This raises the ugly head of relativism. However, family resemblance concepts of other traditions (or forms of life) can often be accessed by extension of “our” family resemblance concepts. For example, there can be people who don’t use European or any other color concepts, but they may have other appearance concepts.
Typically, (Western) anger is assumed to involve aspects of offence, injustice, scowling, internal tension and agitation, retribution, loss of control, striking out. How should such a list be understood? Are all features mentioned necessary conditions? Would it not be possible that one feature is missing in some cases? Let us assume the latter: anger is an FR-concept. Still, uncertainties remain, for example: Does anger necessarily imply moral and/or cognitive judgment? Many writers on anger claim that the concept of responsibility is presupposed; hence, anger can only apply to mature humans. But doesn’t one sometimes say of infants (or animals) that they are angry? Although contemporary scientific definitions of anger show reasonable agreement on the “essence” of anger, the current meaning of anger (as understood in mainstream everyday English) was not in place until quite recently.82 According to The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, the first record of the word anger dated from the 12th century; at that time it meant distress. The root meaning of anger seems to be related to anguish, narrow, tight, squeeze, strangle. Subsequently, the meaning of anger changed to trouble, affliction, and hot displeasure and finally to enraged. Obviously, some of the meanings given to anger in the history of the English language have disappeared.
If we move around the world, more extensive widening of the FR-notion anger is required. When asked what is characteristic of anger, Ugandans (no matter whether they speak English or Luganda) report crying more often than aggression as a central feature of anger. In fact there is not much similarity between the typical American anger and the typical Ugandan anger. Among Temiars, anger is rarely vented in face-to-face interaction, but is rather formalized in a relatively indirect harangue. Anger (sengke) is one of the most feared emotional states among the Toraja. Overt expressions of anger and hostility are absent among peoples in Malaysia and Indonesia. On the other hand, Kaluli people find anger fascinating and problematic and have a variety of words to refer to it. They express it often in an open and dramatic way. Both the society of the Yanomamo and that of the Pukhtun have been described as violent. While the Yanomamo are known for their public posture of socially sanctioned rage, among the Pukhtun the display of anger is prohibited, and cold-blooded revenge is favored. Tahitians speak about and theorize on anger, but they rarely, if ever, display it. Among the Ilongot people liget, which is commonly translated as anger, is a highly valued force, vital to social and personal life. The Ifaluk people use several words that can roughly be glossed as anger, with one standing out as central: song (justified anger). Display of song is omnipresent. Finally, in classical Chinese there is a close linkage between nu 怒 (anger) and chi 恥 (shame).83
The point of de-essentialization is that, for example, the anger family is not held together by one particular universal essence of anger. The core will differ depending on which cases one is considering. This is not surprising if one accepts that anger and its congeners not only have a biological basis, but also features related to the embedment in (different) forms of life.84 In such cases it is often said that different traditions interpret “anger” differently (or rationality, or virtues, etc.). This implies that there is “something” universally shared, which would be the core or essence. The FR-approach denies that such a mysterious “something” exists.
In her study Never in Anger, Briggs (1970) reports that the Utku-Inuit people are almost never angry and do not talk about it either.85 Among adults there are no situations that justify angry feelings or behavior. There is nobody, whether an Utku person or not, toward whom it is permissible to express angry feelings. So, among Utku anger is never justified—compare Ifaluk song (justified anger).
Utku concepts that are most similar to anger are intrinsically linked to Utku rationality, ihuma, which is a morally loaded concept. Ihuma is the criterion of humanness and maturity, governing (amongst other things) what is called emotionality in English. Among Utku, ill temper, jealousy, hostility, and such like are strongly disapproved. The ideal person has the right “amount” of reason, ihuma. Such a person is mild and sociable with everyone, and never ever gets angry or resentful. A person who has (or uses) ihuma is cheerful but not giddy, is patient in the face of difficulties and accepts unpleasant but uncontrollable events with calmness. Kinds of behavior attributed to lack of ihuma are called nutaraqpaluktuq, which might be glossed as childish. Children, dogs, and kaplunas (white people) have too little ihuma. If a person is too ebullient, smiles too broadly, laughs too easily, gets clogged up (qiquq), or scolds (huaq), he or she is said to be childish. A person who has ihuma does not sulk (qiquq) or get annoyed (urulu). If a person is frequently angry (ningaq), but gets over it easily, this is a sign that this person has very little ihuma. If a person is ningaq for long periods of time, nurses ningaq thoughts “every day, every day,” this is due to having too much ihuma. Situations that typically lead to anger, irritation, or fear (by Western standards) should be approached with happiness and amusement, with tiphi. Moreover, it is not enough to display amusement or happiness in (potentially) stressful situations, because that can be fake. One has to live in such emotions.86 Children are explicitly taught to substitute feeling tiphi for the feelings of annoyance that are condemned, Briggs reports.
Consider the differences and similarities between first, Ifaluk song, which has been glossed as justified anger and second Utku anger: ningaq, qiquq, urulu, or huaq (different aspects of what may be called anger in the West). For the Utku, anger is never justified; for the Ifaluk anger is always justified. By Western criteria, all these people sometimes display anger (though the Utku only rarely). But what exactly could it be that all humans share when it is said that a person is angry (or its counterpart in another language such as Utku or Ifaluk)? Does it belong to the essence of anger that it is justified or not justified? Is being angry always childish? Is anger vital to society? We conclude that anger is an FR-concept across time and traditions. Similarities cannot be denied (against the relativist), but there is no core meaning shared by all human traditions (against the universalist). We see again the limitations of the typical universalist and relativist who both assume an ideal language and precise meanings of words.
It is sometimes said that the purpose of epistemology or the theory of knowledge is to answer the question: “What is the nature of knowledge”? Along Wittgensteinian lines we might say: The word “knowledge” is used for all kinds of purposes.87 One might try to order these various uses, but that would not tell us anything about how the word knowledge would be used in the future. Nor would it specify in advance when it would be irrational, illegitimate, inappropriate or simply stupid to use the word. There are no timeless strict criteria for what is knowledge.
The essentialization of knowledge is strengthened in English because there is only one word for it (knowledge, to know), whereas other Western languages have two. For example, Lyotard exploits the distinction in French between connaisance (knowledge, Erkenntnis) and savoir (to know, wissen). Savoir-faire, savoir-écouter, savoir-vivre (knowing how to do something, how to listen, how to live) is not connaissance (knowledge that such and so is the case).
Today scientific knowledge tends to be a strictly regimented type of knowledge (cf. theory of Berlin and Kay):
•Only such claims are allowed that concern objects repeatedly accessible (excluding a whole range of phenomena).
•It is up to experts to decide whether a particular statement is relevant or meaningful.
•Only such statements are allowed that are either true or false.
It is not self-evident that knowledge so defined will provide any useful know-how. Interpreters seem to agree that the quasi-universal “knowing how” works rather similarly in all traditions (perhaps because it is closely related to survival), but “knowing that,” in particular when understood as knowing the truth of propositions or sentences, is more specifically tied to the European traditions. There are passages in classical Chinese for which a translation in terms of “knowledge that” is not obviously wrong. However, they are not central, but marginal in the Chinese tradition (Harbsmeier 1993). What is central is what one might call “knowledge of,” that is correctly discriminating the referent of a word or name (ming 名) that denotes the object of knowledge (Fraser 2011a). Drawing distinctions replaces determining facts or truths. This is an important difference between FR(zhi 知) and FR(know). On the other hand, it is not difficult to see similarities between, for example, modern epistemic virtues that define scientific rationality and Mozi’s well-known three tests/standards (biao 表) as criteria for evaluating teachings, policies, or claims in general:88
Mozi said: There must be three tests. What are the three tests? He answered: Its basis, its verifiability, and its applicability. How is it to be based? It should be based on the deeds of the ancient sage-kings. How is it to be verified? It is to be verified by the senses of hearing and sight of the common people. How is it to be applied? It is to be applied by adopting it in government and observing its benefits to the country and the people. This is what is meant by the three tests of every doctrine.
Mozi’s criteria may be compared with the following three groups of epistemic virtues mentioned at the end of the previous chapter: coherence with background knowledge, empirical adequacy, and economy (practical use) respectively.
Whatever the details of alternative ways of translating and interpreting this passage from Mozi,89 we suggest that Mozi’s three tests (at least the first two) may exemplify what might be considered to be quasi-universal epistemic metavirtues, formulated in nonphilosophical language as follows:90 Taking FR(know) and FR(experience) very broadly, knowing has to fit [i] experience and [ii] earlier knowledge. And similarly, FR(zhi), has to fit experience and earlier zhi.
We are assuming that there is evidence for the family resemblance of FR(know) and FR(zhi). What about experience? Is it a quasi-universal? The word “experience” does occur in translations of pre-Qin texts. However, it seems that the word is added by translators, because what is described in the text, from a modern perspective, involves one’s experience; for example, suffering, having nightmares, death, and so on.91 Typically, in Legge’s translation of the Zhuangzi, he uses the word “experience” about fifteen times. In Watson’s translation of the same text, the word does not occur once. Hence, FR(experience) does not seem to be a straightforward quasi-universal.
Even if we stipulate that experience is a quasi-universal, there are no general, let alone strict, criteria for how this “fitting experience” and “earlier knowledge/zhi” is to be worked out in concrete cases or how they should be balanced, or whether a third criterion concerning the utility of knowledge must be distinguished from the other two.92 Whether such vague criteria are met or not in concrete cases is ultimately a matter of consideration and contestation among groups of people in light of prevailing (and yet revisable) everyday maxims.